My mother always told me that education was the key to freedom. She didn’t say it loudly, but through her sacrifices. I remember the night she told my sister and me that we were moving to the US. I was twelve at the time, and I didn’t fully grasp the weight of that moment, what I did know was that were leaving a lot behind, including our loved ones. We came to the U.S. with hope and uncertainty. I moved in with my father, who was already living here, and it took a lot to adjust, but I kept going. Through middle school and into high school, I held on to the belief that I could build a different life. The summer before my freshman year of high school, I made a list. It wasn’t just goals, but a roadmap. I knew my family couldn’t afford college, so I had to figure it out. I met with my counselor, researched scholarships, and joined extracurriculars while balancing a tough home life. I learned everything I could by senior year, and I was ready. I completed my FAFSA, applied to schools, wrote countless essays, and submitted them all ahead of time. Now that I've finished my first year of college, I’ve come to understand that getting in was just one step. My mission now is to help others do the same. That’s why I became a Matriculate advising fellow, mentoring other first-gen students through the college process. I want them to know they are not alone. But there’s more to me than my academic story. Who am I in the midst of it all? I’m a writer learning how to speak from the heart. A daughter learning how to forgive. A young woman rebuilding her identity. I want to grow with others, not in front of them or above them—someone who values empathy as a form of leadership. My struggles with anxiety and emotional burnout have reshaped the way I think about impact. I used to think success meant climbing the ladder quickly. Now, I believe impact means listening more, showing up authentically, and offering softness in spaces that are often harsh. Healing is activism, and compassion is resistance. My long-term goal is to create spaces where people feel seen and empowered. Whether through women’s health, policy, or peer support, I want my life to reflect the values that carried me this far : empathy, persistence, and curiosity. Education gave me language for what I’d lived through. It gave me tools to imagine better futures; not just for myself, but for those who come after me. That’s the heart of everything I do: making sure that the next student, or young woman, doesn’t have to do it all alone. Everything I do is a step toward that vision. I’m not exactly sure what my future holds, but I know the kind of person I want to become. Someone who leads with compassion, fights for equity, and keeps showing up.

I started battling with social anxiety around the time I entered puberty and moved to the U.S. Back home, words like “anxious” or “quiet” weren’t seen as real concerns. I was overwhelmed and couldn't understand why I couldn't sleep or why my body felt unfamiliar. Without the words to name it, I just thought something was wrong with me. I just wanted to feel okay, but I was facing a new country, a language barrier, and a distant father. His sense of control and unwillingness to listen made it clear things wouldn't improve. One of the turning points in our relationship came just a few months in, during his first parent-teacher conference. My teachers expressed concerns about my anxiety, but he dismissed it completely. That moment confirmed what I had feared: he would not be the support I needed. After that, I began to withdraw, not just from him but from nearly everyone, including my relatives. It felt safer to go silent. I began experiencing selective mutism and chronic insomnia. But I still clung to the only thing that had always been good and felt familiar to me: School. My mother's emphasis on education grounded me when everything felt uncertain. Knowing I could keep learning gave me something to hold onto. I pushed myself academically to hide how anxious and quiet I was, and for a while, it worked. But that slowly started shifting in my first year of high school. A school counselor suggested therapy. I was hesitant at first, but when I went, I cried through the entire session. Until then, I'd denied how deeply my experiences had affected me. Having someone sit with me and acknowledge my pain changed everything; it made me realize I was never crazy for wanting to feel heard and supported. Through the sessions, I began learning how to be kinder to myself and how to let myself rest. I stopped burning myself out to prove I was okay. Therapy, though not always consistent, taught me balance. I learned to connect with people, even in small ways, and I’m grateful for how far I’ve come. Today, I speak publicly and advocate for myself, something my younger self only dreamed of. I’m forever grateful to the teachers who were patient with me when all I could do was quietly turn in assignments and to those who encouraged me to push myself because they saw my potential. I've learned compassion matters most, and we're all adjusting. I once believed being quiet made me invisible. It didn't. I built friendships by showing up, even when I was scared. I now know my softness and quiet presence are strengths. I've had people tell me I made them feel calmer or safer by being there. That’s something I carry with pride. At the end of the semester, a friend gave me a thank-you card. She said it meant everything that someone simply showed up. That moment reminded me that quiet support can be life-changing. My mother planted the seed, but I helped it grow. Now that I’m close to flourishing, I want to help build a world where students like me, quiet, uncertain, and full of potential, can find support and direction. Whether through education, mentoring, or advocating for them. My uniqueness does not come from being the loudest. It comes from surviving the silence, choosing kindness, and persevering in growth. I know now that someone is always watching, not to judge but to find hope. That’s why I want to be that quiet light for others.

