When I first arrived in the U.S. from Nepal, everything felt temporary: the language in my mouth, the streets beneath my feet, even my voice in the classroom. I was fluent in Nepali, Hindi, and knew enough English to succeed, but not well enough to feel heard. I quickly saw that in some rooms, people don’t always expect someone like me to speak up, and sometimes, they don’t expect you to be there at all. I knew my parents gave up so much to be here to give me a better future, but it felt so lonely, and soon after, a disaster struck Nepal.
I still remember the earthquake that cracked open the earth and the rhythm of our lives with it. For some time, it was as if it had taken away any and all feelings of safety and joy from the communities. Even the recent flood that swept through our community in Nepal, the water didn’t just wash away homes, but the sense of safety we had loved, yet taken for granted. I was young, but even then, I understood that they weren't just natural events; they were also failures of preparation, failures of infrastructure, failures of systems that were supposed to protect us. These experiences weren't just events, they left a mark on me. They showed me that engineering isn’t just technical; it’s deeply human. It’s the difference between shelter and ruin, between access and isolation. I carry those memories with me in every class, every assignment, as a quiet reminder of why this work matters.
I had started my college journey in Nursing. I knew nursing was a good major; it had job security, and I could help others. They helped in the flood, in the earthquake, and continue to help every day, but my mind was more fixed on one thing: the devastating impact natural disasters have on so many people because they weren’t prepared. In Nepal, I saw both the absence of infrastructure as well as the determination of people living without it. I can now see that this contrast shaped my values early on.
The turning point wasn’t dramatic. I saw a group, Engineers Without Borders, designing a water system for a village in another country. They weren’t just engaging in solving equations, they were helping to solve issues that affect lives. Something clicked. I realized that civil engineering wasn’t just about numbers or models, it was about service. It was about building things that people rely on, often without realizing who made them work. That’s the kind of work I want to do, quietly powerful, deeply useful. When I changed majors, even though most of those around me were freshmen as well, I felt like a beginner in every way, more lost, navigating new systems, new terminology, and new expectations. I’d sit in engineering classes and be able to count how many women were in the room using just one hand. I felt more alone than ever before, maybe more than when I first moved here, but I didn’t and will not be letting that stop me from achieving my goals.
I want to be the kind of engineer who uses design to uplift underserved communities, whether through safer roads, sustainable water systems, or accessible public spaces. I want to pursue a master’s degree eventually, or possibly add a minor that strengthens my understanding of the social impact side of engineering. As an immigrant woman in STEM, I carry the weight of these challenges with pride. I want to build paths for others like me, not just the roads and bridges.