From Undocumented to Harvard: Rooted in Community

From Undocumented to Harvard

Each Sunday, the scent of cilantro and onions clings to my fingertips, a lingering reminder of the food truck where my family and I spent twelve-hour shifts over a hot grill. As a teenager, I worried my classmates would notice the smell that seemed to follow me. Back then, it felt like a mark of difference, something that set me apart. Now, I recognize it as a symbol of resilience, sacrifice, and the foundation of my identity.

Despite living in Tennessee for over 15 years, I was never “American enough.” Being undocumented meant that I was denied in-state tuition, shutting the doors to an affordable education. That injustice fueled my fire, leading me to the Tennessee State Capitol, where I fought for tuition equality, our voices echoing through halls that were never built for us. But the hardest blow came when a nursing school dean told me to reconsider my career because my legal status would limit me. It felt like my dreams were slipping through my fingers. Yet, I persisted and graduated with my Bachelors in Nursing.

When the pandemic hit, I witnessed firsthand how my community—essential workers who could not afford a sick day—suffered from the deadly mix of chronic illness, lack of healthcare access, and systemic neglect. It was clear that the healthcare system was not built for us. In response, I founded Tennessee’s first Hispanic Nurse Association, creating a space where Latino nurses could find representation, build community, and launch health initiatives that addressed our people’s needs.

But the moment that changed everything came when I accompanied my dad’s friend to a post-op appointment. As he struggled to walk down the steps of his rundown duplex, a gut feeling told me something was wrong. Inside the clinic, oncology posters lined the walls, and a growing unease pushed me to ask, “Usted sabe de qué es su cita?” He turned to me with tired eyes and replied, “No, mija… no sé.”

An hour later, I found myself delivering life-shattering news—he had stage 4 prostate cancer. The medical team assumed he already knew, but no one had ever told him. I was the first to say the words in his native language, ensuring he finally understood what was happening to his own body. That moment haunted me. How many more immigrants had died simply because they didn’t understand their diagnosis?

These experiences shaped my life’s work, pushing me to advocate for those too often left behind. And now, I step into a new chapter. After years of uncertainty, of carrying the weight of “not belonging,” I finally gained my green card—a moment 25 years in the making. For the first time, my family and I no longer live in fear of separation. The scent of cilantro and onions still clings to my hands, but now, suddenly, the faint smell on my fingertips feels like a badge of honor—not something to hide.

And with that freedom comes new possibilities.

This fall, I will be attending Harvard T.H. Chan School of Public Health to pursue a Master of Public Health in Health Policy.

Your donation towards my graduate studies will support my ability of bridging the gap between systemic barriers and the people most affected by them—because true change begins with honoring the stories, struggles, and dignity of our communities.