Enders Scholarship

At my wedding, my father-in-law’s speech focused on my “grit.” My resilience in response to my parents’ early deaths defined me in his eyes, and the definition felt familiar. Throughout my life, I have been called a “fireworks show,” “truth teller,” “powerhouse,” and always “resilient.” Meditation, journaling, and therapy have all contributed immensely to my resilience, and these practices have inspired me to change careers and become a therapist. The Enders Scholarship would directly contribute to my studies as a Clinical Psychology student at Antioch University. I’ve personally experienced the transformative power of meditation, journaling, and other mindfulness tools as someone who has weathered the trauma of losing both of my parents to alcohol and hope to inspire that same healing in others. I realized my life wasn’t “normal” in the 6th grade while filling out a “childhood adverse event” survey. The survey asked how often I was in the car with someone who had been drinking. I could tell as a 12-year-old that “5-7 days a week” was not the “right” answer. My father died due to cirrhosis of the liver, related to his alcohol abuse, at the age of 47 when I was a high school junior. At the time, it felt like complicated relief. I don’t remember months of my undergraduate education because of dissociative episodes related to his traumatic death. My mom died by suicide, influenced by alcohol-induced bipolar disorder, at the age of 52 a few years later. From 2011 - 2017, I was her rock even though I was thousands of miles away. I grew accustomed to late-night calls during binge-drinking episodes and heartbreaking conversations about freedom that felt so far away. I loved my mom deeply and was shattered when I got the call about her passing. Both of my parents died before I turned 24. It felt like my body was running on grief, anger, and a need to prove to the universe that I was capable of thriving on my own. Despite being in weekly therapy through all of these losses, I didn’t have the tools necessary to heal until I met my current therapist and started integrating mindfulness into my daily life. I began truly healing and addressing my trauma a few years ago with the help of EMDR therapy, meditation, yoga, and journaling. My current therapist has been incredibly influential on my life. She helped me realize I had severed myself from the present, my body, and my emotions to protect myself. After spending my developmental years caring for everyone around me, I turned inward to focus on myself. During the pandemic, I started a daily yoga, meditation, and journaling practice. It felt scary to connect with the stored trauma in my body. I had avoided it since my father’s death - like a shark, always moving forward. My meditation practice evolved from 1 struggling minute to 5, and then 20. Even today, I am still working on letting my full emotional experience in. This is a lifetime effort and I know every day that I return to my mat, I am healing a bit more of myself. It would be an incredible honor to receive the Enders Scholarship to support my studies at Antioch University. I found fulfillment and clarity through my journey with mindfulness, writing, and EMDR therapy. These experiences deepen my empathy as an aspiring therapist and would allow me to relate to my patients authentically and powerfully. My complex PTSD colors my perspective and will assist me in helping clients navigate the dark, unexpected, and stigmatized corners of their own lives.

Growing up in a household with a parent that battled alcoholism her entire life, I can say that this has altered my life completely. To make this situation more devastating, my mom not only battled with chronic alcohol abuse, but she lost her battle to alcohol and suicide this year. My mom was beautiful, intelligent, and kind when she was sober. But when she was drunk like most days, home was not a home; it was affliction. Maturing at the age of 7 consisted of taking care of my mom while my dad was away at work for weeks on end, providing for all of us with one income. My mom strategically and manipulatively hid her alcoholism from my dad for years, making my sisters and I wonder what was "wrong" with my mom since we could not comprehend alcoholism at our young ages of 7, 9, and 11. My oldest sister took care of my other sister and I, while we all three made breakfast and dinner for ourselves; and our mom, just trying to keep her alive while she was blackout drunk almost everyday. We had to get ready for school, make food, come home from school, and go to bed in silence, walking on broken eggshells maneuvering around the house or else we were "in trouble". If my mom heard us making too much noise in the house at any time of the day, my sisters and I would call it the "dungeon" for the night. The "dungeon" was when my sisters or I made too much noise while my mom was drunk in her room, and she would find us and drag us by the hair into her room. If my sisters saw one of us get dragged, we knew we would not see each other until the next morning. My mom would lock her door and force us to sleep with her for the night. Not knowing what molestation was at the age of 7-11, my mom manipulated us into watching a kids movie with her, while she molested us, yearning for love while my dad was away. I lay in silence on my mom's bed, with the trauma and triggering touch of her cold, weak hands until she fell asleep. As I got older and learned about my trauma, I have met an amazing therapist and have journaled for 5 years now. With the help of my dad, my sisters, friends, and my therapist, I have been able to work through my trauma and finally prioritize myself after my mom committed suicide this year. So much has happened in my life that I cannot elaborate on in 600 words, but coming from a very poor family, I am considered a financial independent that pays for tuition, rent, food, and other necessities all by myself. All of the triggers I face from what my mom did to my sisters and I while she was alive have made me feel lost, unworthy, and never satisfied with what I accomplish; but now, I devote my life to myself, and to the life my mom deserved, but never received. I am a Family Human Services major with a minor in Psychology that wants to be a trauma therapist post college. I work full time and attend school full time, trying my best to make ends meet. Not only am I doing this for myself, but I want to prove to my mom that breaking the trauma cycle can be done, and so can living a deserving, healthy, full life. I am so proud of myself throughout this journey.

