Growing up with a mix of Trinidadian, St. Thomian, and Mexican roots, my cultural identity has always been vibrant and layered. While I hold pride in all parts of my heritage, my Mexican background has had the biggest influence on my upbringing and who I am today. I was raised around the spanish language, mexican food, and traditions. I watched my grandma pray with deep faith, cook with love, and teach us the importance of family unity and hard work. From the big family to the sound of mariachi music at family gatherings, these experiences became part of my foundation. At the same time, I’ve always known that I carry the strength of my Caribbean roots as well. Though I wasn't as immersed in my Trinidadian and St. Thomian cultures, I still feel a deep connection to them. They are a part of my bloodline and my identity, and I’m slowly learning more about the history, traditions, and resilience that come with those cultures. I see my background as a beautiful blend of heritage and strength, proof that I come from people who have endured, survived, and celebrated life through it all. That strength has been essential for me. My home life hasn’t been easy. My mother has struggled for years with mental health challenges and drug addiction. I’ve watched her battle things I couldn’t always understand as a child, but I’ve also seen how those struggles impacted our family in painful ways. My father has been emotionally distant, never really present when I needed support. Because of this, I had to grow up faster than most. I learned to take care of myself, to manage emotions on my own, and to find strength in moments of silence and chaos. These experiences could have made me bitter or broken, but instead, they became my reason to rise. I realized that education was my path toward something different, toward a life where I could have stability, independence, and purpose. Attending college is not just a goal; it’s my way of breaking generational cycles. It’s how I will become the first to graduate on my mother's side, to have a career I love, and to live a life filled with choice, not just survival. I’m passionate about college because I want more than what I was born into. I want to major in marketing because I’ve always been drawn to the power of communication and creativity. Growing up in a home where voices were often ignored or misunderstood, I realized how important it is to be able to connect with people and tell meaningful stories. Through marketing, I want to help brands and organizations make an impact, but more than that, I want to use my skills to uplift voices like mine. College will give me the tools to turn my pain into purpose, to build a career where I can create, inspire, and reach people in powerful ways My heritage, my family’s struggles, and my personal resilience all come together to shape who I am and who I want to become. I carry the spirit of my ancestors, the warmth of Mexican traditions, the strength of Caribbean history, and the hope of a better future. I may have grown up in a home full of challenges, but I’ve also grown up with courage, empathy, and a determination to create a better life. That’s why I’m passionate about attending college. It’s more than a dream. It’s my mission.

My life has never been simple. From a young age, I was forced to see the world through a lens many kids never have to look through. My parents separated early in my life, and that separation wasn’t just about two people parting ways; it was the beginning of me learning how to survive the emotional chaos that followed. My mother’s story was already complicated before I was born. She wasn’t raised by her parents but by her sister, who had to step up and care for her and their other siblings. That kind of childhood left my mom with deep abandonment issues and what people might call “daddy issues.” Her father’s absence created a pain she carried with her everywhere, into her relationships, into motherhood, and into how she coped with life. Because of all she went through, my mom became fiercely independent. She didn’t trust others easily, and that included the people closest to her. That independence wasn’t always a strength, it was survival. But it also meant she had a hard time letting anyone in, including me. Her love was real, but it came with walls and distance. Add to that her struggles with drug use, and I was left with a version of her that was unpredictable, sometimes loving and present, other times distant and lost in her world. Her mental health struggles and addiction meant I had to grow up quickly. I became the quiet one, the one who stayed out of the way and tried not to cause problems because there were already enough. I learned to read her moods, to tiptoe around the tension, and to carry responsibilities that weren’t mine. There were days I felt invisible and days I felt like I had to be the adult in the room. Then there was my father; he was physically there, but mentally and emotionally, he was absent. On the outside, people might’ve said I was lucky to still have my dad in my life, but they didn’t see the truth. My father is a narcissist. Everything was always about him, his feelings, his needs, his pride. There was no room for me to be vulnerable, to ask for support, or to simply exist without trying to meet his expectations. He never truly saw me. He only saw a reflection of himself, someone he expected to succeed, so he could feel accomplished. Living with a narcissistic father meant that love was conditional. I was treated like a disappointment if I didn’t meet his standards. If I did succeed, it wasn’t about me, it was about how it made him look. I had to constantly prove my worth, walking on eggshells to avoid his disapproval. I never felt emotionally safe around him, and that lack of real connection left a hole I carried with me everywhere. All of this created a deep pressure to succeed, not because I wanted praise, but because I felt like it was the only way to escape the chaos, to prove I was more than what I came from. I put so much weight on myself to do well in school and sports, to stay strong, to make something of my life. But that pressure was heavy. I didn’t feel like I was allowed to fail or fall apart. Every step forward felt like it had to be perfect because failure wasn’t an option. I had to be the strong one. The one who made it out. The one who didn’t repeat the cycle. All of this shaped me. It made me more aware, more sensitive to people’s emotions, and more understanding of pain. But it also left scars, trust issues, anxiety, and a voice in my head that still asks, “Am I enough?” I still struggle with letting people in. I still carry guilt for things that weren’t my fault. And I still sometimes feel like I have to earn love instead of just receiving it. Yet I’m here. Still standing, still trying, healing. I’ve learned that my story doesn’t have to end where it began. My parents’ struggles are part of me, but they don’t define me. I carry them with me, not as chains, but as reminders. Reminders of what I’ve lived through, what I’ve survived, and how far I’ve come.