My mother always told me that education was the key to freedom. She didn’t say it loudly but through her sacrifices. I remember the night she sat me and my older sister down and said we would be moving to the US. I was twelve at the time, and I didn’t fully grasp the weight of that moment. What I did understand was that we were leaving behind everything familiar: our neighborhood, our routines, and the people we loved. We came to the U.S. with hope and uncertainty. I moved in with my father, who was already living here. Adjusting to a new country, new systems, and a new household dynamic was not easy. But I kept going. Through middle school and into high school, I held on to the quiet belief that I could build a different life. The summer before my freshman year of high school, I made a list. It wasn’t just a list of academic goals, but a roadmap. I knew my family couldn’t afford college so I had to figure it out on my own. I met with my guidance counselor, researched scholarships, and got involved in as many extracurriculars as I could while balancing a difficult home environment. I learned everything I could about the college application process so that by senior year, I was ready. I completed my FAFSA, applied to schools, wrote countless essays, and submitted them all ahead of time. Now that I finished my first year of college, I’ve come to understand that getting in was just one step. My mission now is to help others do the same. That’s why I became a Matriculate advising fellow. Through this nonprofit, I mentor high school students through the college application process, especially those who, like me, are first-generation students navigating unfamiliar systems. I want them to know they are not alone. But there’s more to me than my academic story. Who am I in the midst of it all? I’m a writer learning how to speak from the heart. A daughter learning how to forgive. A young woman healing and building her own identity outside of survival mode. I want to grow with others, not in front of them or above them. Someone who values empathy as a form of leadership. My struggles with anxiety and emotional burnout have reshaped the way I think about impact. I used to think success meant climbing the ladder quickly. Now, I believe impact means listening more deeply, showing up authentically, and offering softness in spaces that are often too harsh. I believe healing is activism, and compassion is a radical form of resistance. My long-term goal is to create spaces where people feel seen, heard, and empowered. Whether that’s through advocating for women’s health, working in government, or simply uplifting her peers, I want my life to reflect the values that carried me this far: empathy, persistence, and curiosity. Education gave me language for what I’d lived through. It gave me tools to imagine better futures; not just for myself, but for those who come after me. That’s the heart of everything I do: making sure that the next student, the next young woman, doesn’t have to do it all alone. Every paper I write, every shift I work, every student I help is a step toward that vision. I’m not exactly sure what my future job title will be, but I know the kind of person I want to become. Someone who leads with compassion, fights for equity, and keeps showing up even when the road gets hard.

