Storytelling is central to advocacy at Young Invincibles. California Young Advocates share their stories on basic needs on college campuses, expanding pathways from postsecondary education to workforce and mental health.
Check them out below:
Prompt: Let us know how having better access to food, housing, transportation, and/or mental health services at your college/university could impact your education. If you faced challenges in food insecurity, housing insecurity, transportation challenges, or accessing mental health support, please share.
The Challenges of Education, Motherhood, and Survival: Balancing Dreams and Reality
As an immigrant mother, college student, and full-time caretaker, each day felt like a constant struggle between meeting my family’s needs and pursuing my goal of completing my education. I enrolled in college to create a better future for my children, but I faced relentless obstacles related to basic needs like food, housing, transportation, and mental health support. These challenges weighed heavily on me, often making it difficult to perform academically.
Food insecurity was a constant issue. I often skipped meals, prioritizing my children’s needs over my own. Studying and taking exams on an empty stomach became routine, leaving me fatigued and unable to concentrate. Accessible resources such as affordable meal plans or an on-campus food pantry would have significantly eased this burden, allowing me to focus more fully on my education. No one should have to choose between putting food on the table and pursuing their academic goals.
Housing was another major challenge. The high cost of living forced me to find housing far from campus, where rent was slightly more affordable. However, this came at the cost of a long and unreliable commute. Frequent traffic delays caused me to miss classes and left me with a constant feeling of trying to catch up. If my school had offered more affordable on-campus housing or subsidized housing options nearby, I could have spent more time and energy on my education instead of navigating transportation challenges every day.
Access to mental health resources was equally challenging. The demands of being a student, mother, and employee took an emotional toll, and the limited availability of mental health support on campus only compounded the stress. By the time I received any assistance, the pressure had become overwhelming. Inconsistent access to counseling sessions meant I never felt fully supported in managing my anxiety and exhaustion. Regular and reliable mental health resources, including check-ins, could have helped me cope with these pressures and avoid reaching the point of burnout.
Accessible resources—such as affordable food, stable housing, reliable transportation, and consistent mental health services—would have transformed my college experience. Instead of living in survival mode, I could have focused on building a brighter future for my family. Expanding these critical services across California’s public colleges and universities would empower more students, especially parents and immigrants, to achieve their dreams without sacrificing their well-being.
College should be a time for growth and learning, not a choice between survival and success. I hope more resources will be made available to support low-income families and communities, ensuring that every student has access to the basic necessities needed to thrive in their academic journey.
Anita Eyong, CA
We Got Us: How Students Support Students With Basic Needs Access
As a first-generation, system-impacted commuter student, I faced numerous barriers, including housing insecurity, limited awareness of emergency grants and support, and food insecurity. During my time as a retention coordinator, I realized how much a holistic approach to student support can address the various factors that impact academic well-being. One of my initiatives was hosting free community meals, knowing that many of my peers skipped meals to stretch their money, leaving them with less energy to focus on their studies. These meals often provided the first warm food some students had after a long day, making a tangible impact on their lives.
In conversations with classmates, I frequently heard similar stories of struggle, which highlighted how systemic barriers affect students. Together, we acknowledged that higher education often feels designed to exclude first-generation, low-income students from marginalized backgrounds.
One of the biggest challenges I faced during my academic journey was being a commuter student. With the rising cost of living in college towns, I chose to stay home to save money. However, commuting brought its own financial burdens, particularly daily parking fees. While four dollars may seem like a small amount, it adds up to hundreds of dollars a month, significantly impacting my budget. If I forgot to pay for parking, the resulting tickets only compounded the strain, and appealing them was an uphill battle due to transportation service policies.
Public transportation was not a viable alternative for me, as my commute would take over two hours each way, leaving me emotionally and physically drained. Many students shared these frustrations, leading student leaders to survey grievances related to parking tickets and financial constraints. They pushed the administration to advocate for accessible programs that could provide financial relief.
While it is inspiring to see students advocating for one another, it also highlights a significant shortcoming: the university’s failure to proactively address systemic issues. Higher education should be a space where students thrive, not just survive. Addressing basic needs requires more than simply providing a pantry—it demands recognizing the multitude of factors that shape students’ daily routines and finding meaningful ways to alleviate their stress and enhance their well-being.
Ashley Perez, CA
More Than A Commute
My college experience was shaped by challenges that extended far beyond academics. As a student dependent on public resources like buses, transportation became a daily struggle. My workday often ended around sunset, but the hour-long commute home meant I didn’t arrive until after dark. This wasn’t just inconvenient—it raised serious safety concerns.
