Meet Bianca Estrada of Los Angeles (boyle heights)

Today we’d like to introduce you to Bianca Estrada.

Alright, so thank you so much for sharing your story and insight with our readers. To kick things off, can you tell us a bit about how you got started?
I’ve always been someone who carries a lot of passion in everything I do. And in many ways, I’ve never stopped being a student. I’m constantly learning from young people, from elders, from my lived experiences which have been both beautiful and difficult. Unlearning has also been part of that process. I’m proud of the person I’ve become and all I’ve accumulated through the years of learning and unlearning. A lot of what I understood growing up was informed by my lived experiences; being raised in a primarily low-income community where poverty was visible and a constant reminder of the barriers my people had to navigate, a place where police and violence were part of the backdrop, and where disregard for life and humanity was far too common. In the midst of all that, my parents practiced mutual aid long before I knew what that term meant. People somehow always knew to come to our house for warm meals, clothing, or just care. My parents modeled what it meant to hold space for others, to live in solidarity, and to show up for your community. That foundation is something I still carry and continue to build on, while dismantling the things that continue to oppress my community here and abroad.
I was born and raised in Boyle Heights, but my roots extend across Mexico, Jalisco, Nayarit, and Distrito Federal. My parents came here as immigrants and built a life in Echo Park. My mom was very active in the community through organizing and activism, my dad was a laborer, immigrant and proud union member, and my grandmother was a single mother who worked tirelessly in the garment industry since the 1950s. I’m the youngest of seven children, with most of my siblings born in Mexico. That age gap gave me so many different perspectives, I learned to see the world through multiple lenses, all filtered through their struggles and resilience. From a young age, justice, solidarity, and empathy weren’t abstract concepts, they were simply how we lived. My grandmother was a big part of that, now an ancestor, no longer here in body but present in spirit, her lessons continue to live through me. This is the legacy that continues to guide me today.
My own schooling journey was complicated. As a queer youth, I experienced constant bullying in high school, and the very adults and institutions that should have protected me instead failed me. Eventually, traditional school stopped being an option for me. I was placed in a program that served youth considered “at risk” many of us system-impacted, carrying experiences shaped by punishment and neglect. Homeschool was the only option, which kept me safe but left me isolated from the kind of connection every teenager deserves. I felt ostracized from formal education, leaving me feeling like there was no place where I truly belonged. By 15, I had already weathered a lifetime worth of trials, but perhaps that is what fueled my passion for education and justice.
What turned everything around for me was enrolling at East Los Angeles College. ELAC saved me. It was the very first time I felt seen, not just by my peers, but by my educators. It was a place where I could finally find myself. A place where I had agency, a place where I fully belonged. My love for education resurfaced when I was in community college, for the first time since primary school, I felt seen, supported, and free to explore my personal interest. It was a place where I could be fully myself, a place that finally felt natural and exciting. I found peers who guided me, who mentored me, who believed in me. It was also the place where I became an active participant in organizing and advocacy, where I started to understand the kind of impact I could make in the world. Community college wasn’t just a place to take classes; it was where I learned that education could actually be liberating.
That’s why Alcove is so close to my heart. It’s the kind of place I wish had existed when I was younger. During my years as a homeschooled teenager, I lacked the community, mentorship, and connection that Alcove offers kids every single day. At Alcove, young people are seen, respected, supported, and encouraged to explore what lights them up. Our motto is “Learning is natural. School is optional,” and I believe in that wholeheartedly. Alcove is a reminder that every child deserves a space where they can thrive without being forced into a system that was never designed for all kinds of learners.
Eventually, I was able to transfer and further my studies in various fields, but more than a few times I had to put my education on a pause. With my grandmother, my first mom passing, my life shifted. Although, I never stopped learning and over the years, I’ve been able to wear many hats, freelance journalist, organizer, farmer, cook, documentarian, social worker and now a full-time parent. I’ve been lucky to work with incredible artists, musicians, political figures, and indigenous communities around the world. I’ve carried my camera across countries, documenting stories and people who taught me lessons I could never have learned in a classroom. And through it all, the common thread has always been a deep love for people and for learning in its purest form.
Now, stepping into the role of Executive Director at Alcove, it feels like all the pieces of my journey have come together. To be doing this work in Boyle Heights, at the heart of my community, feels like coming full circle. Alcove isn’t just a program, it’s a reflection of my story, my family’s legacy, and my belief that every young person deserves a place where they can belong, be seen, and discover who they truly are.

