One year on our annual family vacation my parents took a phone call that led to a decision that would alter the lives of our family. On our way home from the beach, it was still. The moment we arrived home there was a shift. Preparations were to be made and in a hurry. My mother's office would be transformed into a bedroom. The office desk would be replaced with a bunk bed, the computer monitor with a wardrobe, and the stapler for toys. Soon a woman would come to the house in search of a fire extinguisher and smoke detectors. She wasn't the only stranger to come to the house, Two more followed only they would be living with us. They were family but still strangers. Both of our guests were young boys. This would be an adjustment for all of us. I was nine and didn't understand the entirety of why they needed to live with us and of course, my parents could only give me a sugar-coated version. They were in the foster care system and that was foreign to us. So where would my new cousins find a sense of relatability, with someone who knows the system as well as they did? That's when I found out what a caseworker was. My cousin's caseworker's name was Melissa. The reason I never will forget that is because to my cousins she was a familiar face and not another stranger. She was someone to help them through the hard transitions, someone who was there from the start of the tough journey they were in. There was a friend at my school who was in the foster care system who would share her experiences with me. She had a deep appreciation for her caseworker and I decided to ask my friend what her caseworker's name was and it happened to be Melissa. I soon realized and admired social work. I started to research this field and learned that African American children make up 86’000 of the children in the foster care system. The majority of the children were white. I began to think the numbers made sense. More white kids, more white social workers. But what about all the black children, that 86,000 still need someone who can better understand the African American experience. It's important to understand the needs of the people that you serve. I wanna see, be, and make a change in the foster care system by diversifying the field.

One year on our annual family vacation my parents took a phone call that led to a decision that would alter the lives of our family. On our way home from the beach, it was still. The moment we arrived home there was a shift. Preparations were to be made and in a hurry. My mother's office would be transformed into a bedroom. The office desk would be replaced with a bunk bed, the computer monitor with a wardrobe, and the stapler for toys. Soon a woman would come to the house in search of a fire extinguisher and smoke detectors. She wasn't the only stranger to come to the house, Two more followed only they would be living with us. They were family but still strangers. Both of our guests were young boys. This would be an adjustment for all of us. I was nine and didn't understand the entirety of why they needed to live with us and of course, my parents could only give me a sugar-coated version. They were in the foster care system and that was foreign to us. So where would my new cousins find a sense of relatability, with someone who knows the system as well as they did? That's when I found out what a caseworker was. My cousin's caseworker's name was Melissa. The reason I never will forget that is because to my cousins she was a familiar face and not another stranger. She was someone to help them through the hard transitions, someone who was there from the start of the tough journey they were in. There was a friend at my school who was in the foster care system who would share her experiences with me. She had a deep appreciation for her caseworker and I decided to ask my friend what her caseworker's name was and it happened to be Melissa. I soon realized and admired social work. I started to research this field and learned that African American children make up 86’000 of the children in the foster care system. The majority of the children were white. I began to think the numbers made sense. More white kids, more white social workers. But what about all the black children, that 86,000 still need someone who can better understand the African American experience. It's important to understand the needs of the people that you serve. I wanna see, be, and make a change in the foster care system by diversifying the field.

One year on our annual family vacation my parents took a phone call that led to a decision that would alter the lives of our family. On our way home from the beach, it was still. The moment we arrived home there was a shift. Preparations were to be made and in a hurry. My mother's office would be transformed into a bedroom. The office desk would be replaced with a bunk bed, the computer monitor with a wardrobe, and the stapler for toys. Soon a woman would come to the house in search of a fire extinguisher and smoke detectors. She wasn't the only stranger to come to the house, Two more followed only they would be living with us. They were family but still strangers. Both of our guests were young boys. This would be an adjustment for all of us. I was nine and didn't understand the entirety of why they needed to live with us and of course, my parents could only give me a sugar coated version. They were in the foster care system and that was foreign to us. So where would my new cousins find a sense of relatability, with someone who knows the system as well as they did? That's when I found out what a caseworker was. My cousin's caseworker's name was Melissa. The reason I never will forget that is because to my cousins she was a familiar face and not another stranger. She was someone to help them through the hard transitions, someone who was there from the start of the tough journey they were in. There was a friend at my school who was in the foster care system who would share her experiences with me. She had a deep appreciation for her caseworker and I decided to ask my friend what her caseworker's name was and it happened to be Melissa. I soon realized and admired social work. I started to research this field and learned that African American children make up 86’000 of the children in the foster care system. The majority of the children were white. I began to think the numbers made sense. More white kids, more white social workers. But what about all the black children, that 86,000 still need someone who can better understand the African American experience. It's important to understand the needs of the people that you serve. I wanna see, be, and make a change in the foster care system by diversifying the field.

