I’m 35 years old, a mom of two, and an immigrant from Colombia. My husband and I have been together for seventeen years. We came to the United States seven years ago, hoping to build a safer, more stable life for our family.
Back in Colombia, I studied psychology. I wasn’t able to finish my degree, but I worked in what we call gestión del talento humano—human talent management. I worked in an office, writing contracts, interviewing candidates, and supporting employees. I was often the first face they saw when they joined a company and the last one when they left. I loved being able to make their path a little more human.
When we arrived in this country, I didn’t understand any English. While I was pregnant with my daughter, I learned about the Villa at Casino Road and an English program there. I still remember sitting in that first class and not understanding a single word. Little by little, one word at a time, I started learning. This past winter I finished English 101 at Everett Community College with a 4.0. For someone who arrived with zero English, that was huge. I felt really proud of myself.
I chose community college mainly because college in this country is extremely expensive, and I had no idea where to even begin. At the Villa at Casino Road, through Goodwill and Everett Community College, I found a pathway. At first, as a mom in a specific program, I didn’t have to pay tuition. Later, when I formally enrolled, I paid only $25 per quarter. Beyond the money, what mattered most was that doors opened again—the door back into education. I started dreaming about finishing a degree, maybe going on to a university.
I’ve always dreamed of becoming a doctor, but in Colombia medical school was completely out of reach financially. Here, nursing felt like a more possible path. I saw a route where I could start with classes, move up step by step, and eventually get licensed through certified programs. I also considered training as a medical interpreter, to help pay for nursing school.
Then the financial barriers showed up. WASFA first approved me for around $4,000, but I had to have surgery on my hand and I couldn’t take classes that quarter. I had to cancel everything. When I applied again for fall, I was approved for only $150. That doesn’t even cover gas to drive back and forth to Everett. When I spoke with financial aid, they told me federal cuts and funding changes had reduced what was available, and that our family income looked “too high” on paper. In reality, as a family of four with no luxuries, we’re just barely getting by.
That’s why I think guaranteeing the first two years of community or technical college would be life-changing. If I had that, I could start my nursing track now, especially with the new laws in Washington that allow some people to work with an ITIN. Many of us in the Latino community do manual labor, but we also have talents and professions you never see because opportunities stop at the price tag. I would love to give back as a nurse or a social worker—any role where I can help people with the right tools and training.
Because of all this, I believe colleges should be truly “family-friendly.” That means affordable tuition and materials, yes—but also childcare rooms next to classrooms, flexible policies when kids are sick, parking that doesn’t cost a fortune, and a dedicated office where students and their families can get help accessing basic services like medical insurance, WIC, food banks, school enrollment, and transportation. When a student’s family is hungry, overwhelmed, or scared, that shows up in the classroom too. When the family is supported, the student can actually learn.
I want college leaders and lawmakers to understand that immigrant parents like me are not just asking for charity—we’re asking for a fair chance to contribute. We give up time with our kids, we work long hours, we push ourselves to learn a new language and navigate new systems. We are doing everything we can. Free or low-cost college for the first two years, better financial aid, real childcare options, and strong protections for immigrant and undocumented students’ data would not only change our lives—they would strengthen our communities and our state.
Education, for me, is dignity. It’s the difference between surviving and being able to fully participate in this society. I don’t want the door that opened for me to slam shut for the next generation. I want it to stay open, and wider.