One particular experience stands out. While walking to a bus stop in Koreatown, Los Angeles, during the peak of anti-Asian hate incidents during the pandemic, I was stalked and subjected to slurs. People shouted threats at me on my way to work. That moment of fear and vulnerability stayed with me, and it wasn’t an isolated incident. There were days I avoided grocery shopping entirely because I was terrified of being harassed or attacked on my walk there. Despite Southern California’s reputation for being progressive, it’s not always a safe place for ethnic minorities.
These issues with public transit and personal safety were compounded by deeper structural challenges in my life. Growing up in an abusive household, I made the difficult decision not to move back home during the pandemic after graduating. This left me scrambling for a job, and for the first year post-graduation, I relied on unemployment benefits to survive. When those benefits ran out, I had no choice but to accept a low-paying job. Financially, I couldn’t afford a car, which meant I had to continue relying on public transit—exposing myself daily to the risks that came with it.
This experience highlights how interconnected basic needs like transportation, housing, and financial stability are. My abusive home environment forced me to stay away, which created an urgent need for employment. But that urgency led to financial strain, which, in turn, left me reliant on unsafe public transit. One challenge cascaded into another, leaving me in a constant state of vulnerability.
Better access to basic needs—such as safer, more reliable transportation options, affordable housing, and mental health resources—could have made a profound difference in my college experience and my transition into the workforce. Students like me need these resources not just to succeed academically but to feel safe, secure, and able to focus on building a better future.
Camille Serrano, CA
Unequal Access
When I began my freshman year at UC Davis, I was struck by the sheer number of students, clubs, and resources available on campus. Like many others, I soon found myself relying on these resources to help with essentials like affording groceries, finding housing, and accessing mental health support. However, I quickly learned that just because help was advertised didn’t mean it was accessible. The resources I turned to were overwhelmed by the number of students in need.
The cost of living in Davis was prohibitively high, forcing me to live far from campus just to afford rent. Eventually, I moved out of Davis entirely and into Sacramento to find more affordable housing. Living far away came with its own set of challenges, including anxiety over my living situation and persistent transportation issues.
Parking on campus has always been limited and increasingly expensive. While I lived in Davis, I primarily relied on biking, but poor weather made the two-mile journey each way difficult and unsafe at times. The bus system, meant to provide an alternative, was unreliable—buses often ran late or didn’t show up at all, leaving me scrambling to make it to class on time or walking long distances. These experiences added unnecessary and frustrating stress, making it harder to focus on my academic and professional goals.
Now, as a commuter student living in Sacramento, I deal with new challenges: traffic, finding parking, and managing rising parking costs. Making it to class on time is the most basic expectation of a student, yet I often feel like the university’s infrastructure is working against me.
Affordable student housing and reliable transportation options could make a world of difference for students like me. Access to classes, exams, office hours, and campus jobs shouldn’t come with the burden of unaffordable housing or prohibitively expensive transportation. These systemic barriers—financial and physical—create unequal access for low-income students, hindering our success and amplifying the inequities that universities claim to dismantle.
Juliana Drown, CA
Prompt: Share a story about how better pathways from college to career and ensuring economic stability could impact your life and future plans. Have you faced challenges transitioning from college to a career or securing stable employment? Have you had issues managing your finances?
Pathways to Post-Grad Success
The idea of life after college has always stressed me because it comes with the expectation of knowing every opportunity available. In today’s competitive job market, with an increasing number of people earning bachelor’s degrees, the requirements for positions often feel unattainable. Entry-level jobs frequently demand years of experience, a high level of commitment, and extensive knowledge of the role. This can discourage people like me from applying, especially when my work experience doesn’t match up perfectly with the job requirements.
Gaining the necessary experience often means taking on unpaid internships or volunteer work, which can be unrealistic for students who rely on income from paid jobs to support themselves. As a student, volunteering was never an option for me because it didn’t provide financial compensation, and many of my part-time jobs were in industries unrelated to my career goals. This mismatch made me feel unprepared to apply for the jobs I truly desired.
Another significant challenge after graduation is navigating the transition period while job hunting. As a first-generation college student, I was told that earning a degree would unlock greater opportunities. However, I quickly realized that there’s a lack of support to train and prepare students for the realities of job hunting. In today’s digital age, most applications are submitted online, where applicant tracking systems can filter out resumes and cover letters that don’t contain specific keywords. Without knowledge of these systems, students may feel lost and unprepared.