The sirens and the light blinded my eyes and my mind as well. People passed, lights flashed, and there was so much noise. I hear voices. They are drowned out by all the commotion in my head. “Angela, are you alright?” a neighbor asks. Absent-minded, I just silently nod and walk to my aunt’s car. The ride to the police station is a blur. One night I awoke to darkness in my room and the sound of someone groaning as if in pain. I found my mother by the stairs leading to the attic. She had been shot–so much blood stained her chest black. “What happened?” I said. “Three people shot me and your brother. Call the police and your Aunt Gwen,” she told me. By this time, I was frantic. My hands were shaking as I dialed 911. “911, what’s your emergency?” A 911 operator asked. “My mom and brother have been shot. They need help now!” Then, they asked all the questions you usually hear: What is your name? What is the address? What, who, when, where, how? I told Aunt Gwen to get me. While they were coming, I put clothes together in a bookbag and put shoes on. 911 services arrived. They put my mom on a stretcher, but I did not see her because the police pulled me aside to ask questions. At the police station, even more questions were asked. The room was so bright, full of fluorescent lights. My mind flooded with everything that had happened so fast. I was praying, hoping, and making deals with God. I promised Him that if she lived, I would do anything. Then, the call came. My mom died at the hospital, and my brother died upstairs at home. Tears flooded out. Aunt Gwen who was crying also, embraced me. You know, the mind is a strange thing. Looking back on it, I cannot even remember what I did the day before, yet I can remember that night like it happened yesterday. Life has not been the same since this happened. Survivor's guilt plagued me. On that night, I asked God, “Why me? Why did I deserve to live, and they didn’t?” I struggled in my relationship with God and with myself. I realized how brief life is, and not take it for granted. Soon, I was placed into the care of my cousin, and now legal guardian. She had been through trauma as well, so she got me a therapist. There, I would learn the importance of meditation and journaling. At first, I was not fond of either, but the two grew on me. Meditation calms the rapid thoughts and memories of that day and helps me to realize that I did everything I could to help them. Journaling has become a vault where I keep my feelings, hopes, and dreams. I want to go to college to defy the odds. People, including my own family, have doubted me. I want to prove them and the world wrong. Not only do I want to do this, but I also want to help others who have been stripped of their voice and underrepresented to get their power and voice back. To be an advocate for them. I would say my biggest influence was my mom. Not only did she give me her looks, but she gave me an example of what a true hard-working woman looks like. She helped me understand that even on bad days you can persevere, be creative, and never give up. Thank you for your consideration.

Through my eyes, I want to share the journey of loss and hope that has shaped my life. My name is Faith Sarres. I was born in Long Beach, California, into a family of seven. Despite my mother's flawed situation, my childhood was filled with good memories and dreams of becoming a doctor. However, things changed dramatically when I was nine years old. My mother fled to Arizona to escape the abuse inflicted by my biological father, seeking safety for me and my siblings. She met the wrong people and fell into drugs. Her boyfriend was one of those people. Over time, her misconceptions resulted in an oversight that gradually became more significant. As a result, my siblings and I were placed under the custody of the Department of Child Safety (DCS). My mom did everything in her power to get us back. Unexpectedly, on December 3rd, 2017, my mom passed away. I was eleven years old. It changed me in every way: my future, my mind, and my heart. For four years, I was filled with affliction and confusion with no direction. I was consumed by solitude and resentment. My mind was like a blank piece of paper: I felt empty. Subconsciously, I continued moving forward and persisting. After five years, I was adopted by my Nana, who gave us a home despite her limitations. My siblings and I were finally together. But, it didn't stay that way. My sister Ilyssa, struggling with long-term drug addiction, died from a fentanyl overdose on July 12, 2023, at the age of twenty. I was pulled in two directions; I stood between good and evil. Going left crowded my mind with resentment, bitterness, and wrath. The right was filled with patience, love, healing, and strength. "Who will I allow myself to be?" I asked myself. I took a good look at both directions and saw many things. I learned going left led me toward a place I was running from. I refused to walk that path. I decided to sit, feel and cope to heal. I was done with hiding and ignoring my grief and pain. I chose to go right. I learned to create a healthy way to grieve and heal. Turning my pain and resentment into a source of strength and love was eye-opening. I see that strength as my superpower. Drawing, writing, creating, building positive relationships, helping others, self-care, attending college, researching, and gaining knowledge are passions I use to heal. Many don't get the help they need; this included my mom and sister. I want to help those people. My devotion to becoming a Naturopathic Doctor comes from wanting to heal the helpless and hopeless—those who need help. This is my passion and healing. Writing, especially, allows me to feel and heal. Each word melts away my overwhelmed mind and helps me to articulate my emotions, helping tremendously with healing. Every process shaped me into who I am. My suffering has been a significant teacher in understanding true hope. Along my path, I met people like me—people who are always kind and persistent through tragedy. A man named Andrew helped me see the knowledge and patience I lacked. His life was filled with adversity and destitution, but he was kind and deeply cared for society despite what he was going through. Despite life not giving him much, he still showed what he made out of it. I'm thankful for all of the above. I am loved and cared for knowing there are such people. I want to be like him. I choose right.