Sweet Advice by ISABELLA

Sweet Advice by ISABELLA - July 2025 Scholarship Essay

Dear little Isa,

No one asks us if it’s chocolate anymore.

“That patch by the side of your eye, is it chocolate?” a kid would giggle with curiosity. “No,” you’d exclaim back with pride, “it’s my mole!”

Back when you were a kid, everyone would point out that dark birthmark, the one with no definable shape, a splotch of artistry inherited from Mom. She has an identical mark resting in the corner of her mouth. That tiny mole became a secret charm, proof that you were special.

You were a quiet little girl, observant and curious about the world. Without that mole, you felt invisible. I remember being eight years old, gluing together a masterpiece of macaroni and glitter, thinking silently, “I wish someone would notice I’m here.”

That chocolate mark—trademark, even—was not the most special thing about you. While some may have called you timid, mute, or vapid, hidden inside lay a spectacle of vibrant lights waiting, yearning to be shown off, shared with whoever dared to befriend you.

The problem with relying on a birthmark for recognition is the passage of time. Kids grow up, and all of a sudden, they are too serious to ask if I’ve got chocolate on my face. Teenagers don’t bother entertaining silly observations. Instead, they see through you. And they judge.

If there is one thing future you would want you to hear from this letter, I would scream it with all my might: Don’t be afraid of change!

You were petrified of speaking up, but evolution works out for the better. Here is a mere taste of the things you will come to confront: I immigrated from Venezuela to the U.S. at nine years old. Everything I’d ever known was uprooted and taken away, memories of my home and culture tucked into a box of solitary confinement in my head. My language was gone, and cobwebs grew around that box. I was forced to do away with my traditions and personality. My mole became out of sight, fading into a realm of distant memories.

Assimilate or lose, the only two choices presented before me. Every part of me yearned for the mountains of Valencia and my aunt’s big, hearty embrace. After all, my baby footprints on wet cement remained in the sidewalk by my grandmother’s house. My initial was carved on the banana tree she grew herself. I belonged there, and my heart lay there.

Time, however, goes on. Now I know Florida like a local. I carry an umbrella even when it’s sunny because I know it can turn into a hurricane in the blink of an eye. I wave to the alligators that greet me in the mornings. Ducks from my neighborhood lake come waddling toward me expecting oats. Slowly, echoes of my voice grew from a whisper into a bellowing shout, assertive and open to the enchanting chances of life.

One day, as I sat on a wooden bench gazing into the sunrise, I caught a glimpse of my face in the reflection of the lake. The mole was there, screaming “notice me!” along with all the freckles that line my face. It doesn’t matter if I move next door or halfway across the world; I carry my lived experiences and culture wherever I go. The sunrise I see here is the same beautiful one I’d watch peeking out from the vast mountains of Valencia. And that sun, those warm rays of light falling on my face, revealed my chocolate mole in all its chaotic glory. The mole may seem hidden, but it’s always there, unwavering, our companion in life—and when the sun hits it just right, it’s clear it will always be with us.

Letting your identity in is like embracing a shrouded cloud of pitch black. I recall the fear, stuttering, freezing when I mispronounced new English words. But I chased those clouds far, far away. So, past little me, let change in with an accepting heart. If you do, you’ll uncover that freckle, that essence and sense of self, one word at a time.

Best wishes,
Isa from the future