Earlier this month, I stood at a podium in D.C. and told a room full of near-strangers why the Department of Education shouldn’t be erased.
It was part of the COE TRiO Future Leaders Summit, during a mock congressional session where I spoke out against a bill that would’ve gutted the support systems that so many first-gen students, like me, rely on. For this session, I wasn’t just reading from a script. I meant every word because it was my reality.
Without TRiO, I wouldn’t have made it this far. Without the mentorship, advocacy, and people fighting to make space for students like me, I would’ve slipped through the cracks. So when I spoke, I wasn’t just arguing policy. I was defending my own existence and my right to belong in these spaces. I was fighting for my right to be more than a statistic, and for the first time in a long time, I felt powerful.
It’s strange, because even though I lead meetings, mentor students, and speak in class, there’s still a part of me that doubts whether my voice really matters. I doubt whether what I have to say carries weight in rooms full of people with legacy last names and polished suits, and whether I’m “qualified enough” to be taken seriously.
But while I was in that space, backed by a room of other first-gen, low-income, and underrepresented students from across the country, something clicked. I wasn’t just participating. I was representing. I was bringing my whole self into that room: the person who once felt too quiet, too unsure, and too different to speak up. I was bringing the person I’m becoming, who advocates with purpose, clarity, and passion.
This conference reminded me why I want to go to law school, and why I care about policy, community, children, families, and healing. I don’t just want to learn the law. I want to use it. I want to be in rooms where decisions are made and ensure that someone like me is at the table. Maybe I’d be building a new table entirely.
If you’re a first-gen student wondering whether your voice matters in advocacy spaces, let me say this clearly: it does. Your lived experience is policy data. Your survival is a political act. Your voice is not too small. You don’t need to have all the answers or degrees or perfect words to speak up. Start where you are. Use what you know. Keep showing up. We don’t need to wait for permission to be powerful. We already are.
Honestly, the version of me who spoke in that mock congress room felt different. They felt real. They reminded me that advocacy isn’t just something I’m working toward, but it’s something I’ve already been doing. That moment brought everything full circle: the burnout, the late nights, the self-doubt, the long list of what-ifs and asking myself “am I doing enough?” It all led me to that moment in that room.
There’s more I want to say about that experience. How it made me feel, what it stirred in me, what I’m still sitting with even now. For now, I’m holding onto this: I have a voice. I know how to use it, and I’m not done speaking. I hope you all use your voices for change, too.
– Toni <3