From an early age, I witnessed my parents work tirelessly to build a better future for my siblings and me, often placing the needs of our family before their own. By the time I was nine, I was already helping at their workplace, answering phones, taking orders, and supporting wherever I was needed. These early responsibilities shaped how I move through the world. They taught me resilience, accountability, and the importance of showing up for others, lessons that continue to guide me as a low-income, first-generation college student. As I grew older, that sense of responsibility extended beyond my family and into my community. I became involved in volunteering at my local church, where I worked closely with young girls through team-building activities, crafts, and community events. Creating spaces where they felt safe, supported, and confident showed me how meaningful it is to care for people beyond immediate needs. These experiences taught me that service does not always look grand, it often begins with presence, patience, and encouragement. I did not initially know that architecture would become my path. My interest began with curiosity and problem-solving, sparked during a STEM workshop where we built structures using simple materials. When I later took my first architecture class, everything came together. I realized architecture was more than just buildings, it was a way to help people. It shapes how communities access care, gather, feel safe, and feel seen. Growing up in Oakland and Hayward, California, I often noticed how underserved communities experience the consequences of neglect in the built environment. Public spaces and buildings did not always reflect the care or dignity of the people who used them. This awareness motivated me to pursue architecture as a people-serving career, similar to healthcare or education, because design directly impacts well-being, access, and quality of life. That belief was reinforced through my work with the Oakland Heritage Alliance, a nonprofit dedicated to preserving the historic 16th Street Station in Oakland. The building was at risk of demolition, and our role was to imagine a future that served the community. My team proposed transforming the station into a birthing center, event space, and museum, honoring its history while addressing real needs. I helped lead outreach efforts by designing interactive activities to gather community input, ensuring local voices shaped the project. In November 2024, the station was officially recognized as a historical landmark, a result of collective effort and advocacy. In five years, I see myself continuing the work I have already begun, using architecture as a way to support health, education, and community life. I want to design spaces that are shaped by the people who use them and responsive to the realities of everyday life. Alongside my work as an architect, I hope to remain involved in mentoring and community programs that support young people exploring creative and service-oriented paths. This journey is personal to me because it is rooted in my family’s sacrifices and the responsibility I carry as a first-generation student. Every step forward has been shaped by the people and communities that raised me.

Being the oldest means learning to lead before you’re even sure where you’re headed. I grew up in a humble home where hard work, faith, and sacrifice were part of daily life. As the daughter of Mexican immigrants and the oldest sibling, I became a caretaker, translator, and role model early on. College wasn’t just a personal goal—it was a responsibility to my family and a chance to break generational cycles. Being a first-generation student meant navigating everything alone—college applications, financial stress, and the constant battle with imposter syndrome. There were times I sat in classrooms feeling like I didn’t belong—like everyone else had a guidebook I’d never been given. I questioned if I was good enough, but I learned that strength comes from asking for help and using your experiences to uplift others. I see the world—with empathy for those who feel unseen and a passion for creating opportunities where they’re missing. This perspective drives me not only in my pursuit of architecture but also in my volunteer work with young girls like my sister, where I encourage them to find confidence, creativity, and pride in their stories—just as I continue to find in mine. I believe my place in the world is to be a bridge—connecting my family’s sacrifices to a future of possibility. Through architecture, I aspire to design inclusive spaces that serve and inspire communities like the one I grew up in, proving that resilience and humility can lay the foundation for lasting change.

