I was almost certain I would not return to school after winter break of sophomore year. I was doing well academically and even involved in student government, but there wasn’t a day I had not questioned if I belonged on campus.

My college was a predominantly white institution. When my mentors had called to let me know I had been awarded a full scholarship to attend a small, Christian, liberal arts college in the Midwest, it felt like nothing short of a miracle. Despite my academic achievement in high school, in the years following 9/11, getting to college as an undocumented student had been no easy feat. I had never visited the college and I had never planned to leave California, but I knew that this would be my only opportunity to pursue my dream of a college education, so I took it. I convinced myself I would be okay. If my mother had traveled as a 24 year old single parent with two young daughters to a country where she did not know the language or culture, surely I could muster up the courage to go to another state for school. I soon realized it would not be that simple. I knew the language, but the culture could not have been more different than anything I had ever experienced in my life. I might as well have moved to a different country.

My life experience could not have been more different than that of my peers. Most of my life I had lived in government housing in a Black and Latino community. My mom, an undocumented immigrant, cleaned houses and worked at restaurants to provide for our family. Neither of my parents had made it past middle school and I was the first in my family to ever set foot on a college campus. By contrast, most of my peers came from generations of college educated family and had grown up in affluent, white suburbs. Their parents were lawyers, doctors, and CEOs. It was incredibly difficult to find people I shared anything in common with.

To make matters worse, my freshmen year was a presidential election year in which discussions of topics such as social welfare programs and immigration were frequent and microaggressions were ever present. During class or dorm room discussions peers often commented that “‘illegal’ immigrants should be deported because they are criminals.” In that politically conservative environment, it was not unusual to hear people express anti-immigrant views or vilify low-income people who depended on welfare programs, people like me. This may not have been the view of everyone on my campus, but the pain those comments triggered made me feel unsafe with everyone. I felt incredibly isolated from the campus community.

The constant microaggressions and being so far away from my family slowly chipped away at me, leading me to spiral into depression. Instead of sharing with others how I was feeling, I isolated myself and thought I could get through it if I just focused on studying. During the weeks leading up to my sophomore year winter break, I finally decided I would drop out.

Fortunately, that wasn’t the end of the story. After encountering some people on campus who cared for me and understood some of what I was going through, I found strength and guidance to continue through to graduation.

Here are some of the most important things I learned that helped me make it through:

Find Mentors. Just before winter break my sophomore year, I met J, a (biracial, African-American) woman who worked in the admissions office. Over lunch one day, I told J I was considering dropping out. She asked me to take some time to think about why I came to college in the first place and what it would mean for my family’s socioeconomic future for me to quit now. How would I break the the cycle of poverty if I gave up my opportunity to get a college education? What about the dreams I had of using my education to help my community? I went home pondering these questions. After wrestling with these questions all winter break, I decided I would not let the negative experiences break me. I became determined to turn things around.

J became my mentor, and her guidance was critical to helping me believe that I could succeed. I never expected to find J where I did, but I learned that a mentor can be anyone — a faculty member, staff, counselor, coach, or even dining hall worker — who can encourage, support, and connect you to the resources that will help you on your journey.

Utilize mental health resources. Growing up in my family, I learned that people only went to see a counselor if they were “crazy” or experiencing some serious type of mental health issue. Overcoming this personal stigma about counseling was hard, but I knew I needed help, so I went to the counseling center. It was the best thing I did for myself. Counseling provided me a space to vent and process my emotions. My counselor provided me books and other resources to understand what I was experiencing and she helped me feel empowered.

Find a community to be a part of. Through an upperclassman mentor from the multicultural student center, I got connected to a group of African American female students, who took me under their wing. They all lived in a campus house where I spent much of my free time. Venting and laughing with them about microaggressions we experienced was extremely therapeutic. They helped me feel a sense of belonging and safety.

Get involved in activities that are personally meaningful to you. Volunteering with a campus organization that tutored children in Chicago housing projects provided me a consistent reminder for why I was in college. My interactions with students who reminded me so much of my own friends back home inspired me to commit to working for access to higher education for low-income youth. I also got involved with a summer urban internship program, where I had the opportunity to live and work among homeless families in Los Angeles, and I collaborated with a group of student leaders of color to start a weeklong conference to provide spaces for our campus community to dialogue about issues of race and class. These experiences validated that I had something unique to offer my own community and motivated me to keep pushing forward with my education.

Knowledge is empowering. Even though I felt racially outnumbered in my classes, my coursework exposed me to empowering theories, ideas and ways to understand my own life experience. I read books and intentionally chose courses to learn more about topics related to immigration, race, social class and urban education. These courses and books helped me gain a much deeper understanding of my own racial identity and experiences of oppression. Most importantly, I was empowered with the knowledge I needed to begin working against injustice and inequality.

It would be a lie to say that doing all of these things made my college experience 100 percent better. The truth is that nothing changed about my college environment. Microaggressions and feelings of not belonging to the larger campus community persisted, but being involved in activities that were meaningful to me and having safe spaces to be myself helped mitigate the impact of those things on me. As I became healthier, I was able to channel my pain into something positive. As a senior, I founded and led a program — funded by my college — to prepare Chicago students for higher education. Then, I went on to graduate school to earn a Master’s degree in student affairs, where I continued developing my knowledge and skills to support low-income, first-generation high school students to succeed in higher education. To this day, I am still doing the work I am passionate about, supporting students as they successfully navigate their college experience.

Veronica Ponce-Navarrete is a first generation college student. She holds a Master’s in Student Affairs from UCLA. She has nearly 10 years of experience in college access and student affairs. Veronica is a Senior College Counselor at ScholarMatch, where she supports our college students.

#MyCollegeStory is a ScholarMatch original series highlighting the diverse and varied journeys to and through higher education. Check back each month for new stories!

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