Universities should prioritize providing more comprehensive training and services for students, such as interview preparation, resume and cover letter workshops, and guidance on the job application process. Additionally, offering advice on how to manage finances during the transition from college to post-graduate life would be invaluable. First-generation students like me often feel pressured to avoid jobs in industries such as retail or fast food because of the sacrifices we made to earn our degrees. If this stigma were addressed, more people could see these roles as short-term options rather than failures.
To truly support students in the transition from college to the workforce, universities need to emphasize skill application and career readiness. This could include compensating students for experiential learning opportunities, offering robust career preparation services for recent graduates, and ensuring students are well-equipped to pursue their goals. While everyone’s post-graduation timeline is different, these measures would make the transition less stressful and empower students to pursue opportunities confidently without the pressure of financial constraints.
Ashley Perez, CA
But I Did Everything Right, Right?
Graduating in 2020, at the height of the COVID-19 pandemic, I faced an uncertain job market, like so many of my peers. Entering the workforce during such a turbulent time deepened my insecurity about the future. Ensuring financial stability has always been a top priority for me, and the pandemic only heightened my need for a clear pathway to a secure career.
Coming from a low-income background, I began my higher education journey at a community college because attending a four-year institution was financially out of reach. After two years of relentless hard work, balancing three part-time jobs, I was fortunate enough to transfer to UCLA. However, paying for my living expenses—groceries, health insurance, tuition, transportation, and utilities—became even more challenging when my parents nonconsensually claimed me as a dependent on their taxes, cutting my financial aid in half.
During my senior year, I juggled two part-time nonprofit jobs—one in Culver City and the other in West Hollywood—while managing a full-time course load. Without a car, I relied on buses for my commute. These jobs weren’t just about earning money; they were about gaining meaningful experience, contributing to the community, and building a foundation for a competitive job market.
When I graduated with a 3.97 GPA, ranking in the top 5% of my class, I believed I had done everything right. I had strong letters of recommendation, a relentless work ethic, and years of experience, yet I was clueless about navigating the job market. Despite following all the advice from career counselors, I faced rejection after rejection. It took an entire year to secure my first job, a period during which I often wondered if I had been discarded by the education system the moment I received my diploma.
This experience exposed significant gaps in career transition support. Even with all my preparation, I struggled to understand vital concepts like 401(k)s, managing student loan debt, or building long-term financial security. Graduates like me need more comprehensive guidance before and after graduation to navigate not just the job search but also the complexities of entering adulthood with financial independence.
Camille Serrano, CA
Expanding Post-Secondary Pathways for Young Adults
It’s hard not to feel behind in the race for a fulfilling and successful career. Although I am a college student currently, the pressure to find early professional success has impacted my college experience. Navigating classes, extracurriculars, friendships, family time, and mental health has not been at all easy. The anxiety of figuring out how to set myself up for success in the workforce has only made all those endeavors exponentially harder.
Fortunately, it has been a privilege of mine to carve out time for professional development. However, the limitations of that labor are not lost on me. Workshops, clinics, meetings and pure time spent on application materials are not always an option for students with different financial or personal circumstances. For students like myself, seeking out resources and professional opportunities is inaccessible, much less the actual, large time commitments that programs and internships burden students with. Facing all these factors alone not only disadvantages students but also demoralizes them from continuing their efforts. For me, dealing with the rejection of professional opportunities alone has affected my self-esteem and mental health, no matter how much I know it shouldn’t.
Coupled with the inaccessibility of time and commitment for so many students is the difficulty of breaking into their desired industries. It is no secret that drastic exclusivity and inequitable competition are the cornerstones of so many industries. The democratization of resources and education for all types of professions and trades would help me tremendously in fitting myself better into a career pathway, and I know that is true for all the young adults around me.
To me, building a more stable path between higher education and the workforce is a pursuit that ultimately will improve so many other aspects of lives. Finding postsecondary success intersects with the mental health issues like anxiety and despair that plague me and other young adults who face uncertain futures in the job market. Financial independence should not have to be so unattainable, and the construction of clear avenues towards financial independence and professional success is an investment in a better future for all.
Dalea Tran, CA
Elisabeth’s Story
From a young age, I knew I wanted to go to college. It was my way of ensuring a stable financial future. However, as a first-generation college student, the journey was anything but straightforward. Neither of my parents attended college—only one graduated high school—so I had to navigate this path largely on my own. While my high school tried to guide us, I often felt that counselors prioritized the school’s reputation over the individual needs of students. This made the already challenging transition to higher education even more daunting.
