While growing up, I felt very isolated in my small town - Woodlake. I grew up in a predominately Mexican and White neighborhood. I was the brown, Indian girl who spoke a language no one ever heard of - Punjabi. If I was asked the simple question, "What language do you speak?" I knew that my answer would raise eyebrows. Over time, I began to feel a sense of shame and sadness when no one knew about my cultural identity. Aside from feeling outcasted, I was bullied at a young age for my "difference." As a result, I struggled with my personal confidence when I was around other students. I felt like a puzzle piece that had made its way into the wrong box and couldn't fit into the puzzle. And for the early years of my childhood, there was an empty pit of loneliness in me - one where I couldn't find the representation that I desperately needed. While I struggled with my "different" identity as a child, I was still prideful of my background at home. My mother spoke our language with such pride and joy that made me admire our mother tongue. As I grew older, I began to learn to write and read in Punjabi. I went to Punjabi school every Sunday at our place of worship in Selma. My mother made the effort to connect us to our roots and people. And after the longest time in my life, I felt at home. I made friends who looked like me, spoke the same language as me, and shared some of the same experiences as me. As I learned Punjabi, I knew that it would be a lifelong skill of mine. As time passed, it became my escape tool. I poured my feelings in Punjabi with no fear that anyone would understand these scripts. From writing small notes to stories and poems, I became fully emersed in my mother tongue. Amongst my peers, I felt as if I had a secret language. To this day, if I find myself alone, I will pull out a fresh sheet of paper. As I etch those lines of my ancestral language, I find peace within my mind and heart. I know that in the translation of these very sentences, every word will lose its meaning. There is nothing more beautiful than using your mother tongue. When I see my Punjabi peers who lack my skill, I want nothing more than to sit down and teach them the importance of our "maa boli" - our mother tongue. I could sit there for hours and teach them the language and its art. The tremendous hardship of my life was struggling to find my identity, and embracing it. Without a sense of who I was, I limited myself. As a result, the greatest thing I achieved was the skill of my language. It is a tool of communication. In the same way that poets leave impacts on writing for decades, I have made a commitment that will impact future generations. I almost lost my identity, but finding and treasuring it allowed me to shape myself today. By securing this knowledge, I know that our "maa boli" will not end with me.