Growing up in a low-income, first-generation immigrant household shaped nearly everything I am: my sense of responsibility, my work ethic, and the way I imagine my future. I became the first person in my immediate family to go to college. That achievement felt less like a singular victory and more like a continuing obligation. From a young age I learned that success wasn’t only personal; it was practical. When my mother needed help with her commute or bills, I rearranged schedules and took extra shifts. When rent, food, and school supplies were tight, I learned how to stretch what we had and to find creative solutions rather than excuses. Financial hardship taught me to be resourceful. In studio classes I learned to salvage discarded materials for sculptures, to reuse packaging for molds, and to improvise tools when budgets were small. Those habits—of making do without, of seeing potential where others see waste—became part of my creative language. They also shaped my values: I prize generosity of time and knowledge, I believe in pragmatic problem-solving, and I trust collaboration over isolation. Being forced to negotiate scarcity made me generous in ways that don’t cost money: I trade skills, share studio time, and teach techniques to peers and younger students because I know how transformative a little access can be. Responsibility arrived early and concretely. My family relied on me emotionally and logistically, which sometimes meant my studies took second place to immediate needs. That pressure was constant: the fear of losing housing over unpaid balances, the emails from student financial services I read with a knot in my stomach, the late nights working fabrication shifts to cover groceries. Those experiences hardened me against complacency but also taught me humility. I learned to ask for help, to advocate when systems failed me, and to prioritize what keeps a person whole—sleep, community, the small rituals that stabilize mental health. Growing up with limited resources also made me painfully aware of inequities in access to arts education. Short-term, I aim to complete my degree at the School of the Art Institute of Chicago, deepen my technical skills (especially in sculpture and fabrication), and resolve the financial instability that shadows me now. I am actively paying down student housing debt and balancing part-time work with school. Medium and long-term, I want to design community-based art programs that reduce barriers to participation: sliding-scale workshops, free drop-in studio hours, and partnerships with schools in low-income neighborhoods. I imagine a studio that functions as both a makerspace and a supportive community hub where people can access tools, mentorship, and exhibition opportunities without prohibitive costs. I aim to make work that is legible to people outside academic art circles, work that can start conversations about labor, care, and survival. I want to destigmatize not only mental health and neurodiversity (issues I know intimately) but also the idea that economic insecurity should delegitimize someone’s claim to creative life. Ultimately, growing up low-income taught me that art is not a luxury but a method of survival and a tool for solidarity. It taught me to be accountable, to share knowledge, and to imagine institutions that serve rather than gatekeep. I carry those lessons into every studio, classroom, and community I enter. For me, making art is inseparable from building a more equitable future.

For me, collaboration in the arts is about creating space where ideas, skills, and perspectives merge into something larger than what any one person could produce alone. While art is often seen as solitary, I have found that working with others (whether in a studio, a classroom, or a gallery) opens possibilities that transform not only the work itself but also how I think about making. Collaboration means both contributing my own strengths and learning to listen, adapt, and grow from the perspectives of others. In sculpture, collaboration happens on many levels. Sometimes it is literal, Working side by side with other artists or fabricators to build something larger than myself. At other times, it is more subtle: installing a show, working within a curator’s vision, or teaching students to handle materials while responding to their creativity. Sculpture demands negotiation: materials resist, spaces have limits, and tools require knowledge. Bringing others into that process creates a shared language where problem-solving and innovation thrive. One collaborative experience that shaped me deeply was working at a summer camp for neurodivergent children. While not a traditional art studio, the camp environment taught me how collaboration extends into human care. As a cabin counselor, I had to coordinate with co-counselors, adapt to the needs of my campers, and lean on a network of staff to create a safe environment. My role demanded flexibility, sometimes stepping forward with leadership, and other times stepping back to listen. That experience showed me that collaboration is not just about efficiency or division of labor, but about building trust and honoring the strengths of each person. I have also experienced collaboration in ceramics, both in teaching and studio settings. Sharing a kiln, learning glazing techniques from peers, or guiding beginners through their first pieces all revealed how knowledge moves in a circular manner. Everyone has something to teach and something to learn. That cycle is part of what drew me to sculpture: the sense that materials, ideas, and people are always in conversation. Currently, I am working at Sullivan Fabrication Studio under Kazuki Guzman. This has further deepened my understanding of collaboration in professional contexts. The studio environment demands precision, responsibility, and communication, as projects often involve multiple hands and perspectives. Working under an experienced fabricator has shown me how collaboration is not only about creativity but also accountability. Each contribution matters, and the quality of the outcome depends on everyone respecting and trusting the process. Collaboration has also shaped my educational goals. At the School of the Art Institute of Chicago, I have learned that art history, critique, and studio practice all thrive when approached collectively. Even when I am working on an individual sculpture, the insights of peers and professors guide my choices in ways I could not achieve alone. Critique, for example, is a form of collaboration that teaches humility: the willingness to let go of ego and hear how others experience your work. It is not always comfortable, but it is always transformative. Moving forward, I hope to keep building collaborative experiences that stretch my understanding of art and community. I want to create works that are not just objects, but shared experiences, shaped by dialogue and exchange. Whether through installations that engage audiences, partnerships with other artists, or teaching that empowers new voices, I see collaboration as essential to my growth. My past experiences have taught me that collaboration is not just about making better art, it is about becoming a better artist, peer, and person.