Alright, so let’s dig a little deeper into the story – has it been an easy path overall and if not, what were the challenges you’ve had to overcome?
Life has never been a smooth road for me. Growing up split between Boyle Heights and Mexico, I experienced my share of trials and hardships. In Mexico, we lived just two blocks away from La Bestia, the train migrants ride across the country in search of what’s called a “better life” in the United States. But I learned early on that the life of an immigrant is far from easy, and that the so-called American Dream is not equally attainable for everyone.
From a young age, I was surrounded by the harsh reality of what it means to be both brown and poor. I grew up poor in money but rich in love and family. Still, there was trauma, violence, and struggle that shaped me from an early age. I witnessed extreme police violence directed at my family and my neighborhood, saw gang violence, which at its core was really about kids wanting to be seen and loved. I buried far too many friends whose lives were taken too soon. Those experiences have stayed with me, they are still painful, but they’ve also fueled the work I do now.
When people talk about the American Dream, they often frame it as if hard work alone guarantees success. But my lived experience and the history of communities like mine, tells a different story. The Dream was never built equally for everyone. For many of us, it has been less a promise and more a myth used to excuse the inequities of race, class, and power in this country. I believe the real Dream should not be about individual success or wealth, but about collective dignity where every family has access to housing, healthcare, education, and safety. To me, the Dream is about rewriting the story so that love, care, and justice are not luxuries, but rights.
Violence and struggle became part of my everyday reality, but so did resilience, solidarity, and the conviction that another world is possible.
In everything I do, I try to put people first. Because I know that at our core, people need to be seen, heard, and held. That’s what solidarity is about showing up for one another without expectation, simply because every person deserves dignity. I consider myself a human rights advocate before anything else, and that comes from both my lived experience and from the legacy of love and resilience passed down to me by my family. My mother and grandmother left me with so much wisdom to keep learning from. They taught me to keep moving forward, to live with purpose, and to hold space for others even in hard times.
Another challenge for me was becoming a returning student later in life. I went from unconventional education and community college to one of the most prestigious universities, where the academic demands felt rigid, competitive, and at times soul-crushing. I experienced imposter syndrome, depression, anxiety, and anger. It was jarring to be in a space that felt designed to break you down more than build you up. But I carried the lessons of my parents with me, that independence and education mattered not because of degrees or money, but because of having a voice and breaking barriers.
The truth is, I’ve never done anything in my life with money in mind. I grew up poor and learned to be resourceful. What has always driven me is people, justice, and community. As a queer, neurodivergent, brown woman and a parent, I’ve had to push through layers of systems that weren’t built for people like me. That fight to be seen, to belong, and to create spaces where others can thrive—it’s what fuels my leadership today.
And while I’ve seen a lot of struggle and suffering, nothing compares to grief. Losing people, I love in my community and now witnessing grief daily on a global scale seeing multiple genocides play out across social media, it reminds me why we can’t stay silent. We have to speak up when something isn’t right. We have to defend the rights of others, stand with those who don’t have a voice, and fight to create a world where many worlds can exist, as the Zapatistas say: “Un Mundo Donde Quepan Muchos Mundos” a world where many worlds fit.
So no, it hasn’t been a smooth road. But the roughness, the grief, the trials and tribulations, they’ve been my teachers. They’ve given me empathy, resilience, and fire. They remind me every day why at Alcove, I want our kids to know that they matter, that their voices are powerful, and that freedom, real freedom—is always worth fighting for.

