Issue 001 – Eyes Closed, I Jumped

I started college thinking I was living my purpose, my calling, hell, my destiny.

Civil engineering. It made sense.

I was raised by a master contractor, m y pops. A man so respected in his craft that engineers would call him for help. He didn’t need blueprints—he was the blueprint.

To me, it felt like destiny to follow in his footsteps—but with a degree and the paychecks to show for it.

I was the first in my immediate family to make it to college, and definitely the first in my whole generation at the time to do so in the U.S.

A Bronx-born Dominican, the son of two immigrant parents who came to the U.S. separately chasing hope, survival, and a better future—not only for themselves but for their future children.

That kind of sacrifice doesn’t come without pressure.

Success wasn’t optional.

It was owed.

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But once I got there, college wasn’t what I expected.

It felt like my parents walked me to the edge of a plane, handed me a parachute, and pushed me out with no instructions—just the goal: land alive.

And for a while, I believed I would.

I had always been smart. Smarter than most people around me.

School came easy.

Grades were great. Logic was strong. I was confident, now looking back, maybe too confident.

There was pride in knowing I got there without connections or money.

I wasn’t anyone’s legacy student.

What I had, I had earned.

But college doesn’t reward raw intellect alone.

And when I landed in one of the top engineering schools in Puerto Rico, that’s when it started to unravel.

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I never felt like I belonged.

The campus was filled with "hijos de mami y papi" kids who had the money, networks, and cultural capital to glide through school.

Meanwhile, I was a Black Dominican from the Bronx with what they deemed a heavy accent and no roadmap.

And for the first time in my life, I wasn’t just different—I was other.

Puerto Rico—beautiful, complex, and vibrant—was also the place where I first felt real racism.

Subtle comments. Backhanded jokes. Looks that told me I didn’t fit in.

Back in the Bronx, I had grown up in a cultural hot pot. Everyone was something.

But here? My identity was something to be questioned, even mocked.

It shook me.

And I didn’t know where to go with that energy—so I buried it under bravado.

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I changed majors twice, thinking that would fix things.

I thought maybe I just wasn’t meant for engineering.

But the truth was, I didn’t know how to be a college student.

My high school habits didn’t translate.

I didn’t know how to study. I didn’t ask for help. I didn’t prioritize the work.

Instead, I chased freedom like it owed me something.

Days were filled with playing basketball in street clothes.

Nights blurred into drinks, parties, and skipped lectures.

I dabbled in track and field, judo, and Olympic wrestling, anything to earning scholarships.

But I wasn’t disciplined enough to be great.

I had brute strength and potential. But no routine. No accountability.

Sounds like a pattern, right?

And somewhere in between late nights and dropped classes, it hit me:

I was failing.

Not just school, but myself.

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After almost four years, I was nowhere near graduating.

Pell Grant nearly gone. Loans piling up.

No consistent job. No backup plan.

No real understanding of how I got so far off track.

But still I didn’t panic.

Not out loud, at least.

Mental health? That wasn’t a thing in my household, much less in my culture.

I wasn’t raised to be macho, but sadness? Depression?

That was for people who had time for feelings.

So I buried it.

Smiled through it.

Performed confidence even as it faded, internally.

And the sadness? It became a quiet passenger.

So embedded that I mistook it for part of my personality.

Later, it would hide behind my stoic persona or get excused as a byproduct of military training.

But at this point, it was just… me.

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One day, no big event, no dramatic moment, I just decided:

I need to do something.

I had seen Army recruiters around campus before. In Puerto Rico, it’s normal, they’re in the malls, on the street, part of the scene.

I brushed them off, but the thought lingered in my mind.

Joining the military hadn’t been part of the plan.

But what plan? The one I was fumbling through, racking up debt and shame?

At least the Army was structured.

At least it paid.

At least it was different.

And that’s how I tend to operate:

I do enough research to feel like I’ve made an informed decision.

But when it’s time?

I close my eyes and jump.

Even if I’m scared out of my mind.

Even if people are telling me I’ll fail.

Hell, sometimes, that makes me want it even more.

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I walked into that recruiter’s office alone.

I took the ASVAB test. Crushed it.

The recruiter told me he’d rarely seen scores that high. Because of it, I got my pick of jobs (MOS).

But without a mentor, I didn’t know what to pick.

So I chose something that sounded helpful and what the recruiter pushed for his own selfish reasons: 68W, Combat Medic.

I told my parents. They were scared, but they understood.

I told them I’d be safe. “It’s just medical,” I said.

That wasn’t entirely true.

But the truth is, I didn’t really care.

I didn’t love living that much anyway.

And I definitely didn’t love the life I was living.

So I committed.

Eyes closed, I jumped.

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To be continued…