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My name is Honey Curry, and I'm pursuing my Associate of Science at ����ɫ��ҹ University Ashtabula, graduating in May of 2026. For a long time, I believed college wasn't meant for someone like me.

I grew up in Ashtabula, Ohio, right off Lake Erie. A low-income area where opportunities rarely appeared. But my family’s story stretches far beyond that shoreline. My mother was born and raised in Puerto Rico, and my stepfather came to the U.S. from Mexico.

I'm both a first-generation American and a first-generation college student. My grandparents never had the chance to go to school, and my parents only learned enough English to get by.

Because English wasn't their first language, I became the translator for everything — doctor visits, bills, paperwork and emergencies. I grew up translating the world for my family before I ever learned how to understand my own place in it.

Through it all, one dream remained constant: I wanted to be an actor. I wanted to tell stories bigger than the life I grew up in. For years, I thought that after high school, I’d pack my bags, leave Ohio and chase that dream immediately.

Instead, I enrolled in an online acting program, trying to hold onto the dream however I could. It wasn’t until I was about six months into that program that everything cracked open. I had just finished a scene I was proud of and had to perform it in front of my family for class. I was so ecstatic. I finally felt like something in my life belonged to me. But afterward, a family member looked at me and the flaws in my performance and said, “Are you dumb? How could you make a mistake?”

That sentence cut deeper than anything I’ve ever been told. I was doing the thing I loved, the thing that made me feel alive and suddenly I felt foolish for even trying. For the first time, I realized that sometimes the people closest to you don’t see you clearly. Sometimes they can’t imagine you beyond the limits of their own fears.

But still, after that moment, I slowly and painfully let those words sink in. I dropped out of the program.

Life didn’t pause. I worked overnight shifts and spent my days helping raise my nephew. In between all of that, I cared for my grandfather after he suddenly suffered a stroke. Watching someone you love lose pieces of themselves is a kind of heartbreak no one prepares you for. Eventually, the pressure grew too heavy, and I moved out for a brief time to breathe.

Somewhere along the way, I lost myself. Not because of my family, but because I gave up on my dreams. My future didn't feel like it belonged to me. My life felt like something happening to me instead of something I was choosing.

Then came the moment that changed everything.

One afternoon, I went to visit my grandmother. She was sitting at the kitchen table with a children’s book open in front of her. I watched her eyes move slowly across the page, and I realized she couldn’t read it. The moment hit so deeply I couldn’t speak. My grandmother — who had sacrificed everything for me — had never been given the chance to learn.

I didn’t apply to college because of her. I applied because of what that moment showed me:

I wanted more. I wanted education. I wanted the dream I had abandoned. I wanted my life back.

So, I applied to ����ɫ��ҹ Ashtabula.

I chose ����ɫ��ҹ not because it was far away or glamorous, but because it felt like a place where I could rebuild myself — close to home, close to family, and close to the pieces of me I wanted to rediscover. At the end of my first semester, my grandfather passed away. Navigating grief while trying to stay afloat academically was one of the hardest things I’ve ever done. But I kept showing up. Some days, showing up was all I could manage — and some days, that was enough.

Slowly, college became the place where I began to heal.

I built community everywhere I could. I joined clubs like the Book Club and the Craft Club. I became treasurer for Quest & Console. I became a Rising Scholars Mentor, helping junior high and high school students who remind me so much of myself — hopeful, unsure, doing their best in a world that isn’t always easy. I built community simply by inviting people in, offering seats at tables, and helping others feel welcome.

Robin Williams once said, “You must strive to find your own voice, because the longer you wait to begin, the less likely you are to find it at all.”

For years I feared it was too late for me. But through professors who believed in me, staff who supported me, and friends who encouraged me, I got my voice back.

The truth is you don’t need a degree to become an actor. But for someone like me — someone whose family never had the privilege of education — earning a degree means something. It’s a promise. A declaration. Proof that I am building a future that belongs to me.

After earning my associate degree, I plan to pursue my bachelor’s, double majoring in Theater and Film, with a possible third major in English or Linguistics. I want to act. I want to write. I want to tell stories that move people the way stories once saved me.

Is it scary? Absolutely. But caring deeply is what makes something worth doing.

To anyone reading this:

You matter. Your dreams matter. Your voice matters.

You don’t need to have everything figured out. You only need to believe you deserve a life that feels like yours. I am proud of the person that I am becoming. And ����ɫ��ҹ — this small, kind, determined campus — is where I began to bloom again.

I can’t wait to see what else I’ll grow into!