At 17, I started my college journey at UC Santa Cruz. Initially, it seemed like the beginning of an exciting new chapter, but it quickly turned into an overwhelming experience. I felt unprepared and out of place, surrounded by students who seemed to have better educations, abundant resources, and clear pathways to success. In comparison, I felt like I was starting from scratch, without a plan or guidance to achieve my goals.
My upbringing in Del Paso Heights, a low-income neighborhood, played a significant role in shaping my challenges. My father worked in concrete production, and my mother was a janitor—honest, hardworking roles I’ve always respected. But their experiences didn’t equip them with the tools to prepare me for college. At UC Santa Cruz, I struggled with imposter syndrome, homesickness, financial strain, and a lack of support. After a year, I decided to restart my journey at American River College in Sacramento.
Returning to Sacramento brought a sense of familiarity—culturally, financially, and emotionally. At ARC, I found my footing. I took a part-time job, met supportive people, maintained straight A’s, and discovered a passion for sociology. For the first time, I felt I was on the right path.
However, new challenges arose as I prepared to transfer. I didn’t know how to network, and I had no idea what career opportunities a sociology degree could provide. Eventually, I transferred to Sac State, earned my bachelor’s degree in sociology, and began considering graduate school. I knew a master’s degree would likely be necessary for a meaningful career in my field.
Once again, I faced the daunting task of navigating the unfamiliar. I researched graduate programs alone and ultimately chose Public Policy and Administration. I was accepted, but the feeling of being an outsider returned. My peers in the program came from well-resourced backgrounds and seemed to have their futures mapped out, while I struggled to envision mine.
Despite the challenges, I recently graduated with my master’s degree. I still don’t have all the answers, but I’ve come a long way. Each step of my journey has taught me that education is not just about academics—it’s about navigating unfamiliar environments, building social and cultural capital, and learning to adapt.
Looking back, I know that my journey could have been much easier if I had grown up in an environment with more opportunities, resources, and support. If I hadn’t had to work while studying, manage student loans, and rely entirely on myself, I might already have the stable career I envisioned.
This is why I’m passionate about advocating for better policies to support students, especially first-generation and low-income students. We need accessible financial aid, robust resources, and equitable opportunities to ensure that future changemakers can focus on their goals instead of struggling just to reach the finish line.
Figuring out college and your future isn’t easy, and the path often involves setbacks. But it’s important to validate the effort it takes to keep going. Each step is part of the process of learning and growth. With the right support systems in place, students like me wouldn’t have to fight so hard to succeed—and that’s a change I hope to help make one day.
Elisabeth Montes, CA
Not What I Thought The American Dream Was: The Reality of Work Readiness After College
My parents escaped the Khmer Rouge to survive and build a better life in America. Their goal was to give their children a life free from the hardships they endured. But sometimes, I wonder why I still feel like I’m in survival mode right alongside them.
After graduating college in 2019, I quickly realized how out of reach securing a stable job could be. The urgency to sustain not just my life but also contribute to my family’s needs dictated most of my career choices. They weren’t driven by passion or interest but by necessity. This led me to take on jobs that were within immediate reach rather than those aligned with my long-term goals. Unfortunately, the burnout from those jobs eventually took its toll, affecting not only my mental health but also my finances. Living in California, one of the most expensive states, only added to the pressure.
I thought finding a job right after graduating was hard—but trying to navigate the job market now feels like a nightmare. Bachelor’s degree jobs offering minimum wage? Entry-level positions requiring two to three years of experience? It feels impossible. And when I do find opportunities, the lack of professionalism from employers is disheartening. Employers ghost you after interviews or even after sending offer letters. Directors promise help but repeat the very behaviors that prompted me to seek support in the first place. Yet, employees are expected to maintain the utmost professionalism. It’s ridiculous.
There’s a glaring disconnect between higher education and the workforce that no one seems to address. How are these college classes actually preparing students for the real world? Fieldwork requirements might sound like a solution, but they often fall short. Completing 100 unpaid hours just to graduate is a massive burden when students need paying jobs to afford school in the first place. And even then, students compete fiercely for a limited number of placements, many of which don’t align with their career goals.
