My family is like locked treasure chests with missing keys. When thinking about restricted freedom of speech, one often thinks about the outside effects of an imposing society. Taking a look into a Latinx household, I see a common pattern; the difficulty to understand mental health. My memories growing up were always plagued with desperation. From the first, I remember my mother’s strictness. I was learning to write my name on a constricted desk feeling her piercing eyes on the back of my head. My hand trembled because of her previous reaction to the scribbled paper. Lelsie Bucoi. Lesli Buco. Lelsei Buico. The only feedback, a cruel stare that spoke everything her anger prevented her voice from saying. Forty tries and countless tears later resulted in the correct version: Leslie Bucio. This was the start of a long journey with my mental state. In concurrent years, I developed negative habits shielding me from my responsibilities. With tears running down my face, I felt I could finally take a breather and release the negative thoughts corrupting my young mind at the time. My mother caught onto my avoidance of reality early on, so I resorted to going underneath the covers, wishing I was somewhere else, holding my breath, and falling asleep. It seemed that the more I grew, the more the social girl I once was isolated herself. At the dinner table, I told my mom I was struggling with something that prevented me from thinking clearly she laughed at first. When she realized what I meant, she angrily denied my feelings keeping a smug face throughout the meal. Any mention of mental health and both immigrant parents put on their hard shell of a skin. Their mental struggles are rooted in tragic experiences from their home countries. From abandonment, violence, hunger, to a lack of voice, it is easy to scar a young child. It takes a strong will to break free from these past constraints and continue as “productive” as possible as to not divert the future they had dreamed of for so long. I now understand letting go of my fears of creating relationships is especially important in a medical setting. Mental health issues seemed to daft the halls and engulf disadvantaged patients inside rooms. It was in those vulnerable moments where I felt seen, giving patients not only the physical attention they needed but also the mental one. Therefore, in university and beyond, I wish to surround myself with organizations trying to close the gap between socioeconomic problems and the probability of success. Highlighting mental health awareness--which day by day rises even further-- is one of many reasons I wish to study the brain with a major in neuroscience on the pre-med track. Although a multitude of studies exists, there is still so much to uncover and dwell on.

All of us have complained about not having “enough” time. We seem to have a mental clock that limits our mobility. If you think about it, we often sacrifice our time on things that produce momentary satisfaction rather than focusing on our wellbeing that is left behind as if it were the remainder of an even more complicated equation. After spring break and the return of school in no clear sight, I felt rather comfortable. I wasn’t too keen about returning to sit next to silent classmates or taking the upcoming APUSH exam with the dreaded DBQ. Regardless, it is human nature to think about oneself. I know of many students, including myself, who used to bury themselves in the closely knitted sentences inside textbooks, feeling time pass and words and numbers lose their shape when the brain can no longer keep our vision sharp. I believe that is the reason it took me a while to adapt to the change in lifestyle. For some reason, this began to change as I slowly dreaded logging into AP Calculus AB. I held prejudice before taking the class, but I could not find a way to assimilate. Homework was always superficial. I wasted time writing “study” notes without understanding what I was scribbling down. My wandering mind preferred to convince itself it was focusing rather than doing what it had been used to in previous years. It was rebelling, and rebel it did when I received my first ever B. With my swollen eyes, I continued spiraling down alongside my test grades, C...D. I began speaking with the instructor, asking for additional material, tips, and an extra test that risked bringing my grade down even further but ended up becoming the first A I received in the class. With two tests left to finish the course and lingering doubt, I managed to raise my overall grade to a low A through sole dedication and actual focus. After the challenges of Calculus, I realized it wasn’t as I had imagined. I had let myself sway by the superstition surrounding it and causing me to give up before even trying. I created a stronger bond with myself because it was me and my consciousness in those late nights, hovered over the desk with my shadow over the scattered eraser shavings from trial and error. At the same time, I was receiving a CNA license through a patient care class. This direct interaction was a duality to what I was living. On one hand, I felt immense pressure to advance through tumbles that left a big impression on my capabilities. Then, when I reached the rehabilitation center and walked through the hallways, I had to push my troubles and doubts aside because in front of me were patients struggling with something much greater: their lives. These interactions allowed me to be patient with myself, allowing those moments of simply appreciating the lessons from the stories of others. In the rehab clinic, I learned how to advocate for patients who had little energy to fight for their needs. Through speaking to upper-level individuals and teachers, something my isolating self would have never imagined, I developed a greater advantage for advocating for myself. Our voice often helps us get what we need. Now, I am preparing to enter college in the fall to study neuroscience in a pre-medicine track. I accumulated patience and bravery from last year, two tools I will use to my complete advantage. I am not afraid of the uncertain and what I will face miles away from home. I have learned to be at peace with myself and recognize that inside there is great potential to go out there and shine. I am excited for the chance to put myself in positions where I can help others with medical disadvantages and the nation and abroad. For many, 2020 will forever be remembered with a grudge. For me, the personal difficulty mixed in with everything circling around will make me remember 2020 as a year that could have turned very differently if I was unable to deter my fleeing mind.

