I always liked school.
No, actually, I think I always liked learning. And for someone like me, learning usually happened at school.

I was born in El Paso, Texas, but I grew up in Ciudad Juárez. That’s one of the most common realities along the border: hundreds of thousands of kids waking up early, catching one or two buses, crossing a bridge that’s only 1500 feet long but can feel like a mile, and then walking more or taking even more buses just to get to school. Others spend 2–3 hours in the car line, inching forward in frustration with hundreds of others doing the same. Those were my teenage years.

And honestly? That was better than my experience attending elementary and middle school in Mexico.

Back then, I didn’t challenge it, but I did wonder.
I was too shy, too obedient to say no, but deep down, I questioned it all in silence.

Every Monday, we’d stand in military formation (no matter the weather) to salute the flag. We’d gather in a concrete yard with no shade, in complete silence, at attention, honoring a ritual I didn’t fully understand. I didn’t have the words for it then, but it always felt… off. I wouldn’t realize how harsh and strange it truly was until years later, when my husband pointed it out.

We were taught to obey before we were taught to be curious.
And yet, curiosity was already blooming quietly inside me. Like many kids, that’s where our intelligence begins, even in so-called “ignorance”.

But my path to earning this degree at 40 wasn’t a straight line: it was a loop, a pause, a spiral, a detour, a return. I could’ve finished school years ago, but life happened. Depression. Uncertainty. Partying. Searching.

I studied computer science. Then anthropology at two different universities. I dropped out a year before finishing.

That’s when fear kicked in.
Fear of failure.
Fear of commitment.
Fear of not knowing who I was.

My self-esteem hit rock bottom.

Until I met my husband.

Being a military wife taught me so much, mostly about what I didn’t want. I don’t say that to devalue the role. I have so much admiration for housewives and mothers and women who dedicate their lives to their families. That kind of love and labor is sacred. But I knew I needed something different.

My mom and husband loved me through all of it. They always encouraged me to grow.

I became a certified massage therapist. That wasn’t it.
But then, I tried welding.

That changed everything.

For the first time, I completed a certification that I genuinely loved. I felt powerful holding a torch. Alive. Curious. That curiosity spilled into sculpture. I was running a small shirt-printing business when I decided to go to art school, thinking I’d go into printmaking or graphic design.

Then I took my first sculpture and metals classes: welding, soldering, shaping, melting. And I knew. I had found it.

Art.
Something I never considered.
I didn’t think I was the “artsy” type.

I’ve been surrounded by musicians and artists throughout my life, but I fell into that old fallacy: that art is a gift given to a lucky few at birth. And I was never that lucky.
But art school taught me that talent isn’t magic or luck: it’s 90% learned. It’s dedication. Tenacity. Failing a thousand times and still showing up. It taught me to be patient, with myself and others. It gave me the humility to learn alongside people much younger than me, to recognize their brilliance, to see that youth isn’t foolish, it’s hungry.

It taught me that I don’t have to be the best. I just have to be myself.

After being a daughter, a wife, a friend, a cousin, a fronteriza, a business owner, a military spouse, a first-gen student, a misfit, a healer, a dropout,

I now claim something I never thought possible:

I am an artist.

And more importantly:
I am proud of myself.

That’s not something I’ve said lightly or often in my life. But today, as I graduate with my bachelor’s degree at 40 years old, I say it with joy, with honesty, and with the deepest sense of self-respect I’ve ever known.

I earned a Bachelor of Fine Arts with a double major in Sculpture and Metals/Jewelry, graduating with honors (Summa Cum Laude). Writing that out still feels surreal. But more than just a title, it carries the weight of a dream fulfilled; not just for me, but for my family. Becoming a first-generation college graduate, and making my mom proud, fills me with a joy I can’t quite describe. It’s the kind of pride that lives quietly in your chest, deep and glowing.

The work is just beginning. But for the first time, I see myself clearly.
Not through anyone else’s lens. Not defined by past failures.

Just me:
a little older, a little wiser, and finally, exactly where I’m meant to be.