The American Dream that my parents believed in—the golden ticket out of economic despair—feels increasingly unattainable. The systems in place don’t prepare you for what’s ahead. Networking or taking chances can be next to impossible for those of us who carry the weight of being the primary providers for our families. How do you uproot your life to chase an opportunity in another city when you’re responsible for caring for your sick parents? How do you take a leap when it means risking stability for your loved ones?
If there were programs designed specifically for recent or soon-to-be graduates, ones that provided clear pathways to careers, the stress could be alleviated for so many of us. As someone who was once terrified to ask for help, it would have made a world of difference to know there were mentors or programs tailored to my field of interest. Work readiness workshops could also be transformative, addressing the practical skills and knowledge many of us lack. Resume-building can only take you so far.
There are plenty of college readiness programs, but what about post-graduation readiness? I thought I was being thrown out of the nest to fly when I started college, but nothing prepared me for the turbulence of life after graduating. Maneuvering through the job market has been even harder than I ever anticipated.
Jackie Gnim, CA
Delaying Adulthood
As I approached the end of my undergraduate career this past spring, I was overwhelmed with a sense of responsibility and pressure to determine my next steps. With only one semester of experience in a career I thought I wanted to pursue, I doubted my ability to secure a job right out of college. My parents and advisor encouraged me to continue my education, but I felt torn between their advice and my own uncertainty about the future. Struggling with this internal conflict, I began searching for jobs and graduate programs, trying to chart a path forward.
Securing a stable job seemed nearly impossible. Many positions required candidates with three or more years of experience, leaving me feeling stuck and unqualified. The pressure to establish financial security weighed heavily on me, as did my desire to explore opportunities beyond Colorado. With my advisor’s guidance, I began researching graduate programs in California. They assured me that excellent options were available, but I worried my limited experience would close off many opportunities.
Ultimately, I chose to pursue a master’s degree in Political Science at California State University, Sacramento. While some might view this decision as delaying adulthood, I see it as an opportunity to open doors in my career. Being a student is what I know how to do best, and I hope this path will help me bridge the gap between my education and a meaningful career. However, this choice comes with significant challenges, particularly the financial strain of graduate school without the stability of full-time employment.
During my undergraduate years, I never held a full-time job. Instead, I worked during school breaks to save enough money for the academic year. Often, those savings ran out, forcing me to take on additional jobs during the semester and juggle work alongside my studies. Balancing these demands was difficult and often stressful.
My experience reflects a larger systemic issue faced by many young people entering today’s workforce. Entry-level positions and internships often demand years of experience, creating barriers for recent graduates. Stronger mentorship programs, paid internships, and improved career-to-college pathways could help students gain the necessary experience while alleviating financial burdens.
Advocating for policies that promote financial literacy and create clear, accessible career pathways is essential. These changes would empower individuals like me to navigate the transition into the workforce with confidence and stability. Everyone deserves a system that supports their journey toward a fulfilling and secure future.
Yvonne Nerey, CA
Prompt: Do you have a story on mental health? How has access to mental services affected your life? If you haven’t accessed mental health services, what were some obstacles in the way?
Why We Need to Center Community and Cultural Responsiveness within Mental Health
When I transferred to my university in the middle of the pandemic, I was excited to embrace a new environment but quickly found myself struggling to balance my personal, work, and academic responsibilities. During my first two quarters, my schedule was so constrained that I often had to attend Zoom classes from my car while working simultaneously. One particular incident that heightened my anxiety occurred when I attempted to take an exam in a parking lot. A stranger assumed I was loitering and threatened to call law enforcement. Explaining the situation to my family and professors afterward was disheartening—my emotions were dismissed, and I was told that being a student was “easy” and that I shouldn’t be so stressed.
This experience deeply impacted my academic performance, eventually leading to my being placed on academic probation. I felt ashamed and isolated, avoiding conversations about my struggles for fear of bringing shame to my community.
Thankfully, an academic advisor at my internship reached out and showed genuine concern for my well-being. Her compassion was a turning point for me. She humanized my experiences during a time of deep distress and connected me to culturally responsive therapists at my university. This support system was a privilege that I recognize not everyone has. These therapists used holistic, culturally informed approaches to help me process my emotions and understand my needs.
Through bi-weekly therapy sessions and participation in community forums centered on intergenerational trauma, I found a safe space to express myself authentically and build connections with others who shared similar struggles. These resources empowered me to combat my anxiety and advocate for my needs.
