I came into the world on February 4th, 2006, in Móstoles, Madrid. My parents, Violeta and Miguel, had left Peru a few years earlier, in 2002, chasing better opportunities in Spain. They spent some time working in the city, but eventually decided to trade the noise and rush for the slower rhythm of a little rural town called Navalcarnero, with the goal of starting a family.
Navalcarnero is so small that when it comes to having a baby, one has to go give birth in the nearest city's hospital. For us, that was Móstoles, just a short 15–20 minute drive away. And that’s how I ended up being born there, even though Navalcarnero would be the place I’d come to call home.
My early years are really just a collection of family stories and little mental pictures painted for me by the people who were there. From what I’ve been told (and yes, this might be 100% biased), I was actually a really good baby. Sure, I threw the occasional tantrum and pulled a few classic toddler mischiefs, but for the most part I listened, followed the rules, and did what I was told. And, most importantly, I was absolutely adorable.
But no matter how warm and sweet a childhood may be, the troubles of the outside world can touch any family. The 2008 economic crisis hit mine hard, and shortly after I turned two, my parents decided to move to the Canary Islands, my new home. I love telling people I was raised there—mostly because half the time, they don’t even know where it is or that it exists. The same often happens with Navalcarnero. Every time I mention it, it feels like I’m introducing a hidden corner of the world into someone’s life.
The island of Tenerife, in the city of Santa Cruz de Tenerife, is where I spent ages two through five—the place where my first living memories took shape. By the age of three, I had started school and already began to discover what I was good at: learning. Even amidst financial struggles and moving at least once a year, I managed to stay grounded in the classroom. Teachers often praised my behavior, and I consistently earned good grades, finding in school a sense of stability and pride that carried me through those early, uncertain years
In Spain, at least from my experience, primary school in the early grades worked a little differently—you often stayed with the same teacher for more than one year. As you moved up a grade, she moved up with you. This allowed me to form a close and positive bond with my teacher, Mercedes. She understood my family’s financial struggles and always went out of her way to make me feel included, even as I watched classmates arrive with shiny new shoes every semester, the latest toys, and families who went on holidays or drove cars.
Seeing all this around me never made me jealous, but like any four- or five-year-old, I sometimes felt a quiet sting of inadequacy. I still recognize that feeling as valid. Maybe that is why I became so committed to my education. I realized early on that school was not just about learning—it was a bridge to the life I wanted. The only way I could one day have the things my peers had was through hard work, a career, and a job that would let me build the life I dreamed of. Even at that young age, I understood that my education was the key to my future, and I held onto that determination like a secret superpower.
Amongst vague memories of hanging out with friends during recess and whispering about our crushes, I find myself on a plane back to the mainland, returning to Navalcarnero. I was past the age of five, stepping once again into the town where I had taken my first steps. It was certainly a strange experience, meeting people who last remembered me in diapers, yet I loved every minute of it. The magic of such a rustic town made me feel like a princess growing up. Every place I lived, no matter how small, became my own little castle and Navalcarnero was my village filled with my subjects.
Yet all good fairytales come to an end. I say “fairy tale” very loosely, as my life was indeed far from it—but it still had its magic, I must admit. That magic came from my parents, who always did everything in their power for me and my sister, born during this chapter of my life, to ensure we were fed, clothed, and had a roof over our heads. My time in Navalcarnero was coming to a close, and at the age of eight, just as my sister turned two, we moved back to Tenerife, beginning a new chapter once again.
I returned to the same school I had attended from ages three to five and was lucky enough to reconnect with my exact friends. At first, settling back into Tenerife felt easy, almost comforting—but then came a strange and difficult period. One of my teachers seemed to have it out for me. During a parent-teacher conference, she actually told my parents that I should “tone it down” when it came to my intellectual capacity. I remember feeling confused and a little hurt, though I didn’t fully understand why at the time. Thankfully, by fourth grade, my class had grown so big that it was split in two, and I got a whole new teacher. I’ve never cared about being any teacher’s favorite, but even as a child, I liked feeling recognized when I worked hard—and I still think it’s important for anyone to be appreciated when their effort deserves it.
