Sarah Eber Child Life Scholarship

From the very beginning, I had to learn how to thrive without one of the most important figures in a child’s life—my dad. He left before I was old enough to understand what “absence” really meant, but I felt it in every milestone he missed, every game he didn’t attend, and every birthday card that never came. He simply never chose me, and that silence echoed louder than words ever could. For years, I wrestled with the quiet questions: Was I not enough? Was there something wrong with me? The truth is, I will never know why he walked away. But I do know what I chose in response: I chose to excel. My father’s absence was never an excuse—it was a challenge. I decided that if he wasn’t going to be a part of my story, then I would write a story worth reading without him. I dove into academics and found strength in being the girl who showed up, gave her all, and pushed forward, even when it was hard. I turned to mentors, teachers, and my amazing mother for guidance and learned that family can be chosen, not just given. My plan of action was simple, though not easy: I would build the life I deserved, not the one I was handed. I took honors classes, volunteered with children with special needs, and chose to pursue a degree in exercise science and a doctorate in occupational therapy with the goal of becoming a pediatric occupational therapist. My passion for helping children stems not only from watching my brother—who lives with intellectual disabilities—grow through therapy, but also from my own understanding of what it feels like to be overlooked. I never want a child to feel what I felt. I want them to know they are chosen, seen, and worth fighting for. Through this adversity, my perspective on life has deepened. I’ve learned that pain can be a teacher, and absence can create space for strength. I see every child as a story waiting to be nurtured, not ignored. And I believe healing begins not just with medicine or therapy, but with the presence of someone who genuinely cares. Sarah Eber’s story resonates with me because her heart was with children who endured hardship. That’s the heart I carry into my work and future career. I want to be the kind of occupational therapist who sees beyond the diagnosis and into the heart of each child. My father’s absence taught me the value of presence—and I intend to give that presence to every child I serve. While I didn’t get to choose my adversity, I chose my response. And in doing so, I found purpose. I believe that’s what Sarah would have wanted—to see young people turning pain into passion, and loss into love. Thank you for considering me for a scholarship that so beautifully reflects the kind of difference I hope to make in this world.

One of the greatest adversities I’ve faced came during the transition from high school to college, a period marked by overwhelming personal loss and heavy responsibility. Just before I graduated high school, my grandfather, whom I was extremely close to, passed away from complications related to diabetes and dementia. His death shattered me. He wasn’t just a family member; he was my role model, my protector, and the person whose kindness and strength I admired most. Losing him at such a critical time in my life, when I was preparing to embark on my college journey, left a deep emotional void. I started college still grieving, while also juggling the demands of being a first-generation college student from a low-income, Central American household. My parents leaned on me for help with daily responsibilities, including translating at appointments and supporting our home financially. At the same time, I was working multiple jobs and trying to keep up with my classes. The emotional burden of my grandfather’s passing, combined with academic and financial pressure, began to affect my mental and physical health. I was eventually diagnosed as pre-diabetic, another painful reminder of the condition that took my grandfather’s life. At first, I felt like I was drowning. I questioned if I was truly ready for college or the healthcare field I was so passionate about. But instead of giving up, I used my grandfather’s memory as fuel to keep moving forward. I remembered how he always encouraged me to aim higher, and how proud he was of my plans to work in medicine. I made a plan of action: I began meeting with advisors, asking for help when I needed it, and prioritizing my health. I reduced my work hours, started using campus mental health and academic support services, and began building a stronger foundation for myself. This adversity taught me the true meaning of resilience. It reshaped how I view challenges, not as roadblocks, but as turning points. My grandfather’s passing, while heartbreaking, deepened my commitment to healthcare. I want to help families like mine navigate difficult diagnoses with dignity and compassion. That’s why I’m pursuing a career in diagnostic medical sonography, with plans to become a Physician Assistant eventually. I want to be a bilingual, culturally sensitive provider who offers clarity and comfort to underserved patients. Losing someone I loved so deeply before stepping into adulthood forced me to grow faster and fight harder. But it also gave me purpose. I carry my grandfather’s legacy with me in everything I do, and I’m determined to honor it by becoming a healthcare professional who makes a real difference.