I would not be where I am today without my advisor, whose trauma-informed approach to her work created an opportunity for healing and growth. However, I know that many others are not introduced to these services early enough, if at all. In roles that center on building relationships with students and community members, we must prioritize culturally responsive approaches—whether that means advocating for training, expanding access to basic needs, or offering holistic mental health support.
Mental health cannot be addressed with a one-size-fits-all approach. It is not just about representation; it is about equipping our communities to hold space for one another through both the struggles and the beauty of our lives.
Ashley Perez, CA
From Stigma to Support: Transforming Tradition to Healing
Growing up in an Asian immigrant family, mental health wasn’t something we ever discussed. My parents, like many immigrants, viewed admitting to mental health struggles as a sign of failure. To them, it meant that life in America—built on their sacrifices—wasn’t worth the cost. This belief weighed heavily on me, instilling the idea that seeking help for my mental health would not only let my family down but also discourage relatives back home from pursuing a better life in the U.S.
On top of the cultural stigma, the financial barriers to mental health care felt insurmountable. Out-of-pocket costs and high deductibles made therapy or counseling nearly impossible to access. For most of my life, it seemed like mental health care was a luxury reserved for others. It wasn’t until my senior year of college that I discovered a life-changing resource: my campus health care plan included free therapy.
This revelation opened the door to a new chapter in my life. For the first time, I received the validation and care that my younger self had longed for. A pivotal aspect of this experience was being matched with an Asian American female therapist. Her presence provided a level of cultural understanding that I had feared might be missing from traditional therapy settings. I felt seen and heard in ways I hadn’t before, which made it easier to open up and process my experiences.
Therapy became a safe space for me to unpack the emotional weight I carried. I was eventually prescribed anxiety medication, which played a significant role in stabilizing my mental health. Over time, through therapy and support, I reached a point where I no longer needed medication. Since 2020, I have continued therapy, and it has been instrumental in my lifelong journey of healing.
Access to therapy has been transformative, but it shouldn’t be something stumbled upon by chance or limited by financial and cultural barriers. My journey underscores the need for accessible and culturally responsive mental health services. Communities like mine, where mental health issues are often stigmatized, need resources that address their unique challenges. Everyone deserves the chance to heal—and they shouldn’t have to wait as long as I did to start.
Camille Serrano, CA
We Will “Never Settle for Less”
Being a first-generation college student means understanding the true weight of every opportunity, both academically and personally. I am aware that my path to higher education is a privilege I have the right to pursue. However, succeeding in college requires holistic support both in and out of the classroom—something that should be a universal standard.
Coming from a Mexican-American family, I have witnessed the struggles and sacrifices my parents made to uplift the dreams of my younger brothers and me. When my father—who had laid the foundation that allowed me to grow and chase my ambitions—passed away, I felt as if a part of me had been lost. Navigating the deep and consuming grief was challenging, but I knew I had a commitment to my family, to myself, and to my father. He had always taught my siblings and me, “Never settle for less.” I have carried his words with me, using them to fuel my perseverance and to make him proud.
Yet, despite my resolve, there were many days when simply being in the classroom was overwhelming. My mind wandered, and focusing on academics was an exhausting struggle. It was an unfair cycle that I knew I needed help to break. Thankfully, my mother advocated strongly for me at school and connected me to mental health resources. For the first time, I was given a safe environment to openly remember my father and learn to manage my mental health. Conversations with counselors about healing through grief and learning that it’s a journey—a messy and nonlinear one—validated my feelings. My counselors went above and beyond to meet me where I was, helping me find strength.
As advocates, educational reformers, and community organizers, we need to recognize that we hold the power to create environments where future generations can thrive. Our impact can be realized by providing essential tools and sustainable support systems that emphasize the importance of mental health and by creating spaces that address psychological traumas, personal experiences, and everyday challenges within our communities. Only by doing so can we close the gap between marginalized communities and holistic well-being.
We must commit ourselves to equity to reshape policy and close the achievement gap. This means addressing the needs of lower-income and BIPOC communities, especially in light of historic disinvestments. Hardships don’t simply disappear; however, we have the power to allocate resources and build justice within our communities, breaking down barriers to wraparound services and mental health support for all. Pursuing our goals and aspirations should be our right, and we must “never settle” until we achieve the justice and support we deserve.
Estrella Salazar, CA
From Silence to Strength: Advocating for Accessible Mental Health Support
As the son of immigrants and a Latino, first-generation college graduate from a low-income household, mental health was never a topic in my community. The stigma around mental health—especially for Latino men—was a barrier I faced for much of my life. We were expected to be strong, to carry our struggles silently, and never show vulnerability. But having survived childhood domestic violence, I saw firsthand the impact that this silence can have on mental health.
