I was 16 years old the day I told my mother I was pregnant. Growing up in a Catholic Latino household, sexual purity was a core value that my parents stressed from a young age. Anytime my sister and I left the house, we were avidly warned against speaking to men we weren’t related to or didn’t go to church with. However, they failed to be wary of predators that were closer to home than they realized, and between third and seventh grade, I endured abhorrent sexual abuse by my male cousin, who was 11 years older than me. It only came to an end when his family moved to a different state, but by then, he had already inflicted irremediable damage. I developed a horribly skewed idea of how a normal romantic relationship should function, which eventually led to me becoming pregnant during my sophomore year of high school. Even today, telling my parents that I was pregnant was one of the hardest things I’ve ever had to do. I was immediately told that I would need to move out. After my parents kicked me out, I moved in with the father of my child’s parents. They promptly set the precedent that they wouldn't be raising our child. They'd help to support us, but parenting this child was ultimately our responsibility. This meant that I could no longer attend traditional high school. I unenrolled from my high school that spring and registered to begin community college classes in the fall. My perfect baby boy was born on July 2nd, 2022, and I chose to name him Espero, meaning hope. Motherhood wasn’t an easy role to take on at 16, and I struggled immensely. Although I felt far from ready, I began classes that September and immediately gravitated toward engineering. As a curious child, I took apart anything I could find—from secondhand toys to DVD players and, eventually, old computers. I was fascinated with understanding how things worked, and deeply gratified by fixing them when they didn’t. But growing up poor in rural Oregon with two parents who didn’t graduate high school, becoming an engineer felt out of reach. As I became immersed in my coursework, learning shifted from an obligation to a passion. Math and physics formulas weren’t numbers and variables, but an intricate language and a powerful medium of expression. After long days and longer nights tending to my son, homework became something I looked forward to. Reveling in the joy learning had brought back to my life, I became determined to salvage my future and become a strong role model for my son. Although I had been broken down by abuse and emotional neglect, I realized that I couldn’t let childhood trauma stop me from showing Espero that your circumstances aren’t what define you, but your drive and will to succeed. Since then, I’ve dove deep into the engineering coursework, doing more than anyone, even myself, thought I was capable of. My hope finally came to fruition last March when I received the blessing I had prayed for on too many nights to count: an offer of transfer acceptance to pursue my B.S. in Mechanical Engineering at the Georgia Institute of Technology, the ticket to Espero and I’s freedom. My story may have begun bleak, but luckily, eternal optimism can only bloom under dark moons, and I watered my crops well. And amid the fields I sow, a restless love story has unfolded — not romantic, or even platonic, but for the life I write for my son and myself, one action at a time.