As a child, I was that bubbly, chirpy girl who saw the sky as her playground. I asked endless questions, sketched silly inventions, and genuinely believed the world had space for all my dreams.

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But life humbled me — and fast.

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I lost my mother when I was five. My father when I was thirteen. Grief arrived long before I had the words to understand it. With it came uncertainty, isolation, and a quiet sense of unbelonging. I started to close off. Not out of choice, but out of survival.

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In that darkness, my aunt and uncle stood by me like a rock. They didn’t just raise me — they held me up. They gave me structure when I wanted to collapse. They saw potential when I saw nothing but loss. They never let me settle — they pushed me to aim higher, even when aiming felt impossible.

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Choosing design wasn’t easy — for me, or for them. We weren’t a family that could afford risks. With my sister’s future to look after, design school felt like a gamble. But they believed in me. Fully. Fiercely. They invested in my growth, trusting I would find my way.

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And eventually, I did.

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I landed my first full-time role at Capgemini — a big consulting firm — designing for large-scale, complex systems. It wasn't the highest-paying offer, but it taught me lessons far more valuable: resilience, collaboration, structure. I learned how to deliver under pressure, how to think in systems, and how to bring clarity to messy, enterprise-scale problems. Most of all, it proved I could thrive in spaces that once felt out of reach.

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Still, I wanted more.

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I wanted to study internationally, to grow beyond what I knew. I poured myself into that goal — prepping, applying, learning. And when I got into Indiana University for my Master's in Human-Computer Interaction, it felt like a shared victory. My family's support in that moment meant everything. It was their belief, again, that carried me.

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But just as I began that chapter, life knocked me down again.

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I lost my uncle — my father figure, my anchor — just as I arrived in the U.S. I was in a new country, surrounded by unfamiliar people, without the one person who had always guided me. I tried to stay strong, but inside, I was shattered. Grief made everything heavier — the coursework, the cultural shift, the silence.

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Still, I kept going.

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I threw myself into projects, connected with people, built community tools, explored accessibility and inclusive design. I reached out to alumni, networked hard, and applied to over 600 summer internships. I landed interviews. Came close. But didn’t secure one.

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That broke me more than I expected.

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After everything I had fought through — losing my parents, building myself back, crossing oceans, not getting an internship felt like failure. I began doubting my worth, my skills, my future. I felt like I was falling short of the very people who had always believed in me.

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But if life has taught me anything, it’s that setbacks don’t define me — how I respond to them does.

I made it to graduation. Not just with a degree, but with a new understanding of myself: my strength, my endurance, my ability to show up even when things aren’t working out.

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I’m not the bubbly girl I once was. I’m something steadier. Someone who’s been through enough to know that growth is messy, that grief doesn’t have a timeline, and that quiet perseverance often matters more than loud wins.

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Today, I design with a different kind of depth. I care about accessibility because I know how isolating it feels to be left out. I explore agentic AI because I believe tech should empower people — not alienate them. I value consistency over flash, trust over ego, impact over recognition.

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I’m still growing. Still rebuilding. But this time, I know who I am.

And I’m ready — to contribute, to collaborate, and to carry everything I’ve learned forward.