For many years, I grappled with loneliness, feeling trapped in a cycle of unresolved trauma. My family, too, faced significant mental health challenges, including generational trauma, alcoholism, depression, anxiety, and suicide attempts. Witnessing these struggles only strengthened my determination to break the cycle.
Growing up, my family stayed in women’s shelters to escape my father’s abuse, enduring over 14 years of instability before we could finally establish a safer home. Even then, the trauma left a deep imprint on my mental health.
As a child, I struggled with memory loss and anxiety. With no real sense of security at home, I looked for refuge at school—only to face bullying there for being overweight. This intensified my issues with self-consciousness and body dysmorphia, challenges I still work through today. Feeling unsafe both at home and at school, I built emotional walls to protect myself, shutting people out and avoiding deep connections. I carried this trauma through high school and into college, never confronting it.
My lowest point came during my first two years of college. Isolated far from home by the COVID-19 pandemic in 2020 and afraid to trust new people, I retreated further into myself. My depression worsened, and I spent most of my time in my dorm, feeling completely alone.
In February 2022, during my sophomore year, I finally found the courage to seek help. Despite the stigma around mental health, I reached out to my university’s free counseling services. This decision was life-changing. The counseling sessions became a lifeline, helping me to begin confronting my trauma and showing me that I didn’t have to carry everything alone. For the first time, I opened up about my experiences to family and friends, releasing a weight I had carried for years.
The journey has been difficult, but I’m slowly breaking down the emotional barriers I built. Initially, I attended counseling every two to three weeks, but recognizing the need for more consistent support, I moved to weekly telehealth sessions at my university. Access to free mental health care has been transformative, equipping me with tools to manage my mental health and guiding me toward healing.
With time, I gained the confidence to share my story publicly. In August 2023, I spoke about my experiences for the first time. Since then, I’ve become an advocate for mental health and survivors of domestic violence and sexual assault. I’ve given speeches, educated teens and college students on violence prevention, led my first conference session on mental health, and advocated with Ohio legislators. This journey has sparked a passion for ensuring others have access to the mental health support they deserve.
Since graduating in May 2024, I’ve realized how difficult it is to find mental health services outside of the university setting. The major barriers are navigating insurance, finding in-network providers, determining which services are covered, and managing scheduling availability. The ease of accessing mental health support in college sharply contrasts with the complex reality I now face. These obstacles prevent many people from receiving the care they need, and it’s a challenge I continue to confront.
These experiences have only deepened my resolve. My story isn’t just about overcoming the past; it’s about fighting for a future where everyone, regardless of their background or identity, can access the support they need during their most vulnerable moments.
Henry Lliguicota-Lema, CA
Facing the Truth: Mental Health Obstacles After Years of Avoidance
When I was younger, I believed I was strong because I considered myself more “logical” than “emotional.” But over time, I realized that my true strength came from allowing myself to sit with my feelings and learn to self-reflect. Getting there, however, took time and a lot of growth.
I’ve always been cautious about opening up to others, and seeing a professional was no exception. After the end of a difficult friendship and dealing with back-to-back losses, I knew I needed help. Reading Maybe You Should Talk to Someone by Lori Gottlieb opened my eyes, showing me that even therapists need therapists sometimes. But nothing in that book prepared me for the struggles I’d face in finding the right therapist.
I knew therapy was expensive, especially during lockdown when I was barely working, so I initially reached out to BetterHelp for guidance. It quickly became clear that it wasn’t the right fit for me. Finding a good therapist turned out to be harder than I’d imagined. It’s a sad reality that not every therapist will be a good match, and often, it takes a few sessions to figure that out. I went through therapists who didn’t seem to listen, who ghosted me, or who reinterpreted my words in ways that made me feel blamed. It was discouraging and left me avoiding therapy for a few months when I needed it the most.
Eventually, as my mental health continued to decline, I decided to try again. Unfortunately, my insurance didn’t cover the sessions with this therapist, so I paid out-of-pocket on a sliding scale. She was the first therapist with whom I felt safe enough to share my deepest struggles, but as finances got tighter, our sessions went from weekly to monthly until I had to stop altogether.
I was fortunate to have that temporary support, but I know many people aren’t as lucky. I could afford therapy sessions at the time because I had a stable income, and I was fortunate to find a good therapist right away after my long hiatus. But not everyone is so fortunate.
