The first time I lived alone as an adult, I was facing an illegal eviction in my Oakland apartment – the landlord changed the locks after I reported the new bullet hole in my door. At that moment, I thought back to every time I had faced housing insecurity. I thought back to my childhood in rural Pennsylvania where I spent my first seven years in a bee-infested apartment because it was the only unit in my town that would rent to a Black family. I thought back to my adolescence when I spent middle and high school sleeping on the 3'x5' shower floor of the only room in my home that would lock. For my entire conscious life, I had been facing abuse at the hands of my mentally disabled brother. I used to call the police until my father told me Black girls in Butler County, Pennsylvania are smart enough to know better; I learned to de-escalate, hide weapons, and locate the nearest residential treatment facility with an open youth bed. I knew my calling was a career in public service when, in the face of a boy who wanted me dead, I knew my brother had rights to mental health services and was willing to fight for them. Like many child abuse victims, I was presented with the choice between continuing to live in an abusive home or the liminality of finding somewhere else at the risk of homelessness. By the grace and privilege of my education, I could escape to study abroad programs until my brother left home. But with this privilege, I have an obligation to acknowledge that most survivors find themselves in unending cycles of homelessness and abuse that do not culminate with a safe, Stanford bed. Like many Black women, housing insecurity has followed me from birth. Still, I contribute to a future where housing is a human right. When I moved to California for college, the vibrant housing policy landscape inspired me to honor my renter experience through energy policy advocacy. After months of researching with community groups, my memo on building decarbonization led the EPA to change the Energy Star Inclusive Utility Investment guide, a tool used by 18 states, to include tenant protections. This work reminds me how much we achieve when policy research centers frontline, renter communities. As a future attorney and scholar, these personal and academic leadership experiences will allow me to connect and advocate for tenants, both in law and policy. Knowing that tenants are 19x more likely to win cases with legal counsel, (Engler 2010), and they are disproportionately unrepresented in court – less than 10% have counsel (Engler 2010) – my law degree will transform my capacity to support tenants' needs, especially in housing discrimination cases where so few attorneys specialize. As a career, I hope to lead a housing law and policy clinic at a university, focusing on tenants of color facing housing discrimination. A clinic would allow me to support rising, Black housing justice advocates. This serves a unique need, as there are few Black housing lawyers and policy practitioners and little opportunity for Black mentorship within the housing justice field – a disservice to Black tenants who do not see themselves represented in their advocates. In the end, I wish I could tell every 13-year-old Black girl who's begging God for a safe home that it will all be okay. Until then, I can promise them I am fighting insatiably for a future where safe, affordable housing is a human right in the US.

These are a few pics of me conquering my fears! Skydiving, public speaking (in the Pennsylvania State Capitol Building), and traveling without my parents to Nepal.