I started battling with social anxiety right around the time I entered puberty and moved to the US. Considering the culture I came from, I thought something was genuinely wrong with me because I had always been “okay”. Suddenly, I found myself in a new country, living with my father for the first time, and struggling to understand why everything felt so overwhelming. I was lost. As a teen, all I wanted was to feel okay and fit in. so I clung to the one thing I had always been good at and felt familiar: school. I’m grateful my mother gave me a positive outlook on education because that’s what kept me grounded when everything felt uncertain. Knowing that I had the chance to learn something new even when everything was falling apart, was a blessing. That love for learning stuck with me, and that’s why I knew I wanted to pursue higher education. Still, the language barrier and my anxiety made communication difficult. I overcompensated by pushing myself academically, hoping that if I excelled, no one would notice how anxious and quiet I was. Everything slowly started shifting in my first year of high school, for the first time, a school counselor suggested I try therapy. I was hesitant. But then I finally went, I cried through the first few sessions. Until then, I had been in denial about how deeply my experiences affected me. Just having someone acknowledge my pain changed everything. It allowed me to have a new perspective on life. I began learning how to be kinder to myself. I permitted myself to rest. I stopped burning myself out to prove I was okay. Therapy, though not always consistent, taught me balance. I learned to connect with people, even in small ways, and I’m grateful for how far I’ve come. Today, I can speak publicly and advocate for myself. Things my younger self only dreamed of. I’m forever grateful to the teachers who were patient with me when all I could do was quietly turn in assignments and to those who encouraged me to push myself because they saw my potential. Over time, I’ve learned that compassion matters more than anything because we're all adjusting to life and the challenges it throws at us. For a long time, I thought being quiet made me invisible. But it turns out, I wasn't. I built real friendships by showing up, even when I was scared. I now know that my differences; my softness, patience, and presence are all strengths. I've had people tell me I made them feel calmer or safer by being there. That’s something I carry with pride. At the end of the semester, a friend gave me a thank you card. She said it meant everything to have someone simply show up when she was overwhelmed. That moment reminded me that quiet support can be life-changing. My mother's love for education planted the seed, but I had to keep it growing on my own. Now that I’m close to flourishing, I want to help build a world where students like me; quiet, uncertain, and full of potential can find support and direction. Whether through education and peer mentoring or by advocating for them. I’m committed to being that steady presence I once needed. My uniqueness does not come from being the loudest. It comes from surviving the silence, choosing kindness, and growing anyway. I know now that someone is always watching, not to judge but to find hope. That’s why I want to be that quiet light for others.

When I moved to the US at 12, it was a real shift. I was suddenly stripped of a big part of all that I was used to, whether it was language, people, or systems, and that took a huge toll on me. My family and members of my community that I knew growing up were now all hundreds of miles away with only a phone to connect us, and at times, that phone call was not enough. It was a big change, and for a long time, I could not process it. Like many young people, I was in search of connection; but I had to start from scratch since I was in a completely new environment. Amongst all these struggles, I was grateful to experience some good moments, and this included getting my first phone. I remember being so happy. I loved the phone case with green polka dots I had brought for it. It was with that phone that I started using Webtoons. Webtoons is a webcomic app I found, and it offers a variety of stories that are either self-published or originals. Not even one week into using it I had already fallen in love with a story there. I think it was still ongoing since the translations to French were slow, so I decided to switch my whole app to English to read it. This was a leap of courage since the language barrier was still very present. My choice at that moment was deeply grounded in my determination to know what was next for the plot. It lit up once again the passion I had for reading. Although I needed more support in these moments to enjoy a lifelong hobby, I nevertheless enjoyed it. Google Translate and these drawings became my best help for a good while. I used to hear people say that learning things required motivation and patience but, this experience put it into perspective for me. I always felt the need to rush to understand it all but sitting down and taking it slow made me value the patience and consistency it takes to achieve more. By the end of my first year in the US, Webtoons had become an integral part of my routine. I had made friends and acquaintances through the app. It significantly helped me improve my vocabulary too. It was my support through all the changes and now I see it as a facet of my identity. I still use Webtoons to this date and it holds value to me. I’ve grown to love and learn something new with every single story I’ve read. There is this comfort it brings me that I can't find anywhere else. All these experiences combined gave me a new look into who I am as an individual and how I work best to achieve my goals. I now see change as an opportunity to learn more about myself and to open doors to new communities. Chaos will always be present, so I will try my best to face it using all the things I already love and cherish while accepting the new. In conclusion, overcoming adversity requires finding sources of comfort and motivation amidst the chaos. For me, Webtoons became that source, providing not just entertainment, but also a means to improve my language skills, make new friends, and rediscover my passion for reading. Through this journey, I learned the importance of patience, consistency, and embracing change. These lessons have become integral to my identity, equipping me to face future challenges with resilience and optimism.