My family is like locked treasure chests with missing keys. When thinking about restricted freedom of speech, one often thinks about the outside effects of an imposing society. Taking a look into a Latinx household, I see a common pattern; the difficulty to understand mental health. My memories growing up were always plagued with desperation. From the first, I remember my mother’s strictness. I was learning to write my name on a constricted desk feeling her piercing eyes on the back of my head. My hand trembled because of her previous reaction to the scribbled paper. Lelsie Bucoi. Lesli Buco. Lelsei Buico. The only feedback, a cruel stare that spoke everything her anger prevented her voice from saying. Forty tries and countless tears later resulted in the correct version: Leslie Bucio. This was the start of a long journey with my mental state. In concurrent years, I developed negative habits shielding me from my responsibilities. With tears running down my face, I felt I could finally take a breather and release the negative thoughts corrupting my young mind at the time. My mother caught onto my avoidance of reality early on, so I resorted to going underneath the covers, wishing I was somewhere else, holding my breath, and falling asleep. It seemed that the more I grew, the more the social girl I once was isolated herself. At the dinner table, I told my mom I was struggling with something that prevented me from thinking clearly she laughed at first. When she realized what I meant, she angrily denied my feelings keeping a smug face throughout the meal. Any mention of mental health and both immigrant parents put on their hard shell of a skin. Their mental struggles are rooted in tragic experiences from their home countries. From abandonment, violence, hunger, to a lack of voice, it is easy to scar a young child. It takes a strong will to break free from these past constraints and continue as “productive” as possible as to not divert the future they had dreamed of for so long. I now understand letting go of my fears of creating relationships is especially important in a medical setting. Mental health issues seemed to daft the halls and engulf disadvantaged patients inside rooms. It was in those vulnerable moments where I felt seen, giving patients not only the physical attention they needed but also the mental one. Therefore, in university and beyond, I wish to surround myself with organizations trying to close the gap between socioeconomic problems and the probability of success. Highlighting mental health awareness--which day by day rises even further-- is one of many reasons I wish to study the brain with a major in neuroscience on the pre-med track. Although a multitude of studies exists, there is still so much to uncover and dwell on. I have now found my key because even though there are constant struggles, mixed in with them is an invaluable richness and treasure.

I was told that as a baby, my mom and biological father rented a small room from where we all slept. With other tenants, they shared the kitchen, the bathroom, but not the living room. In addition, my parents only went out to work for basic necessities. I cannot imagine what it must have felt like to raise a child in those conditions, without having much to one’s name. What my mother must have thought as she warmed my body rocking me back and forth on the makeshift mattress on the floor. I was unaware of the experience, moving to a rented studio apartment where I grew up until three. Daily, as both of my parents worked, I was left under the care of a sitter. I laugh about it now, but my mother's bite mark discovery led me to realize the monetary struggle to switch to a more expensive babysitter. There are many instances where it is not easy to bring on change. We may be constricted to unlikable situations due to factors like skin color or financial burden. It is said that as a young person, you are oblivious to the world around you. But it was one dark and foggy night when my father left the apartment. Three-year-old me stood in the window, crying for him to come back. He failed to turn around, hearing my muffled shrieks through the water spot-stained window. I slipped and hit the windowsill. Reflecting, the mental mark left from that day was a small scar on my forehead. I failed to understand his inability to turn around to say a proper goodbye, but at that moment, his actions spoke louder than words. For weeks after, I sat under the small desk looking at my mother's legs as she vigorously typed on the chunky keyboard following a late-night shift. Suddenly we began packing our belongings into a moving truck with my soon-to-be stepdad. Unloading into a different studio apartment, I quickly adapted to my surroundings and asked little to avoid discomfort. The pony-back rides at Griffith Park were my favorite pastime. In the short five-minute race, I felt blissfully free. Later, I would realize that these amazing animals had no choice as they were confined to quarrels and whips forcing them to move faster. My stepdad quickly became a non-faltering part of the new concept of family I developed. He supported our fight for improvement, financially working his way up from a studio apartment, two-bedroom apartment, and later a modest home in a different state. He taught me about his Salvadorian culture, where he deliberately enjoyed warm pupusas, torrejas, religious festivals. Always bringing back aliments/products was like sharing pieces of his home country, and therefore, childhood. Through his anecdotes, I discovered his unselfishness and humility originated through his impoverished upbringing. My stepdad absorbed the role of father despite not having genetic ties. In a way, his unfaltering belief in me is like the guiding light of a candle through the unseeable. I learned to let what had happened that dark night with my biological father stay in my past because standing in front of me is my future. The changes in finances/environment were not up to me nor a result of my decisions or choices. I am now devoted to working my way up with my education. The way I see it, dreams come from all social standings, and with enough sacrifice and effort, they are not unreachable. Therefore, I wish to be the first to graduate with a university neuroscience degree and attend medical school. I also see myself be a part of an organization supporting sustainable medical care for those without proper financial stability. In spite of our differences, family-structured or not, every individual carries an unveiled story that connects them to human beings from all socioeconomic backgrounds.

