Living in Mexico as a young girl, I don’t recall having a “dream.” Asking children what they want to grow up was not something I recall. I struggle to determine whether I see this as freedom to not need to name our dream or the lack of a dream for many.

As an immigrant child, learning English as a second language while processing the death of my grandmother who navigated cancer treatment, I somehow found myself thriving. Praise from teachers, high grades, then later on scholarships to attend college and medical school, set me on a quick road to becoming a physician.

Throughout this journey, I recognized two things. One was my love for working with children, particularly those with disabilities or differences not accepted by the world. The other was my love for community, something that was not offered in clinical spaces.

My path into child psychiatry became another clear road. Mentors, mostly women of color, supported my journey, which was full of ups and downs. My resume lacked many of the skills and experiences most of my medical school classmates had. Yet somehow, despite maintaining some level of employment through........

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