By the time I was ten, I was at the top of my class and the CEO of a small company that my friend and I had founded at school, where we made wool products like pouches, purses, and more. I had great friends, and my brother had been born. On a personal level, my life was truly good—but when it came to my family, struggle had never left us. That’s why, when my dad got the opportunity to move to London for work, he took it. I was sad to see him go, but I also felt a strange sort of happiness knowing he had a secure job where his hard and well-done work was rightfully rewarded. But life had other plans. Less than nine months later, America called. In the middle of summer, with barely any time to say goodbye to friends or fully process everything, I found myself on a plane to Miami, Florida.
Americans often take their upbringing for granted. Growing up, you see all the movies and TV shows, dreaming of going to a school with lockers, yellow buses, homecoming, prom, and all the traditions you’ve imagined. And now, suddenly, I was going to have those experiences—me! A little girl from Navalcarnero, Spain. So you can imagine my devastation on the first day of my American school when I saw… no lockers. But jokes aside, from the moment I learned I was moving to the United States until now, I’ve become deeply grateful for the opportunities this country has offered me—and for all that is still yet to come.
Acclimating to Miami wasn’t hard, since I’m pretty sure everyone here speaks more Spanish than English. The weather was also easy to get used to, especially after spending the past two years on an island. The real challenge was learning the language. I remember the first weeks of school, listening to people speak English and thinking to myself, “One day, am I really going to be able to understand everything they’re saying without difficulty?” And now, here I am, summarizing my life in English. I was lucky enough to pick up the language in just six months—so quickly, in fact, that when it came to math, science, and social studies, my teachers recommended I skip ESOL classes and stay with the regular English-speaking students. The way teachers recognize and reward students in the American school system is truly heartwarming. By my first quarter in the country, after only three months, I had already received a medal for Honor Roll. I was amazed that here, good grades meant recognition.
All the effort I put into my first year of school paid off when I was accepted into a magnet middle school. This is where I began my seven-year-long love affair with the IB program, the International Baccalaureate. My middle school years were awkward and uncomfortable, as they often are for tweens, but no matter how challenging that phase of my life was, my main priority was always school. Getting accepted into the Gifted program was definitely a highlight of those sometimes-tormenting years.
Then bam—COVID hits, abruptly ending my last year of middle school. Suddenly, I blinked, and I was in high school, still at a magnet school with four years of IB ahead. I won’t even go into depth about what IB is, just know that it meant taking 18 final exams in my senior year alone. High school was also the period where it became most evident that I was the child of immigrants. I did it all without my parents’ help. I maintained perfect grades, held the presidency of three clubs, participated in five honor societies, and navigated the grueling college application process—all on my own, without my parents ever knowing the full scope of what I was doing. I am proud and grateful that I managed to handle it independently, without adding to my parents’ already enormous workload. They gave their all at work, and it only felt right that I gave my all in school while also taking on the responsibilities of being an older sister. Those years were intense, exhausting, and transformative, but they taught me resilience, discipline, and the value of quietly carrying a heavy load with pride and determination.
All of a sudden, I was deciding where to go to college and received the most amazing opportunity of my life—to attend Florida State University. Having completed three semesters already, I can wholeheartedly say that I have found my people and the place where I belong. I don’t think any other university in the world could make me feel as welcomed, valued, and at home as FSU does. Though, unfortunately, I cannot attend for the foreseeable future, I am determined. I have high hopes and will do everything in my power to return and earn my degree there.
One day, you’re a little kid on the streets of Spain; the next, you’re nineteen, learning how to code and navigating new challenges. Yet no matter what life has thrown at me, or will throw in the future, I love it. Every twist, every challenge, every opportunity has shaped who I am, and I wouldn’t trade a moment of it.