“Si Dios quiere.” I grew up hearing this phrase so often that I used to roll my eyes as a kid whenever my parents said it. “Will we go to the park this weekend?” – “Si Dios quiere.” “Will you buy me that backpack?” – “Si Dios quiere.” I didn’t understand then how deeply rooted those words were in my parents’ way of surviving, navigating uncertainty, and trusting that—even in hardship—things would unfold as they were meant to. As I’ve grown older, I’ve come to embrace “If God’s willing” as more than just a phrase—it’s become a quiet, steady anchor in my life. It reminds me to release control over what I cannot change, to focus on the present, and to trust in something bigger than myself. In a world that constantly demands answers and certainty, it has taught me humility and presence. My family didn’t have much growing up. We were a low-income household, and my parents raised us with resourcefulness and faith. My mom took us thrifting long before it was trendy—not because it was fun, but because it was necessary. She taught us to value what we had and to find joy in the small things. I remember waking up in the middle of the night to use the restroom and hearing her praying softly in the living room, whispering hopes and worries to God. My parents made going to church a priority for us. I knew that one day I’d have to choose what faith would mean for me—but they laid the foundation. As I grew into my own path, I discovered two passions that seemed unrelated at first: working with youth, especially young girls in my church, and architecture. I loved mentoring—creating safe spaces for girls to be heard, feel confident, and explore who they were. I led activities, listened to their worries, and guided them through their own journeys with faith and identity. Architecture, on the other hand, started with a simple love for design and space. But for a long time, I didn’t know how to connect it to something meaningful. I questioned whether it was enough to just design beautiful buildings—until I was part of a studio project centered on Oakland’s historic 16th Street Station. Once a grand transit hub, the station now sits neglected and at risk of demolition. Our studio was challenged to reimagine its future. Inspired by community needs and my desire to serve through design, I proposed transforming the station into a birthing center, a museum, and an event space. The birthing center was a response to the high maternal mortality rates among Black women, aiming to provide culturally sensitive, accessible care in a space full of history and strength. The museum would preserve the station’s legacy, while the event space would offer a place for joy, gathering, and connection. We spoke with residents, gathered stories, and studied the building’s history. This project taught me that architecture isn’t just about preserving walls—it’s about preserving lives. It’s about designing with intention, listening deeply, and using creativity as a form of advocacy. For the first time, I saw how my love for working with people, my cultural roots, and my belief in justice could come together in one purpose. Faith has shaped how I lead, how I design, and how I dream. The phrase I once found annoying as a child—“If God’s willing”—now lives in everything I do. It reminds me that even in uncertainty, I am rooted. It reminds me to move forward with humility, gratitude, and intention. And it keeps me focused on building not just structures, but futures—if God’s willing. Looking ahead, my goal is to become a licensed architect and open a firm that centers community, culture, and care. I want to work on projects that serve historically marginalized neighborhoods—focusing on affordable housing, public spaces, and cultural preservation. I also want to continue mentoring youth, especially young girls of color, so they see themselves in fields like architecture where they’re often underrepresented. I hope to use design as a way to heal, connect, and inspire—helping others the way faith has helped me: not by promising easy answers, but by creating space for hope, dignity, and belonging.

In elementary school, I became my family’s lawyer, translator, and advocate. Bills, immigration paperwork, and legal documents were scattered across our kitchen table, waiting for me to decipher them. My parents, immigrants who worked endlessly to give us a better life, leaned on me to navigate a system they couldn’t understand. Before I could fully grasp long division, I was reading contracts and making phone calls on their behalf. This is what it meant to be a first-generation student—not just working hard in school, but carrying responsibilities that many of my classmates never had to consider. Education wasn’t just about learning; it was about survival. Growing up, my family struggled financially. Before thrifting became trendy, it was our only option. My clothes were always secondhand, our meals carefully budgeted. After church, we’d beg for McDonald’s, only to get the classic Mexican response: “Hay frijoles en la casa.” At the time, I hated that answer. Now, I understand what it really meant: we had enough, and enough was a gift. Despite the challenges, my parents never let us believe we were less than anyone else. My mother, a woman filled with faith, reminded us that hard work and humility could take us anywhere. But while they encouraged me to pursue college, they couldn’t guide me through it. There were no college stories passed down, no financial aid advice, no reassurance that I was making the right decisions. Every step—from applications to navigating my architecture program—was uncharted territory. As a first-generation college student, this lack of guidance led to doubt. Architecture is a five-year commitment in a rigorous STEM field, and I constantly questioned if I belonged. Imposter syndrome crept in as I compared myself to peers who had grown up surrounded by the very world I was trying to enter. Was I too late? Was I capable? Could I really succeed in a field that felt so unfamiliar? But just as my parents built a life in an unfamiliar country, I learned to build my own foundation in an unfamiliar system. Being first-generation has shaped not only my educational journey but also my purpose. I don’t just want to be an architect—I want to create spaces that reflect the stories of underrepresented communities. One of the most defining moments in my education was working on a project to revitalize Oakland’s historic 16th Street Station. Once a vibrant hub for migration and movement, the station had been left to decay—a story too familiar for many immigrant communities. Our project reimagined it as a birthing center, museum, and event space, giving it new life while preserving its history. That experience solidified my passion for using architecture as a tool for cultural empowerment and social change. My experience as a first-generation student has also shaped my long-term goal: to mentor and support students like me—those who feel lost in the college system, who question whether they belong, and who need to see that success is possible. Education should not be a privilege reserved for those with generational knowledge; it should be accessible to anyone willing to put in the work. At times, college has felt isolating, but the challenges that come with being first-generation have also been my greatest motivation. I am here not just for myself, but for my family, my community, and every student who feels like they are walking this path alone. Thank you for your time and consideration.

