Overcoming adversities has been a defining aspect of my educational journey. It began with a tearful departure from my homeland, Georgia, as my mother and I set off for the United States. Our path was fraught with uncertainty and fear, culminating at the Mexico-US border. To make the voyage less painful, I was advised to treat it like a movie. I was in the audience, witnessing a fourteen-year-old girl pleading with border patrol for asylum, only to be denied a legal procedure at multiple ports of entry. I saw her spend five days in a cell with other women and their children, some not even a year old, who had endured similar paths. Five days but a lifetime of injustice. It felt cinematic, yet the characters weren't eccentric or fictional; they were real, and so was I—the girl witnessing an overwhelming amount of suffering from fellow migrants around her. During our asylum interview, the officer wasted no time in informing us that we would be transferred to another detention center. When I asked how long we would have to stay there, he simply replied, "a few days." Days turned into weeks, and weeks turned into months during our time at the South Texas Family Residential Center. Every night, a security guard would drop off notices to the residents’ rooms. One night, we received a notice from what was referred to as "El Centro de Abogados," the center where you could speak with a volunteer attorney. These attorneys from the CARA Project, a pro bono organization devoted to aiding detained migrants and transforming the immigration system, worked tirelessly to assist a large number of detainees. The next day, my mother and I stepped into a room full of busy, ambitious lawyers who were, nonetheless, burnt out from their efforts. Our appointed attorney explained the process to us: interviews, hearings, the right to an interpreter, and the expected timeline. When I nervously asked about our tentative duration of stay, he reluctantly replied, "That is a lie." In a place built on dishonesty and injustice, it was refreshing to see individuals committed to transparency and compassion. Over time, the attorneys from the CARA Project ensured we had proper resources and representation throughout our journey. Despite the draining nature of their job, they were driven by the goal of closing the detention center and ultimately working to be jobless. My education is galvanized by the experiences of millions of immigrants who have been exploited, crucified, and discarded in similar ways. It is for their justice that I pursue my degree, as I am among the fortunate few who made it to the self-proclaimed “land of opportunities,” a land built by the underpaid, backbreaking labor of second-class citizens. From the guidance of my mother, other remarkable refugee women, and legal professionals, I have learned that when one is fortunate, it is imperative to support the communities that once embraced or influenced you. I am Liza Tsertsvadze, a Georgian-American asylum-seeker, and my broader understanding of legal studies and international affairs will forever be dedicated to alleviating the adversities of my counterparts. This experience has not only shaped my educational goals but has also instilled in me a profound commitment to advocating for immigrant rights and reforming the system that once held me captive.

Overcoming adversities has been a defining aspect of my journey, particularly in my pursuit of education and my calling to public service. The trajectory began with a tearful departure from my homeland, Georgia, bound for the United States alongside my mother. Our path, filled with uncertainty and fear, culminated at the Mexico-US border. To make the voyage less painful, I was advised to treat it like a movie. I was in the audience, witnessing a fourteen-year-old girl pleading with border patrol for asylum, only to be denied a legal procedure at multiple ports of entry. I saw her spend five days in a cell with other women and their children, some not even a year old, who had endured similar paths. Five days but a lifetime of injustice. It felt cinematic, yet the characters weren't eccentric or fictional; they were real, and so was I—the girl witnessing an overwhelming amount of suffering from fellow migrants around her. During our asylum interview, the officer wasted no time in informing us that we would be transferred to another detention center. When I asked how long we would have to stay there, he simply replied, "a few days." Days turned into weeks, and weeks turned into months during our time at the South Texas Family Residential Center. Every night, a security guard would drop off notices to the residents’ rooms. One night, we received a notice from what was referred to as "El Centro de Abogados," the center where you could speak with a volunteer attorney. These attorneys from the CARA Project, a pro bono organization devoted to aiding detained migrants and reforming the immigration system, worked tirelessly to assist a large number of detainees. The next day, my mother and I stepped into a room full of busy, ambitious lawyers who were, nonetheless, burnt out from their efforts. Our appointed attorney explained the process to us: interviews, hearings, the right to an interpreter, and the expected timeline. When I nervously asked about our tentative duration of stay, he reluctantly replied, "That is a lie." In a place built on dishonesty and injustice, it was refreshing to see individuals committed to transparency and compassion. Over time, the attorneys from the CARA Project ensured we had proper resources and representation throughout our journey. Despite the draining nature of their job, they were driven by the goal of closing the detention center and ultimately working to be jobless. My education is galvanized by the experiences of millions of immigrants who have been exploited, crucified, and discarded in similar ways. It is for their justice that I pursue my degree and career path as a public defender, as I am among the fortunate few who made it to the self-proclaimed “land of opportunities,” a land built by the underpaid, backbreaking labor of second-class citizens. From the guidance of my mother, other remarkable refugee women, and legal professionals, I have learned that when one is fortunate, it is imperative to support the communities that once embraced or influenced you. I am Liza Tsertsvadze, a Georgian-American asylum-seeker, and my broader understanding of legal studies is fueled by my desire to advocate for public justice and equality.

I overslept again, prolonging the inevitable moment of departure by a second with each passing moment. The original plan, disrupted by my tardiness, aimed for a swift farewell at the bus station. Amid tearful goodbyes, I felt the weight of separation from my loved ones and my home country, Georgia, looming over me. As my mother and I embarked on our journey to the United States, the quiet realization began to sink in: the worst was yet to come at the Mexico-US border. To make the voyage less painful, I was advised to treat it like a movie. I was in the audience, witnessing a fourteen-year-old girl pleading with border patrol for asylum, only to be denied a legal procedure at multiple ports of entry. I saw her spend five days in a cell with other women and their children, some not even a year old, who had endured similar paths. Five days but a lifetime of injustice. It sure felt cinematic, yet the characters weren't eccentric or fictional; they were real, and so was I—the girl witnessing an overwhelming amount of suffering from fellow migrants around her. During our asylum interview, the officer wasted no time in informing us that we would be transferred to another detention center. When I asked how long we would have to stay there, he simply replied, "a few days." Days turned into weeks, and weeks turned into months during our time at the South Texas Family Residential Center. Every night, a security guard would drop off notices to the residents’ rooms. One night, we received a notice from what was referred to as "El Centro de Abogados," the center where you could speak with a volunteer attorney. These attorneys, all part of the CARA Project, a pro bono organization dedicated to helping detained migrants and reforming the immigration system, worked tirelessly to assist an overwhelming number of detainees. The next day, my mother and I stepped into a room full of busy, ambitious lawyers who were, nonetheless, burnt out from their efforts. Our appointed attorney explained the process to us: interviews, hearings, the right to an interpreter, and the expected timeline. When I nervously asked about our expected duration of stay, he reluctantly replied, "That is a lie." In a place built on dishonesty and injustice, encountering individuals committed to transparency and compassion was refreshing. Over time, the attorneys from the CARA Project ensured we had proper resources and representation throughout our journey. Despite the draining nature of their job, they were driven by the goal of closing the detention center and ultimately working to be jobless. My education in the legal field is galvanized by the experiences of millions of immigrants who have been exploited, crucified, and discarded in similar ways. It is for their justice that I pursue my degree, as I am among the fortunate few who made it to the self-proclaimed “land of opportunities,” a land built by the underpaid, backbreaking labor of second-class citizens. From the guidance of my mother, other remarkable refugee women, and legal professionals, I have learned that when one is fortunate, it is imperative to support the communities that once embraced or influenced you. I am Liza Tsertsvadze, a Georgian-American asylum-seeker, and my broader understanding of legal studies and international affairs will forever be dedicated to alleviating the hardships of my counterparts.