I turned off my camera, having just recorded my incredulous reaction to the news; my mom and I sat in silence. Neither of us knew what to say or if there was anything worth saying. A few minutes earlier I had discovered that I was admitted into Columbia University. We were in shock. Not because the result was entirely unexpected but because neither of us had prepared ourselves for what came next.
For most of high school, my living situation was complicated. When I wasn’t living in Tijuana, Mexico, and commuting across the border every day to attend school in San Diego, California, I was staying at another family’s house. I had moved a total of 11 times between San Diego and Tijuana since starting high school in 2016 and had been categorized as homeless for a large portion of the past four years.
From an educator’s perspective, it was a miracle that I was going to college at all. From my perspective, I didn’t have much of a choice.
Eventually, my mom got up from the floor and hugged me.
“I’m so proud of you,” she said.
I muttered a quiet thank you and excused myself to go to the bathroom. I wanted to be alone.
I felt a mix of emotions in the minutes and months that followed my admission — disbelief, excitement, anxiety — but one prevailing sentiment that lingered could only be described as survivor’s guilt. This was the most confusing reaction to me, and I wasn’t able to articulate why I felt this way until I…