Looking at my twin sister is like looking into a mirror—yet we are each our own person, shaped by experiences that have impacted us in different ways. We have always had a strong bond, growing up side by side, but life has challenged us in ways neither of us could have predicted. When she was diagnosed with multiple sclerosis, everything changed. Losing sight in one eye forced her to step away from the path she had planned for herself. Suddenly, she was faced with uncertainty about her future, about what she was capable of, and about how to move forward when the plan she had always relied on was no longer an option. She needed reassurance. She needed someone to tell her she wasn’t alone. I didn’t fully understand what she was going through, but I did understand the feeling of doubt—of standing at a crossroads and questioning whether I had what it took to keep going. When I chose architecture, I felt like I was entering a world that had already started without me. Unlike many of my classmates, I hadn’t spent years preparing for this career. I was stepping into a five-year commitment in a highly technical field, surrounded by students who seemed far ahead. Doubt became my biggest obstacle. Was I too late? Did I belong? Could I really succeed in an industry I had just begun to understand? But as I encouraged my sister to trust in herself and find new possibilities, I started to take my own advice. I reminded her that just because her path was changing, it didn’t mean she had lost her purpose. And in doing so, I realized the same was true for me. We have always been each other’s greatest support system, checking in even when life pulls us in different directions. Through her resilience, I found the strength to push forward in my own journey. Watching her adapt to an unexpected challenge reminded me that I didn’t need to have all the answers—I just needed to keep moving forward. One of the moments that solidified my place in architecture was working on a project to revitalize Oakland’s historic 16th Street Station. The building, once a vital part of the city, had been abandoned for decades. But through design, we reimagined it as a birthing center, museum, and event space—a place that would serve the community while preserving its past. That project reinforced something I had come to understand through my own struggles and through my sister’s journey: life doesn’t always go as planned, but what seems lost can be reimagined into something meaningful. Looking back, I see how both my sister and I found new paths—not the ones we had originally envisioned, but the ones we needed. And that is what I would tell future students navigating uncertainty: it’s okay to not have everything figured out. What matters most is staying open to new possibilities. Instead of focusing on what you don’t know yet, focus on what excites you enough to keep going. Let curiosity lead you, seek out people who inspire you, and allow yourself to grow at your own pace. The most meaningful opportunities often come from unexpected detours. For both my sister and me, the biggest lesson wasn’t about overcoming doubt—it was about learning to move forward despite it. Thank you for your time and consideration.

