If destiny is real, then mine was born on the lawn of the Franklin D. Murphy Sculpture Garden.

In 1969, my grandfather was walking to a Peter, Paul and Mary concert when he saw my grandmother sitting on a bench.

That was my go-to anecdote for the inevitable “fun fact” question in class. Then, I’d add, “So I wouldn’t exist if it wasn’t for UCLA.”

It’s true – half of my life began on that lawn, born from a glance between an artist and an inventor.

I imagine her beneath the South African coral trees – legs crossed, sketchbook in hand, those wide green eyes I inherited – scribbling her dorm phone number on a page and telling my grandfather to ask for Jillian.

So much of life feels like a coincidence. But standing where they once stood, I feel like something has always been tugging me towards UCLA.

It’s this gut feeling that keeps me grounded – and vocal. My family always believed it’s worth speaking up, even when it’s unpopular, contrarian or comes with risk.

Even before I was born at the UCLA Santa Monica Medical Center, I had a Bruin initiation. My mom infamously bumped into my aunt’s UCLA graduation cake while pregnant with me, splattering Bruin blue frosting across her stomach.

Fittingly, my aunt graduated with a degree in European studies, just as I will this June.

So, I suppose, it shouldn’t be a surprise that my winding college path – consisting of five schools – led me back to UCLA. I jumped between Manhattan, Pasadena and the south of France – but no other campus fit right.

Even with my two fast-paced years at UCLA as a transfer student, it didn’t take long for campus to feel like home, starting with stories about my grandparents.

My grandfather, Andrew Hoffman, was a professional tennis player who received both his bachelor’s and master’s degrees from UCLA. He recreationally played against the two hall of fame inductees Arthur Ashe and Stan Smith on campus.

Though his name did not end up on the side of a building or a pair of Adidas shoes, his impact remains evocative.

Looking through the Daily Bruin archive, I found a Letter to the Editor co-authored by my grandparents. Addressed to the Safford, Arizona, Parole Board, it pleaded for the release of Thayer Ashton, who was serving a five-year sentence for refusing to fight in the Vietnam War.

The letter, published May 28, 1970, was written while my grandparents were a pair of 20-somethings expecting a baby – my dad – in two months.

Their letter described Ashton as a friend, business partner and peaceful person whose integrity in refusing to take part in the war cost him irreparably.

Reading their letter now, I can distill the same core value we share – the determination to speak, even when it seems inconvenient.

Three weeks earlier, on May 4, 1970, members of the Ohio National Guard shot and killed four unarmed students and wounded nine others during a protest against the Vietnam War at Kent State University.

The next day, UCLA students protested against the government’s violence and U.S. military action in Cambodia by throwing rocks while marching, attacking ROTC headquarters and setting fires in the Ackerman Union.

As the protest escalated, 200 police officers arrested 74 protesters, prompting UCLA to cancel classes and issue a state of emergency.

Over 50 years later, we walk the same campus amid student protests and confront our own political reckonings. Though the causes may shift, the responsibility to dissent remains.

My grandparents didn’t hold office or lead marches.

They paid attention. They cared. They wrote and believed it could change the course of someone’s life.

This has become a central belief in my commitment as a writer.

Decades later, I write for the same newspaper they once hoped to be published in.

I had just left class last October when I received the call from my parents. My grandfather passed away unexpectedly. Even with the deep difficulties we experienced, it suddenly stung to walk where he did.

It hurts that many of the relatives who made me the person I am won’t be there to watch me turn my tassel.

But for now, it’s enough to know that my grandparents were once in my robes.

My grandparents protested war. They watched humanity touch the moon. And maybe they dreamed, too, that the world could be better than what they inherited – that one day, someone like me would stand where their footprints ended.