As I closed the door behind me, I felt a strange mixture of sadness and liberation. I was finally going to build a life that was entirely my own.
My first semester at Harvard was a brutal awakening. While many of my classmates were focusing solely on their studies, I was juggling a full course load with three part-time jobs.
I worked at the university library in the mornings, delivered food for a local restaurant between classes, and spent my weekends as a retail associate at a clothing store in Cambridge.
Sleep became a luxury I could rarely afford.
Despite coming from a wealthy family, I received zero financial support. My partial scholarship covered tuition, but everything else—from housing to books to meals—came out of my own pocket.
I lived in the smallest dorm room on campus, ate ramen noodles more often than I care to admit, and became an expert at finding free events that offered complimentary food.
During those early struggles, I met Jessica Rodriguez, a fellow business student who became my closest friend. Jessica came from a single-parent household in Arizona and was also working multiple jobs to make ends meet.
We bonded over our shared financial struggles and became each other’s support system. We would take turns cooking affordable meals in the communal kitchen and split the cost of textbooks whenever possible.
“How can your parents not help you at all?” Jessica asked one night as we were highlighting used textbooks we had purchased together, “especially since they can clearly afford it.”
I shrugged, attempting to appear unbothered. “They believe in self-sufficiency, I guess.”
“That is not self-sufficiency,” Jessica replied, her voice tinged with indignation. “That is neglect when they are buying your sister designer clothes and new cars.”
It was the first time someone had named the disparity so bluntly, and something about hearing it from another person made the reality of my situation hit harder.
