I’m a PhD candidate in Urban Educational Leadership at Claremont Graduate University and the founder of NavigateED Solutions, an educational consulting firm rooted in equity and immigrant justice. But before I was any of those things, I was just a queer undocumented student trying to survive college in a system that was never built for someone like me.
I crossed the U.S.-Mexico border when I was nine years old. Like many undocumented youth, I grew up translating legal documents for my parents, taking care of my siblings, and navigating school as both a student and a family advocate. I don’t have DACA. That means no work permit. No driver’s license for years. No access to federal aid. And no safety net. While other students stressed about finals, I stressed about deportation. I had to get creative. I became a freelancer, then an entrepreneur.
That’s how NavigateED was born—a business built out of necessity but fueled by purpose. I help schools and institutions better support undocumented and first-gen students. And I do this while fighting my own immigration battle. Being undocumented without DACA means I’ve had to build everything from scratch: my education, my income, even my mental health support system. I paid for every degree out of pocket. I studied while dealing with depression, isolation, and at times, ICE surveillance. I was even detained for three weeks in Adelanto in 2024. It didn’t break me—it made me double down on my commitment to advocate louder.
That’s why academic freedom and support systems matter so much. Undocumented students—especially those without DACA—need more than symbolic gestures. We need access to on-campus jobs. We need mental health services that don’t ask about status. We need professors and administrators who understand how criminalizing our families affects our ability to learn. We’re not just fighting to survive college. We’re trying to transform it.
Today, I mentor other undocumented scholars, speak across the country, and use every opportunity to shift policy. I believe storytelling is a form of resistance—and a path to collective healing. We shouldn’t have to prove our worth through GPA, productivity, or resilience. We are worthy because we exist. And we deserve systems that treat us like we belong.