I come from an all-women household where resilience is our inheritance. My mother, my sisters, and I have always relied on each other to push forward, even when the world seemed determined to hold us back. As a first-generation Latina from El Salvador, I grew up learning that strength often looks like quiet perseverance, a lesson that has guided every decision I’ve made, including my choice to pursue law. Today, I serve as a mentor through the L.O.V.E. (Latinas on the Verge of Excellence) Mentoring Program, where I help first-generation Latinas like myself navigate higher education. Many of the girls I work with have recently immigrated from their home countries, just as my own family once did. I see myself in them in their accents, in their uncertainty, and in their unspoken determination. Some of them are forced to repeat a grade simply because of a language barrier, something I know too well. When I was younger, I was left back in school because I couldn’t speak English. I remember the embarrassment, the frustration, and the silent promise I made to myself that I would one day use my voice to defend others who felt powerless. That promise is what drives my dream of becoming an immigration lawyer. Every day, I see the tears and fears these girls carry, the same ones my own family has faced. The fear of separation, of not being heard, of being defined by borders and paperwork rather than by humanity. I’m an empath at heart; I feel what my community feels. Their pain is mine, and their victories feel like my own. That empathy fuels my ambition to enter the legal field not just to practice law, but to serve justice. With my law degree, I want to be the person who stands between families and the systems that fail to see their worth. I want to be the advocate who ensures that no child’s education, future, or safety is stolen because of a language or citizenship barrier. My vision is to use the law as a bridge to connect people to opportunity, to dignity, and to hope. Catrina Celestine’s story resonates deeply with me because she, too, believed that everyone deserves a defense, no matter which family they were born into. Her life reminds me that compassion and justice must go hand in hand. I want to honor her legacy by using my education and experiences to make law accessible, empathetic, and transformative. My biggest motivation has always been my family and my community. They are the reason I refuse to give up and the reason I believe in the power of education and advocacy. Through my future career in law, I hope to create a ripple effect, one where the girls I mentor today will see themselves not just as immigrants or students, but as the next generation of leaders, lawyers, and changemakers.

I was left back in the second grade because I didn’t know English. My mom had just come to New York. She didn’t know there were early enrollment programs that could help me with this challenge. I was her first daughter pursuing education, and everything I learned, we learned together. That moment became my first lesson in resilience, and it shaped the way I approach every obstacle in my life. I’m a proud first-generation Latina at Baruch College, majoring in Finance with a minor in Pre-Law. My long-term vision is to one day launch a nonprofit in my mother’s homeland of El Salvador to push for higher education. My goal is to create opportunities for students in underserved communities to access quality education, mentorship, and resources that can open doors to careers and leadership roles they may have never imagined possible. My passion for community work began with the L.O.V.E. (Latinas On the Verge of Excellence) Mentoring Program, where I mentor middle and high school girls, many of whom are immigrants or first-generation students like me. I share my story to remind them that setbacks don’t define them; they can be fuel for growth. I also deliver bilingual presentations on leadership, financial literacy, and self-confidence, ensuring they have the tools and encouragement I wish I had at their age. Beyond L.O.V.E., I serve on the Community Outreach Committee for the Association of Latino Professionals for America (ALPFA) and as a Marketing Associate for Scholars of Finance. In these roles, I’ve organized events with global banks, facilitated conversations on ethics in finance, and connected students from underserved backgrounds with mentors. These experiences have shown me that leadership without integrity is just influence without direction and that true impact comes from aligning professional decisions with ethical responsibility. This scholarship would allow me to deepen that impact. It would reduce the financial burden of tuition so I can dedicate more time to mentoring and nonprofit initiatives, and it would help me invest in professional development programs that will make me a stronger advocate for underrepresented communities, particularly in spaces like finance and law where diverse voices are still underrepresented. Mireya’s story resonates with me because she used her skills to amplify the work of others. I aspire to do the same by applying my knowledge of finance, law, and branding to help nonprofits and socially driven businesses build infrastructures that are sustainable, scalable, and rooted in equity. Whether advising a nonprofit on funding strategies or creating legal protections for community resources, I want my work to empower others long after I’ve stepped away. My journey reflects the values this scholarship celebrates: ambition with purpose, drive sustained by community, and impact measured by how many others I can lift alongside me. With the support of the Mireya TJ Manigault Memorial Scholarship, I will carry forward her legacy, ensuring equity and innovation are never mutually exclusive and that the communities most often overlooked are always part of the solution.

