How do I characterize myself? I am a first-generation, low-income graduate student, raised by immigrants, Cuban-Guatemalan-Turkish-American woman in engineering, orphaned at the age of two, who doesn't believe in God or in most of the people in power. I am a citizen of the United States and Turkiye, but was born and raised in Florida. I belong to many marginalized and privileged groups, like the disenfranchised former foster youth or the lucky bachelor's degree holders. Some of my identities were earned, some gently placed upon me, and some violently thrown at me. And I am 24 years old, yet, I still don't know who I am.

I'm Elif Kılıç [pronounced: /eɪˈlɪf/ /kɯˈɫɯtʃ/], right? A few years back I solely went by the legal English spelling of my name, Elif Kilic [pronounced: /əˈɫif/ /kɪlɪk/], only recently employing the Turkish spelling, the dotless i and the cedilla c, and pronunciation. Maybe I changed to put on this cultural facade, convincing myself to get in touch with my heritage or to avoid 'whitewashing' my name. Yet, I know nothing of my father's family, the Turkish part of me, except for a few pictures with strangers that slightly resemble me. Or maybe I am trying to run as far away from the old me as possible. Before highschool, I went by Eliana Gomez, a combination of 'Eli' and 'Ana' [mine and my mother's names], given to me by my grandparents. Gomez was my mother's maiden name. Identifying myself has always been the hardest part about introductions. Which name do I tell which community? The name Eliana Gomez holds so much pain but ties me to the culture I know best, my Latinidad. Elif Kılıç sounds too foreign to me but is my legal name.

I was raised by my mother's parents. My abuela and abuelo, resilient immigrants who had weathered numerous hardships, faced the heart-wrenching tragedy of losing their eldest daughter, my mother. Her untimely passing left a lasting mark on our family. My parents' tumultuous relationship, culminating in my father's irreversible actions, left me feeling like the catalyst for their unhappiness. I grew up under the heavy weight of blame, convinced that my existence was a reminder of my father's responsibility for my mother's death. Thus, I identify as an orphan and foster youth at the hands of the court, only old enough to ask 'Where is mama?' The way my family spoke to and of me had me feeling small, my father's daughter and rarely my mother's daughter.

When I was accepted to my dream school, the University of Florida, I couldn't stay in my hometown, Gainesville, Florida. My resolve to pursue an undergraduate education in engineering remained unwavering as a child of parents with no formal higher education, so when I was accepted to Emory University with a full scholarship, I didn't hesitate to take that opportunity and emancipate from my family. And thus, 'first-generation and low-income student' was added to my list of identifiers. Because Emory lacked an engineering department, I transferred to Georgia Tech through their dual degree program. Here, the convergence of humanities and STEM beckoned to me, offering the chance to pursue a double degree in Linguistics and Environmental Engineering. After earning my bachelor's degrees I came to Berkeley, hungry and insatiable for more research.

I am, simply, a woman who tries her hardest to keep going until I achieve what I've set out to do: help the communities that I belong to through honest, people-first research. Yet, my efforts and, sometimes, my appearance may incorrectly convey that I am a "calculated bitch" to some or "aloof and intimidating" to others. What I truly want is for people to see I'm a happy and kind person, or at least try my best to be, doing her best.

What makes me who I am? Well, I've come to realize in the last few years that I am not just shaped by the experiences I detailed above but how I respond to them. I hid. Estranged now for over half a decade from my family, I chose to work 3+ jobs a semester and keep grinding to the point I made it all the way across the country as far as I could from 'home.'

Realizing that I never experienced unconditional love as a child, that I never had certain expected relationships unlike many of my peers, I felt resilient. What a privilege it is to be inspired by what I did and didn't have, without that I wouldn't be here today.

The aspect of my identity I wrestled with while reflecting here was family. I hate how my identity is so entangled with my family and upbringing. Writing about this for the, maybe, thousandth time makes me wonder what true healing is and if I've achieved that. When can I add 'healed' to my identity?