The mental health field still faces significant challenges. The stigma around mental health remains widespread, especially in immigrant households. Misinformation on the internet and social media only adds to the stigma, as people try to diagnose others without proper understanding. While there are free or affordable mental health programs, they often lack funding or visibility. With rising costs, many people have to choose between basic needs and mental health support.
Despite these challenges, I hold hope for a better future in mental health care. I’ve seen communities come together, and I’ve witnessed the rise of safe spaces over the past few years. This gives me the strength to continue pushing for change so that others, too, can experience the support they deserve.
Jackie Gnim, CA
Life, Liberty, and Mental Health Resources for All
Accessing mental health services in California is not for the easily discouraged. Navigating the system can feel insurmountable for a population already struggling with motivation and well-being. What services are available? Am I eligible to see a therapist, psychiatrist, or counselor? And what’s the difference between them anyway? These questions, coupled with long processes and a lack of clear guidance, can discourage even the most determined individuals from seeking help.
My personal experience navigating this system has been frustrating, to say the least. In 2023, I qualified for Medi-Cal—a bittersweet milestone. On one hand, I was grateful for access to affordable health care, including mental health services. On the other hand, the lack of clarity around what services were actually covered and how to access them left me confused and discouraged. Growing up, I was always told I was the “worst patient” because I hated going to the doctor. As an adult, my aversion stems from something different: the constant fear of unexpected bills, whether $10 or $20,000.
In my search for affordable therapy, I first turned to online platforms like BetterHelp, thinking they might offer a simple solution. While the platform appeared affordable and compatible with Medi-Cal reimbursement, I quickly discovered otherwise. Two therapists failed to even turn on their cameras during video sessions, and Medi-Cal ultimately denied my claim, labeling therapy as a “non-essential service.”
Determined to find a solution, I tried to get an in-network provider list from Medi-Cal. After spending over four hours on the phone and finally speaking with a representative, I was told a booklet with more information would be mailed to me. Weeks passed, but the booklet never arrived. The lack of communication and transparency left me feeling defeated. It took nearly five months to secure an intake appointment with a therapist, and even then, I had to pay out of pocket because I couldn’t figure out which providers accepted my specific Medi-Cal plan.
Thankfully, my therapist offered a sliding scale for payment, but as a single mother and full-time student, even discounted therapy is a financial strain. I’ve had to choose between taking my daughter out for a simple meal or attending a therapy session. These sacrifices shouldn’t be necessary.
This system is unacceptable. We deserve clear, accessible information about what services are covered and how to access them. The current process not only discourages individuals but disproportionately impacts those who are less educated, non-English speakers, or already struggling financially. Mental health care should not be a luxury.
It’s time to hold our systems accountable and advocate for transparency, efficiency, and equity in mental health access. For the sake of our country, our communities, and our children, we must do better.
Jamie Bender, CA
Addressing Mental Health as a First-Gen, Low-Income Latina
Growing up in a Hispanic household, mental health issues were often dismissed or ignored, and preventive care was rarely prioritized. The idea of accessing health care—let alone mental health care—felt unattainable. My family relied on public health care, which meant long waits at community clinics, delayed prescriptions, or, at times, no access at all. It wasn’t until my college years that I began experiencing mental health struggles and discovered a shift in my health care options. Medi-Cal had recently started contracting with Kaiser Permanente, and for the first time, I had access to what felt like “real” care: regular check-ups, flu shots, and mental health services.
One day, overwhelmed by persistent crying and an unshakable sense of pessimism, I decided to seek help. Kaiser quickly referred me to a therapist over the phone, and I began scheduling regular sessions. At first, it felt like a step in the right direction. I finally had someone to talk to, someone who made me feel heard. But as time went on, I noticed a lack of engagement from my mental health providers. They rarely offered feedback, and my sessions often felt impersonal. Talking with friends about their therapy experiences opened my eyes to the wide range of therapeutic approaches. I realized the care I was receiving was mediocre at best.
This realization has had a lasting impact on my mental health journey. While I’m grateful for access to therapy, I constantly question if the care I’m receiving is sufficient. Instead of feeling relief after a session, I often wonder if I should keep searching for better support. The stigma surrounding mental health in the Latino community, combined with insurance barriers, makes it difficult to seek help in the first place. Receiving inadequate care only adds to the discouragement.
Mental health resources need to be funded, improved, and made more accessible for everyone. Quality care should be a standard, not a privilege.
Karla Cardenas, CA