I often refer to my mother as a perfectionist. She is not clinically tested, but I’m sure that her brain is wired differently from most. I often wonder if I am actually her daughter. But I am reassured when her warm-honey brown eyes look at mine, and her lips purse up in a congratulatory manner, praising when I do things correctly without having to be told twice. In a way, it feels like I have been in training for the past seventeen years of my life. Every morning, afternoon, and evening: routine. Stand straight, organize time, and rarely cry. The last of those proved the most difficult when I was younger. I never understood why something so simple, like losing my earrings, would cause a downfall burst of tears running down my face. I would not shield myself from anyone, and my classmates would circle and stare at me in awe like a circus attraction. That natural reaction was me bracing myself for the tough scold of my mother, drilling into my head that carelessness leads to many unwanted consequences. Reflecting, crying was also a method of taking a big breath--with no interruptions-- in the small break I created. Thankfully, I grew out of that stage, abandoning that shell and molding myself into an independent young woman eager to learn how to make an impact wherever her feet take her. Without my mother, my only pillar of support throughout these years, I would have never discovered the art of “doing things correctly not only for yourself but for the space of others around you.” There was no room for mediocrity; it didn’t matter if I felt like I couldn’t do something. I also had to rewire my mind in a plethora of situations. Such as believing I was capable of leading an hour-long analytical and intellectual class discussion on All the King’s Men by Robert Penn Warren, while surrounded by bright minds I had initially seen as very superior in comparison. She also instilled in me that consistency in every detail is just as important as the big picture. My homework would have been left sloppy and incorrect without those tiring elementary school nights when all of the work I had completed with no effort reduced into eraser shavings littered over the table. I would have given up trying to improve my Spanish without the morning quizzes that granted me permission to watch television or the books of poetry in which my tongue was unable to wrap around the syllables for correct pronunciation. I wouldn’t make my bed, exercise, or be eager to go to school to learn and discuss a variety of topics without avail. Most importantly, I would not have the incentive to be the first in my family to go to college, pursue a STEM major in neuroscience, and attend medical school. Looking at my mother, one would never imagine everything she has gone through to get to where she is now. Like the external and internal struggles that she has carried with her and sometimes struggles to let go of. From sleeping on a cold bed with small critters/rodents running across her body, crossing into an unknown country with a menacing wall, raising me without my biological father, my mother has persevered through plenty. And not only has she persevered, but she has also learned to be the best, resilient version of herself in everything she does. So it is to be expected that she applies the same rigor towards me because lying behind her kind eyes sit experiences I did not have to go through. They elucidate on humankind's cruelty but also illuminate its possible furtherance. My mom is my role model because through her ranging lessons and through her overall story, I am propelled to create my own. The road ahead of me may not seem like an easy one at first, but I have been raised to be unfaltering in the views I hold and see as just. Therefore, I will push forward and jump through tumbles that attempt to deviate me along the way. Using my earned skills, like organization and problem-solving, I build the foundations of a strong career. Gentility is not the common skill that comes to mind from a role model, but it is the one that has spurred my passion toward finding a manner to aid communities with medical disadvantages. Everyone deserves to be treated humanely, and it amazes me how empathy, medicine, and overall care towards a person’s health are not equally distributed. I can proudly say that my mother brought these life skills to my radar, but I have learned to polish them through conscientious action over the years. To my mother, I thank her for planting the seed. Now it is my time to water and let its magic grow within me.