The wrinkles, the blisters, the chipped nails, her hands tell the story. They’ve worked factory lines, sorted gold necklaces, wiped down office desks, turned the wheel of a school bus, and scrubbed houses on weekends. But more than anything, they’ve raised three daughters on their own, with nothing but courage, grit, and love. She started with just enough. Renting a garage from a family member, she worked in a factory by day, making barely enough to cover $800 in monthly rent. But that was never the end of it. On weekends, she would travel into the city, buy gold necklaces, and resell them to her coworkers, squeezing every dollar to keep our little family going. At night, she cleaned bank offices while the world around her slept; her day continued. She never complained. She never paused. She just kept moving. When most would have stayed where it was “safe,” she studied for her commercial license. She passed and started driving school buses. Now, she gets hundreds of children home safely before picking up her second job—cleaning houses, often with my sister and me by her side. Not because she had to bring us, but because she wanted us to see where pride comes from. Where hard work begins. She never gave lectures about perseverance. She lived it. Growing up, I watched her build a life for three daughters on her own—no shortcuts, no handouts. And every step of the way, she reminded us that no job is beneath you, no dream is too far, and no challenge is stronger than your will. Those lessons are etched into me. I carry them into everything I do. At Baruch College, where I major in Finance with a minor in Pre-Law, I maintain a 3.6 GPA while working part-time and leading in student organizations like ALPFA, Scholars of Finance, and the Financial Women’s Association. I mentor middle school girls through the L.O.V.E. Mentoring Program because I know what it means to be poured into, and I want to pass that on. This scholarship would mean more than financial support. It would mean honoring a single mother who gave everything so that her three daughters could have choices she never did. If you're looking for ambition, drive, and impact, look no further than the hands that shaped me. Hands that built a life from scratch. Hands that never gave up. Hands that raised women who won’t either. Every step I take is proof of her work. And I’ll spend my life making sure it was never in vain.

You may see me as worthy of this scholarship, you may not. The choice is yours. But like any strong case, let me present the facts clearly: I am not just a student chasing success. I am a first-generation Latina building a mission, fueled by purpose, resilience, and a drive to lead. As a proud student at Baruch College majoring in Finance with a minor in Pre-Law, I’ve learned that ambition is only part of the equation. To succeed, especially in spaces where people like me are underrepresented, it takes relentless discipline and a commitment to impact. What gives me an advantage in this process isn’t just my GPA, it’s the vision behind my goals and the action I’ve already taken to make them real. Finance and law may seem like two separate worlds, but I see them as powerful, complementary tools. Finance can shape economies and open doors; law ensures those doors stay open fairly and ethically. I’m passionate about using both to advocate for transparency, justice, and access, especially for communities that have historically been excluded from these conversations. With a 3.6 GPA, I’ve worked hard to maintain academic excellence while actively leading in organizations that reflect my values. I serve on the executive boards of ALPFA (Association of Latino Professionals for America) and Scholars of Finance, where I’ve organized events, facilitated value-driven discussions, and connected students to mentors who reflect the future we all want to see. Beyond campus, I mentor middle school girls through the L.O.V.E. (Latinas on the Verge of Excellence) Mentoring Program. Each week, I lead sessions focused on confidence-building and long-term goal setting. Many of these girls remind me of myself: ambitious, full of potential, and just waiting for someone to believe in them. I strive to be that person because I know firsthand how far belief and guidance can go. While I’ve juggled part-time jobs to support my education and help my household, the rising cost of tuition remains a weight I carry daily. This scholarship would ease that burden, allowing me to invest more deeply in my academic and professional development. It would create the space I need to continue mentoring, lead more boldly, and pursue internships that move me closer to my long-term goal: law school and a career at the intersection of corporate banking, policy, and social responsibility. I believe I stand out not just because of what I’ve done, but because of why I do it. I’m not motivated by prestige or titles. I’m driven by the chance to change systems, open doors, and leave every space better than I found it. The decision is yours. But know that if chosen, your investment won’t stop with me, it will ripple outward, to every community and cause I fight for next.

