For the first eight years of my life, my parents existed only in photos and packages filled with clothes and toys. When I was just nine months old, my father left in search of a better life, followed soon after by my mother, leaving me in the care of my abuelita. They sacrificed everything — their education, their chance to witness my first steps — to provide a better future for me. While my cousins hugged their parents, I longed for a love that was always out of reach. At seven, I was given the chance to join my parents in the U.S., and without hesitation, I agreed, unaware of the dangers that awaited. A month later, I stood in San Pedro Sula, Honduras, handed off to a coyote. The journey through Guatemala and Mexico was grueling, filled with long bus rides, rivers to cross, and nights spent on the cold ground. I clung to the coyote, terrified of being lost or kidnapped. The most terrifying moment came when we reached El Río Grande. As the water rose to my chest, I clutched a small bag, holding the only lifeline to my family — a slip of paper with a phone number. On day five of my journey, the U.S. Border Patrol found me drenched and shivering. After being questioned, I handed over the paper with trembling hands. For two weeks, I waited behind steel bars. Finally, on June 28, 2014, I was called to a van and driven to the airport, where I saw my parents and little brother for the first time in years. Strangers who were my family. Tears flowed as I ran into their arms, clinging to them as if I’d never let go. I had crossed "al otro lado" — to the other side — just as my parents had, fleeing poverty and a lack of opportunity. Soon after, I faced my first day of school. "Tengo miedo, mami. No sé nada de inglés," I whispered to my mother. Each morning, she reminded me to hide my identity, fearing we would be deported. For years, I lived in the shadows, hiding who I was and where I came from. It wasn’t until my sophomore year of high school that I felt safe enough to reveal I was undocumented. Being labeled "illegal" was a constant challenge. Growing up undocumented meant living without certainty, facing closed doors at every turn. In high school, I was told I couldn’t go to college, that there was no future for someone like me. But I refused to believe that. During the summer before my senior year, I discovered there was still a way forward. Now, as an eighteen-year-old senior, I write this essay as a first-generation undocumented student determined to achieve what was once out of reach for my parents and me. I have spent my life proving my worth, defying the stereotypes imposed on undocumented immigrants. I know the fight is far from over, but I am ready to continue it — for myself, for my family, and for all those who, like me, dream of a better life. Every year, thousands of Hondurans leave behind everything familiar in pursuit of safety and a better life. For many, the idea of moving to a new country is filled with dreams of opportunity, but few realize the cost — learning a new language, adjusting to an unfamiliar culture, and finding a way to be comfortable in discomfort. I was born in Honduras, where learning English was a privilege reserved for a few.