The Rock and The Sponge My mother is like a perfectionist. She is not clinically tested, but I’m sure that her brain is wired differently to most. Most times, I wonder if I am actually her daughter. But I am reassured when her warm-honey brown eyes look at mine, and her lips purse up in a congratulatory manner, praising when I do things correctly without having to be told twice. In a way, it feels like I have been in training for the past seventeen years of my life. Every morning, afternoon, and evening: routine. Stand straight, organize time, and rarely cry. The last of those proved the most difficult when I was younger. I never understood why something so simple, like losing my earrings, would cause a downfall burst of tears running down my face. I would not shield myself from anyone, and my classmates would circle and stare at me in awe like some sort of circus attraction. That natural reaction was me bracing myself for the tough scold of my mother, drilling into my head that carelessness leads to many unwanted consequences. Reflecting back, crying for me was also like taking a big breath--with no interruptions-- in the small break I created. Thankfully, I grew out of that stage, abandoning that shell and molding myself into an independent young woman eager to learn how to create an impact wherever she sets her feet. Without my mother, my only pillar of support throughout these years, I would have never discovered the art of “doing things correctly not only for yourself but for the space of others around you.” My homework would have been left sloppy and incorrect without those sleepless nights and her rough erasing. I would have given up trying to improve my Spanish without the quizzes every morning that granted me permission to watch television. I wouldn’t make my bed, exercise, or be eager to go to school to learn and discuss a variety of topics without avail. Most importantly, I would not have the motivation and intent to be the first of my family to go to college, pursue a STEM major(s), and graduate medical school. Looking at my mother now, one would never imagine everything that she has gone through to get to where she is at. The external and internal struggles that she has carried with her and sometimes struggles to let go of. From sleeping on a cold bed with small critters/rodents running across her body, crossing into an unknown country with a menacing wall, raising me without my biological father, my mother has persevered through it all. And not only has she persevered, but she has also learned to be the best, resilient version of herself in everything she does. Through her lessons and through her own story, I am propelled to create my own. The road ahead of me may not seem like an easy one at first. But I will push forward and jump through tumbles along the way. I will use my learned organization and problem-solving skills to build a strong career and find a manner to aid communities with medical disadvantages. Everyone deserves to be treated, and it amazes me how empathy, medicine, and overall care towards a person’s health are not equally distributed. To my mother, I thank her for planting the seed. Now it is my time to water and let its magic grow within me.

Through the Bars Comes Disconnect He felt like a stranger growing up. My father, should I clarify. Usually, he would pick me up Saturday and return me Sunday to my primary home in the compacted studio apartment with my mother and stepdad. In a little more than 24 hours and an hour drive away, I was submerged into an environment where I swam against the current. Along with a suitcase full of my best clothes, I carried my small perspective and no malice in my bones. Everything seemed foreign, but I quickly pushed my discomfort to display my extroverted side. As if they could sense the deep tension and fear that extruded and wafted in the air, my cousins hid as I stepped through the door. My dad would stand there laughing with the adults. On most occasions, he would drop off the unrequested delivery package, me, and immediately leave. He would return later that night or until the sun caressed my face through the blinds and woke me to face my reality--that the bed I had slept in was completely foreign. Trying to think back to the moments I created with my biological father, my mind strains and my recollection becomes blurry. From riding in his old minivan, the somehow sweet smell of the old car seats as the sun heated the stained fabric was the only lingering memory. I was always there without being there. I was there in the back of his “friend’s'' car watching Pink Panther to distract me from the transaction outside. I was there in another “friend’s” backyard at midnight during Halloween. The house was near a freeway, so to avert my mind from falling asleep I listened to the cars that passed by the empty freeway. Disassociating enough, each sounded like waves crashing on the shore over and over as I waited for my father to come back outside. Once, unnoticed, I stood in the door frame of the bathroom facing my father’s back as he made quesadillas on the same heating surface where he had wrapped white rocks in a small piece of a garbage bag. Through these and similar experiences, the idea that what I was living was normal persisted, but a negative and a positive do not cancel out. I saw him last at swim practice in 6th grade. A few nights after that hot summer day, I was contacted by a cousin who told me he had been imprisoned. I remember not feeling much. Thinking back, it was probably because the father-daughter relationship I craved never properly developed. He was sentenced to 25 years. Sadness and pity crept through slowly like they always did when I was with him. I felt down for the way the system operates. How those locked up institutionally are restricted from improvement as their identity is reduced to the inmate number on their uniform. I was exposed to potentially dangerous situations, not only because of his illegal profession but because of an issue that was deeply rooted within--a lack of care. Recently, I told him that I had been accepted into university. He stayed silent for a few seconds and said he would be happy even if I didn’t go to school. He has always told me that it was unnecessary to study so hard all of the time. Reflecting on these words, I don't blame him completely. My dad is a result of the ignorance he grew up with as a child in a below-poverty level family of 12 in a different country. Through my father’s incarceration, I’ve learned that our past doesn’t define us. It doesn't set us up for failure/success because we have the ultimate power over our autonomy--even if our past often serves as a nice cushion to give up. In the upcoming years, I plan on undertaking a neuroscience major on the pre-med route and graduate medical school. With a career in STEM as a first-generation female with an incarcerated parent, I wish to add on to discoveries. To support younger generations with the opening of a path of sensibility and hard work. Life presents difficulties that can make individuals financially vulnerable. Therefore, it would be a dream to reach out to deprived communities internationally and offer my services as a doctor at a free or reduced cost. I value the opportunity through my privilege to pursue a professional career, realizing that the world seems big but in terms of the universe it is minuscule. Nevertheless, through my eyes, I have the decision to narrow my perspective once more, but I chose to not confine the aspirations held by my true self.