When I was in the first grade, I was placed into the gifted education program. At that age, it felt like an honor, and the adults around me treated it as a guarantee of future success. My intelligence was praised so often that it became a kind of armor in other people’s eyes. Teachers, relatives, and mentors assumed that because I was smart, I would never struggle with anything beyond academics. For a long time, I believed that too. But as I grew older, I learned firsthand that intelligence does not protect anyone from mental health challenges. High school was when the cracks began to show. My behavior didn’t always align with what was expected, and I often felt restless and overwhelmed by my own thoughts. My mind never seemed to stop racing, and I couldn’t find peace in the way others did. What adults saw as dedication or eccentricity was often me barely holding it together. My perfectionism was praised as discipline, but in reality, it was all-consuming and exhausting. I lived in a constant cycle of correcting, repeating, and obsessing, never able to let go. For years, I felt alone in this cycle, because no one else seemed to notice the toll it was taking. It wasn’t until very recently, in the last three months, that I was diagnosed with Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder. That diagnosis gave me the language to finally understand what I had been experiencing for most of my life. Instead of feeling like I was defective or broken, I learned that my struggles had a name, and more importantly, that there were strategies to manage it. Accepting this diagnosis has been the first step in learning how to live with my condition and give myself compassion instead of judgment. Alongside my struggles with OCD, I also turned to marijuana use as a way to cope. At first, it seemed harmless (a way to quiet my mind and take the edge off), but over time it became a crutch. I relied on weed to numb the racing thoughts and constant anxiety. What began as occasional use quickly turned into dependence, and I felt stuck in a cycle where I couldn’t imagine coping without it. Instead of addressing the root of my issues, I was masking them. Eventually, I realized that my substance use was preventing me from living the life I wanted, achieving my goals, and growing as a person. Recovery wasn’t easy, but it was necessary. I had to learn healthier ways to manage my stress and compulsions, and I had to accept that there were no shortcuts to feeling whole again. Today, I am proud to say that I am in recovery. I no longer rely on weed to get through the day, and I am actively building tools to manage my OCD and anxiety. Therapy, community, and self-awareness have played a large role in my progress. More importantly, I have learned how to ask for help (a skill I once thought I didn’t need because I was “gifted” and supposed to handle everything alone). My recovery is ongoing, and I know it will always be part of my journey, but I no longer see that as a weakness. Instead, I see it as a form of strength. Academically, I am committed to pursuing higher education as both a personal goal and a way to serve others. I am currently studying at the School of the Art Institute of Chicago, where I focus on sculpture. Art has always been my way of navigating the world, and now it has become an integral part of my recovery as well. Through art, I explore themes of identity, mental health, and resilience. I want to use my education to make art more accessible and to challenge the stigma surrounding neurodiversity and mental illness. Looking forward, my educational goals are tied to my personal growth. I want to continue developing as both an artist and an advocate. I see my experiences with OCD and substance abuse not as barriers, but as motivators to create work that speaks to others who may feel unseen. I want to show that recovery is possible, even when it feels late, and that asking for help is never a sign of weakness. My plan for continuing to manage recovery is rooted in accountability and balance. I am committed to ongoing therapy, maintaining a support network of people who understand my journey, and continuing to practice healthy coping strategies instead of turning to substances. I know recovery is not a straight line, and I will face setbacks, but I am prepared to meet them with resilience and honesty. Education, art, and community will remain central pillars in keeping me grounded.