I remember standing in front of the 16th Street Station in Oakland, CA , its once-grand entrance now weathered and forgotten. The massive arched windows, once filled with light, were boarded up. The silence around the station felt heavy, as if the building itself was waiting—waiting to be seen, to have a purpose again. I had come here with my architecture class, assigned to reimagine the station’s future. Where others saw decay, I saw possibility. I imagined a mother walking into the station—not to catch a train, but to receive life-saving maternal care. I pictured children running through its halls, learning about its history, its resilience. I envisioned the station transforming from an abandoned relic into a birthing center, museum, and event space—alive with purpose once more. That moment changed everything for me. Growing up in Oakland and Hayward, I had always felt a deep connection to the places around me. I saw how neglected buildings became barriers instead of resources, how a lack of public spaces created isolation instead of connection. But standing in front of the 16th Street Station, I realized something even more powerful—architecture is not just about structures; it is about restoring dignity, rewriting narratives, and reshaping communities. The more I learned, the clearer my purpose became. Architecture is one of the few fields that blends science, history, and human experience into something tangible. A well-designed school can change the way children learn. A thoughtfully planned park can become a space where strangers form friendships. A repurposed building—like the 16th Street Station—can become a beacon of renewal. I want to be an architect who creates spaces that uplift rather than exclude, that reflect the communities they serve, and that stand as symbols of resilience and progress. My goal is to focus on revitalizing underserved neighborhoods, ensuring that design is not reserved for those with wealth, but used to empower those who need it most. But my vision goes beyond just designing buildings. I want to teach, mentor, and inspire. Throughout my life, I have worked closely with young girls—through volunteering at my church and mentoring my younger sister—and I have seen how powerful representation can be. Architecture remains a male-dominated field, and I want to show young women that they, too, can shape the world around them. Whether through teaching, community workshops, or hands-on mentorship, I want to ensure that the next generation knows their ideas deserve to be built. This scholarship would allow me to refine my skills, gain hands-on experience, and take the next step toward my goal of designing spaces that heal, connect, and empower. I will continue to fight for thoughtful, inclusive architecture—because I know that every building tells a story. And like the 16th Street Station, some just need someone to believe in their potential.

Growing up as the child of immigrants, I watched my parents work tirelessly to provide for my siblings and me. At nine years old, I started helping them at work, answering calls and taking orders. Though I wasn’t the best assistant, I gained a deep appreciation for their sacrifices. Their resilience shaped how I approach challenges—with determination, hope, and a belief in building a better future. One of the greatest challenges I’ve faced is realizing that the world isn’t always fair. I struggled to find a way to bridge my experiences with my desire to create change—until I discovered architecture. When I entered college, I wasn’t sure how to bring my passions together. Then I took my first architecture class, and everything clicked. Architecture became the perfect intersection of my interests—it’s an art form, it solves real-world problems, and it has the power to represent and connect people. In Oakland,CA, I saw firsthand how the spaces people inhabit shape their sense of belonging, identity, and well-being. Many buildings felt detached from the communities they were meant to serve. Some of these issues stemmed from the neglect of buildings and the misuse of graffiti. Through my studio class, I saw how much people cared about history and longed for a sense of community. Yet, a lack of knowledge and guidance often overshadowed this reality. I realized that architects have the power to design spaces that reflect and uplift the people they serve—something I didn’t fully grasp when I started school. Much like architecture, philately preserves history and culture. Stamps tell stories—capturing historical events, honoring influential figures, and celebrating diverse cultures. They serve as miniature archives, keeping history alive. I see a strong connection between philately and architecture. Just as each stamp represents something greater than itself, every building tells a story about the people and history behind it. Encouraging young people to explore philately is about more than collecting—it’s about appreciating history, design, and storytelling. Stamp collecting fosters curiosity and allows individuals to engage with the world in a tangible way. Just as architecture shapes communities, stamps reflect the evolution of societies and the values we uphold. I would encourage young people to see philately as a gateway to exploring history and culture, much like how architecture has become my way of connecting with my roots and serving my community. As a first-generation college student, I’ve had to navigate the financial challenges of higher education on my own. With rising tuition, material costs, and studio project expenses, each semester presents new obstacles. Unlike many of my peers, I do not have financial support from my parents and rely on work and financial aid to continue my studies. This scholarship would ease these burdens, allowing me to focus on my education and continue using architecture to give back. I aspire to be an architect who bridges communities with designs that reflect their needs. With this scholarship, I can further my education and address challenges faced by communities like Oakland. It would allow me to honor my parents’ sacrifices by pursuing a career that strengthens the places they have called home. Many others are equally deserving of this scholarship, some with even greater need. However, if given this opportunity, I will honor the values my parents instilled in me by creating opportunities for those who come after me. Whether through architecture or inspiring young people to embrace history and design through philately, I am committed to making a meaningful impact. Just as stamps and architecture preserve history, I will use my work to shape the future while ensuring the past is never forgotten.