Breaking Barriers, Building Bridges: My Journey Through STEM and Identity
Growing up in a cramped, sunlit apartment above my father’s auto repair shop in East Baltimore, I was never far from the scent of engine oil or the sound of possibility. My mother, an environmental engineer from Senegal who retrained in night classes just to regain her license in America, always said, “Science doesn’t care what country you’re from—it just asks that you listen." I didn’t fully understand the weight of her words until my sophomore year of high school. That was the year I learned what it truly meant to belong—and to not.
I had always loved experimentation. My curiosity often led me into the small science lab at school long after the final bell rang. Pipetting solutions with steady hands, measuring compounds down to the milligram—these activities gave me a sense of calmness, of control, in a world that sometimes made me feel like I was on the margins. Despite being born in the United States, I was often asked where I was “really from,” or commended on my “excellent English.” In the beginning, I brushed these comments off. But slowly, they began to stitch themselves into my sense of self—uninvited threads in the tapestry of my identity.
Then came the regional science fair.
I had spent four months obsessively designing a low-cost biosensor using natural polymers to detect lead in drinking water. Powered by my family’s own experiences with unsafe housing conditions and inspired by the environmental justice stories my mother used to tell me over dinner, I believed my project could help underserved communities. I walked into the judging tent with hope in my chest and meticulous lab notes in my hands.
But as my name was announced, followed by polite applause, I saw one of the judges lean over to another and whisper, "Interesting…never seen one of them leading the chem track before." I froze. I was "one of them."
That night, sitting in our kitchen under the hum of the fluorescent light, I vented everything into the open air. My mom listened, long-lashed eyes focused, then reached for her phone. She showed me an online article titled "Alsobrooks Introduces Bill to Break Barriers in STEM”—a proposed law aimed at supporting underrepresented minorities and immigrants in STEM education. She smiled. "You’re part of a generation that’s changing this."
I read the entire bill that night. The initiatives outlined were more than just policy—they were pipelines. They validated my place in rooms where I was made to feel like a guest. And strangely, knowing that someone in Congress believed our experiences mattered gave me renewed resolve.
In the weeks that followed, I emailed my school’s STEM coordinator and proposed a peer mentorship program that paired upperclassmen from underrepresented backgrounds with freshmen interested in STEM. I named it “Bridge”—a nod to both my cultural heritage and the pathways we build for those coming after us. Today, Bridge supports 26 student-mentor pairs—many of whom are first-generation immigrants like me. We host study nights, coding challenges, and monthly guest speakers pulled from alumni and local tech industries.
Through this work, I’ve learned that equity isn’t given; it’s engineered. Being underestimated no longer paralyzes me—it powers me. I’ve seen firsthand how empathy can be coded into policy, translated into opportunity, and how change starts not just in chambers of government, but in school basements and after-school clubs.
My dream is to become a chemical engineer and develop sustainable, scalable solutions for water contamination in global communities. But more than that, I want to be a mentor, an advocate, and a bridge for those still wondering if they belong in STEM. Because they do.
That doubt I once swallowed in the science fair tent has become my catalyst—not a barrier.
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