In 10th grade, I started reading The Immortal Life of Henrietta Lacks simply because it was required summer reading. I didn’t expect much more than a homework assignment to complete. But by the time I turned the final page, I found myself with a deeper understanding of the world, especially the painful truth about medical ethics, racial injustice, and trust in the healthcare system. What began as a task ultimately became something deeply personal. Henrietta Lacks was a Black woman whose cancer cells were taken without her knowledge or consent in 1951. Those cells, known as HeLa, became one of the most important tools in medicine. They’ve been used in research for vaccines, cancer treatments, cloning, and more. Yet Henrietta’s family didn’t know her cells had been taken until decades later. They never gave permission. They never received compensation. And they were never treated with the dignity and respect that the medical community owed them. What shocked me most wasn’t just the theft of her cells, but how normal and accepted this kind of treatment was, especially toward poor Black patients. Reading her story opened my eyes to the injustices embedded in systems that are supposed to heal and protect. It made me realize how often people, especially people of color, are taken advantage of in spaces where they’re most vulnerable. I found myself thinking about my own family’s experience. My mom, a Latina immigrant who only speaks Spanish, suffers from lupus, a chronic autoimmune disease. A few years ago, a doctor made a critical mistake: they injected her with medication meant for another patient who had the same name. My mom's health began to decline rapidly. She started losing her hair. Her symptoms worsened. And instead of support or accountability, we were met with vague apologies and quiet dismissals. The error was never fully addressed, and my mom was left to carry the consequences. Reading Henrietta’s story brought me back to that moment and helped me see it through a wider lens. It wasn’t just one medical error; it was part of a larger pattern of negligence and disregard for patients like my mom. Henrietta Lacks wasn’t just a name in a textbook. She was a Black woman, a mother, a person. And so is my mom. This case changed my perspective by teaching me that injustice doesn’t always look like a courtroom or a protest. Sometimes, it’s a hospital room. Sometimes, it’s silence. And sometimes, it’s the people we trust most, doctors, researchers, institutions, who fail us the deepest. But it also taught me that stories matter. By sharing what happened to Henrietta, author Rebecca Skloot gave a voice to a woman who had been silenced. And through that story, I found strength, awareness, and a sense of responsibility to never accept the status quo just because it’s labeled “normal.” Henrietta Lacks’s story reminded me that behind every breakthrough in science, there are real people. People who deserve respect, dignity, and the truth. And that reminder has stayed with me ever since.

If I were to create a Love Island challenge, it would be all about laughter, unexpected connections, and letting Islanders make complete fools of themselves in the best way possible. That’s exactly what Lips Don’t Lie is for. Here’s how it works: Islanders are paired up randomly—no choosing, no playing it safe. One person from each pair puts on noise-canceling headphones that are blasting none other than the chicken song. Yes, that obnoxious, clucking, honking tune that scrambles your brain and makes it impossible to focus. Meanwhile, their partner is handed a stack of absurd Love Island-themed phrases, but they’re not allowed to say them out loud—only mouth them dramatically, like they’re in a soap opera with the volume turned off. The person wearing the headphones has to guess what their partner is trying to say by reading their lips. Naturally, chaos follows. “I’m grafting harder than a builder in July” becomes “I’m craving pickles and a hug,” while “You give me the ick but in a good way” turns into “You live in a tent by the freeway.” The worse the guess, the better the entertainment. The rest of the Islanders watch it all go down, crying and laughing from the sidelines. At the end, the duo with the most correct guesses wins a silly prize—maybe a snack attack with gold-plated forks or a dance party in the hideaway. The pair with the worst guesses? They have to write and dramatically perform a Love Island-themed haiku in front of everyone, preferably while wearing ridiculous costumes. Lips Don’t Lie is the kind of challenge that resets the energy. It cuts through the tension, the drama, and the overthinking, and brings people together through pure, harmless fun. It’s chaotic, it’s ridiculous, and most of all, it reminds everyone not to take themselves too seriously—because sometimes, love starts with laughing so hard you cry over complete nonsense.

Facing my mother's recent diagnosis of lupus alongside her unexpected pregnancy was one of the most difficult periods of my life. Lupus, an autoimmune disease that causes the body to attack healthy tissues and organs, brought pain, fear, and a constant cloud of uncertainty into our home. The emotional toll deepened when doctors warned that continuing the pregnancy could worsen her health, forcing our family to confront an impossible decision. My mother, a single parent already carrying the weight of our household, suddenly had to fight for both her life and the life of her unborn child. Watching her suffer through the physical pain and emotional exhaustion of lupus while trying to keep our family afloat shook me to my core. There were days when she could barely move, but she still found a way to smile at me and my sister, still showed up for us in every way she could. That quiet strength taught me more than words ever could. I knew I had to step up. I took on more hours at work, managed responsibilities at home, and became a second caretaker. At the same time, I was juggling college courses and trying to maintain a strong GPA. My mental health began to deteriorate—I was overwhelmed, anxious, and often felt isolated. There were nights I stayed awake worrying about bills, my mother’s health, and whether the sacrifices I was making were enough. But in the midst of that chaos, something inside me solidified. I realized that adversity doesn’t have to break you, it can build you. That experience taught me the importance of empathy, of showing up for others, and most importantly, of showing up for myself. I started therapy, learned to manage my stress, and opened up to close friends. I redefined what strength looks like: not perfection, but perseverance. This chapter of my life reshaped my beliefs. I now see mental health not as a weakness, but as something deeply connected to survival and success. It strengthened my relationship with my family, especially my mom and baby sister. We are each other’s support system. It also made me more driven in my career goals. I want to work in finance to create generational stability for families like mine, and eventually start a nonprofit in El Salvador focused on mental health access for underserved communities. I’m proud to be a first-generation college student, a daughter, a sister, and a young woman who turned pain into purpose. Mental health challenges didn’t stop me they gave me a deeper reason to keep going.