In the past three years, I’ve worked through the loss of my grandmother (with whom I was as close as best friends), the grief following the passing of two beloved pets, and being bitten by a copperhead snake one summer, which put me in the ICU for a week and unable to walk again for six months. Sophomore year of high school, I battled a mental health crisis so crippling I thought I would never see the other side. In the past few years, I’ve received diagnoses that affect every aspect of my life- Fibromyalgia, chronic migraines, OCD, Generalized Anxiety Disorder, Clinical Depression, Panic Disorder, Body Dysmorphia... In the first few years of high school, panic was a constant companion- a pounding heart, frequent nausea, a worry that stalked me like a lone wolf in the dark of night. When I was stressed, it felt like I was drowning. I worried about the most insignificant things, the smallest mistakes sent me spiraling, and minute inconveniences had me in a panic. Slowly, exhausted, I started to give in, barely hanging on by a thread. But somewhere deep inside of me, at some point during that tremulous time, throughout all the struggles life had thrown at me- I found the belief that I was stronger than this. I found deep inside my tortured heart a fighter, a survivor, a young woman who was stronger than anything life could throw at her. After admitting that it was okay to not be okay, after finally realizing that being imperfect is more beautiful than perfection could ever be, I'm free. I found that “me” isn’t the girl everyone else perceived or thought I was, but rather the girl I was chasing- the girl I am. Slowly, I found myself. Instead of carrying the weight of those burdens solely on my shoulders, I'm now confident in the strengths of love and friendship, bonds that can survive even the toughest of life's circumstances. Love isn't despite your flaws but because of them. Your uniquenesses- your scars, your jagged edges, and all your broken parts- they're what make you beautiful. I never understood that until now. It was my struggles and experiences with the rapidly growing mental health epidemic that caused my interest in social science, psychology, and neurobiology to bloom. The matters of the mind have always interested me, but even in the depths of my crisis, I found the complexity of our brains (and the ways and reasons things go wrong) fascinating. I wanted to know the genetics behind anxiety and depression running in the family, the social and behavioral science of these mental health disorders, and how the infrastructure of society fosters these crises. I discovered what works for me, worked to understand my conditions and the treatments available, and healed myself from the inside out. I had to work to show my heart and mind the grace I gave to others, but since then, mental health advocacy has been a fierce passion. I'm not shy about sharing my story and telling others what I wish I had known myself. My mission in life is now to become the stranger in the coffee shop who asks if you're alright, or the shoulder to cry on when you feel you can't go to anyone with what you're going through. I want to share my story with the world and give the advice I wish I had received- that you are loved, you are enough, and your flaws and scars are the most beautiful parts of who you are.

When people reflect on their kindergarten year, they often recall the excitement of making new friends, laughing on the playground, and proudly reciting their ABC’s; my memories are a little different. I remember endless car rides to the hospital to visit my sister and the overwhelming smell of antiseptic every time I walked through the hospital doors. I remember my three-year-old sister lying in a hospital bed that seemed to swallow her whole, with strange tubes coming from her arms and out her nose. Above all else, I remember the fear and confusion of being thrust into a world that I was too young to understand. Because I know firsthand how confusing and terrifying hospitals can be to young children, I understand the importance of providing emotional support and guidance to pediatric cancer families. Through my experiences surrounding pediatric cancer, I have learned that however, pediatric cancer treatment extends far beyond medicine. My sister fought cancer, and because of her fight, I want to dedicate myself to helping others as a Child Life Specialist. While my sister was in the hospital, my family became close with many of the medical staff. However, those that I remember most did not wear stethoscopes or use lengthy medical terms. The Child Life department played a vital role in helping me feel more comfortable in a foreign hospital setting. They simplified complex procedures and explained them in a way I could understand. I still remember a Child Life Specialist sitting down with me to explain that the doctors were going to give my sister an IV. She gave me a doll and taught me how to place an IV in its tiny arm. Suddenly, something that was nerve-wracking and unknown became an entertaining game. Looking back, that memory reminds me how simple it can be to make an intimidating environment more comfortable for children. Child Life Specialists made me feel seen and valued in the stressful environment of a hospital by prioritizing education and guidance, and I want to do the same for other children and families. The impact of my sister’s treatment continued long after she was cancer free. While our close family and friends were extremely supportive, they could not relate in the same way that people who shared a similar experience could. Patients and their siblings grow up with a different view of the world because of the trauma they experienced as a child—it can be very isolating. The fear of cancer returning follows families impacted by cancer for the rest of their lives, regardless of doctors’ reassurances. A few years after my sister’s treatment, she and I attended a camp organized by the Scott and White Child Life department for former pediatric cancer patients and their siblings. That summer we finally found others who shared our experiences and fears. There are no words to describe the bond that forms between people who relate on such a vulnerable level. Because this sense of community was so important in my own healing, I want to be able to provide resources like this to other children in similar situations. The emotional recovery from cancer is a long and difficult road to walk, but I want to be there every step of the way for children and their families. It is because of my experiences that I am passionate about helping other children impacted by pediatric cancer. My own life has been greatly impacted by Child Life Specialists, and I want to pass on all that they have done for me and my family to others.