Appreciate you sharing that. What else should we know about what you do?
I wear many hats, and I still do. But above all, my baby right now besides babies at home, is the Alcove community. Stepping into my new role as Executive Director has been both humbling and exciting, and I’m so grateful for the people who have made this journey possible. No job is ever easy, and this one comes with real challenges, but I wouldn’t be here without the incredible support of the extended family I’ve built through Alcove. People with heart and passion like Martha, Jade, Longan, Cal, Benni, Peter, Corrine, and Alexi, along with countless others, who have guided me, lifted me, and poured their time into this space. I’m also grounded by the love and support of my family, our parents, and the wider community who continue to believe in what we are building.
What we do at Alcove, and what sets us apart, is that we specialize in reimagining education through a self-directed, unschooling model. And to be clear, I can’t take credit for that, it’s something that has been collectively dreamed, practiced, and refined by many before me and alongside me. We are modeling what it means to liberate learning, to strip away all the rigid, oppressive structures that traditional schools often impose like, testing, grading, coercion, adultism and to create a space where each child is encouraged to find what they love, to explore their passions, and to feel seen and valued.
At Alcove, we believe kids and teens have agency. Their voices matter. Our role as staff is not to control them but to guide, support, and mentor them. We create a space where education is not forced but chosen, where members/students can vote on classes or teach classes themselves if they want to, where learning is hands-on and creative, where life skills and mentoring take the place of standardized anything, and where every Alcover feels safe enough to be themselves. For many of our members, Alcove is also a place of healing, a place to detox and deconstruct the harmful practices learned in traditional schools. Alcove is a place where they get to unlearn the idea that being “different” is something to be ashamed of, a place where they can try to unpack the trauma of navigating neurotypical or rigidly structured systems. Here, individuality is celebrated, laughter is constant, and self-preservation and self-care are encouraged. Our ultimate goal is autonomy, for kids to walk away with a sense of agency, confidence, and the tools to lead lives they love.
Personally, I’ve always worn multiple identities. At home, I am known as mom. In my broader community, I am an artist, a freelance journalist, an activist, and an organizer. At Alcove, I am known as someone the kids can trust, someone who genuinely cares for them, who can be silly and playful, who doesn’t stand above them but alongside them. I’ve always believed in maintaining horizontal relationships with young people, not hierarchical ones. That’s the culture we’re committed to at Alcove, one where young people and adults learn from each other, and where respect flows in both directions.
I’ve worked on many meaningful projects in my life, but Alcove is something I truly manifested. My lifelong dream was to start an educational space, a school of some kind. I imagined a place where kids could learn on their own terms, free from the harms of traditional systems, and now here I am living that dream through Alcove. What makes us even more unique is that we operate on a pay-what-you-can model, even if that means you can’t pay anything at all. That’s not something you’ll find in LA. We are building a space where accessibility is real, where finances are not a barrier, and where community comes before profit.
I am proud of so much here, the foundation we’ve laid, the relationships we’ve built, the joy and safety we create for our members every day, and the momentum we’re carrying forward thanks to the groundwork of Alcove’s founders. But most of all, I’m proud of the way we’ve been able to unlearn together. To create a place where kids, families, and staff alike are free to question, to heal, to play, and to imagine a different way of being in the world. That is what sets us apart, and that is what keeps me inspired to continue building.

We’d love to hear about how you think about risk taking?
I think I am a risk taker. This whole project—Alcove—is a huge risk. We’re only able to function because of contributions, donations, and charter funds, and that means there’s never a guarantee. But I believe in this project so much that I’m willing to take those risks. To me, risk isn’t just about chance, it’s about commitment. If you believe in something enough, you have to be willing to step into the unknown, to explore new ways of making it happen, even when it feels uncertain.

For me, Alcove is worth every risk. We’re doing something that doesn’t have a traditional roadmap. We’re building an educational model that challenges the way people think about school, about kids, about learning itself. That means stepping outside of what feels safe or familiar. It means choosing to invest in something that might not bring in steady funding, or that might not be understood by the mainstream right away. But that’s what makes it powerful. If we only stuck to what was safe, we’d never create anything new.

Our team is incredible, and I believe in every single person I work alongside. I believe in the kids and teens we serve, and in the families who trust us. This place needs to continue, because there is truly nothing else like it. I often think about what it would have meant if I had a place like Alcove growing up. Honestly, it would’ve saved me much sooner than community college did. That’s why I’m willing to take risks for it because I know the impact it has and the lives it’s already shaping. My community of Boyle Heights can also benefit from a place like us, so many youngsters need this place we want to be here for them too.

On a personal level, I’ve taken major risks before. Choosing to step into leadership was a risk as well. Speaking out and organizing in my community has always been a risk. Even the act of imagining a space like Alcove and then working to bring it into what it is today was a risk. But to me, risks are not reckless. They’re guided by vision, by values, and by the belief that something better is possible.

At the end of the day, my perspective on risk is this: If you want to create real change, you have to be willing to be uncomfortable. You have to be willing to move forward without all the answers. Risk is part of growth, part of liberation, part of building the future we want to see. For me, taking risks isn’t about gambling, it’s about refusing to settle for what already exists when I know something better can be built.

Contact Info:

• Website: https://www.alcovelearning.org/
• Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/alcovelearning/

Image Credits
1st image: Meztli

2nd image: Star Montana

3rd Image: Michael Becerra

4th Image: Fadi

5th Image: Lulu Gonzalez

6th-8th Image : Bianca Estrada (me)