One year on our annual family vacation my parents took a phone call that led to a decision that would alter the lives of our family. On our way home from the beach, it was still. The moment we arrived home there was a shift. Preparations were to be made and in a hurry. My mother's office would be transformed into a bedroom. The office desk would be replaced with a bunk bed, the computer monitor with a wardrobe, and the stapler for toys. Soon a woman would come to the house in search of a fire extinguisher and smoke detectors. She wasn't the only stranger to come to the house, Two more followed only they would be living with us. They were family but still strangers. Both of our guests were young boys. This would be an adjustment for all of us. I was nine and didn't understand the entirety of why they needed to live with us and of course, my parents could only give me a sugar coated version. They were in the foster care system and that was foreign to us. So where would my new cousins find a sense of relatability, with someone who knows the system as well as they did? That's when I found out what a caseworker was. My cousin's caseworker's name was Melissa. The reason I never will forget that is because to my cousins she was a familiar face and not another stranger. She was someone to help them through the hard transitions, someone who was there from the start of the tough journey they were in. There was a friend at my school who was in the foster care system who would share her experiences with me. She had a deep appreciation for her caseworker and I decided to ask my friend what her caseworker's name was and it happened to be Melissa. I soon realized and admired social work. I started to research this field and learned that African American children make up 86’000 of the children in the foster care system. The majority of the children were white. I began to think the numbers made sense. More white kids, more white social workers. But what about all the black children, that 86,000 still need someone who can better understand the African American experience. It's important to understand the needs of the people that you serve. I wanna see, be, and make a change in the foster care system by diversifying the field.

One year on our annual family vacation my parents took a phone call that led to a decision that would alter the lives of our family. On our way home from the beach, it was still. The moment we arrived home there was a shift. Preparations were to be made and in a hurry. My mother's office would be transformed into a bedroom. The office desk would be replaced with a bunk bed, the computer monitor with a wardrobe, and the stapler for toys. Soon a woman would come to the house in search of a fire extinguisher and smoke detectors. She wasn't the only stranger to come to the house, Two more followed only they would be living with us. They were family but still strangers. Both of our guests were young boys. This would be an adjustment for all of us. I was nine and didn't understand the entirety of why they needed to live with us and of course, my parents could only give me a sugar-coated version. They were in the foster care system and that was foreign to us. So where would my new cousins find a sense of relatability, with someone who knows the system as well as they did? That's when I found out what a caseworker was. My cousin's caseworker's name was Melissa. The reason I never will forget that is because to my cousins she was a familiar face and not another stranger. She was someone to help them through the hard transitions, someone who was there from the start of the tough journey they were in. There was a friend at my school who was in the foster care system who would share her experiences with me. She had a deep appreciation for her caseworker and I decided to ask my friend what her caseworker's name was and it happened to be Melissa. I soon realized and admired social work. I started to research this field and learned that African American children make up 86’000 of the children in the foster care system. The majority of the children were white. I began to think the numbers made sense. More white kids, more white social workers. But what about all the black children, that 86,000 still need someone who can better understand the African American experience. It's important to understand the needs of the people that you serve. I wanna see, be, and make a change in the foster care system by diversifying the field.

I thought family meetings were only a television thing. So when my mom called one, it seemed unserious. I found a seat on the floor in the living room and laughed at the cliche of a “family meeting.” But the words that came from my mom's mouth were far from funny. Those three words made me look down at my hands to ensure that this was reality. “I have cancer,” my mom said . Every word she uttered afterward faded into the high-pitched sound that was now ringing in my ears. Still looking down at my hands, my vision began to unfocus, accompanied by tears that came in abundance. My hands now moved to my face, in an attempt to wipe the tears and heartbroken expression from my face. The room was suffused with a variety of reactions. Anger from my brother since when the lump was first discovered it was waved off and deemed as a cyst. Utter shock from my oldest sister who yearned for more details as if she was checking the information for credibility. But the common theme was sadness. I seemed to be taking it the hardest, and with that, my mom asked me to come hug her. I didn't get up. The weight of this news had restrained me to the floor. My mom proceeded to say “I'm not contagious” in a humorous tone. I disregarded this in annoyance. When the family was done debriefing the situation at hand, I went to my room and sought comfort in my bed, but un-shockingly springs and wool couldn't ease the cavernous hole that was growing in my chest. My sister Hailey came into my room to console me, but she was also a wreck and this only left me more uneasy than before. I finally got up and went off to my mom's room and let her hold me like I was the one with the tumor festering in my body. The next day I went to school and was berated by my teacher because I was the only one who didn't complete the assignment. “Only one person didn't finish the assignment” she broadcasted to the class. I dragged my hands over my face pulling my skin to my shoes. Did she know that this one person was doing her homework the previous night when they were informed that their mother had a disease that prides itself on deteriorating the bodies of its victims or that this student felt like she had no control over her life? Of course, she didn't know, nobody did and my 12-year-old mouth wouldn't dare to open up and advocate for itself. The loss of control resided for months. I came to an understanding, life wouldn't stop for me while I went through the motions. So, I continued sports, but I wasn't playing, only mindlessly running up and down the court. My mind was too busy being unwilling dragged back to the dreary state of my home, which didn't feel like home anymore. My home was now incapable of comfort. I buried myself in schoolwork, but after a while, it no longer served as a diversion to my overwhelming anxiety. Life just persisted in full force, I saw my mom drained of color and energy. While she grew weak, my skin grew tougher. Although This was soul-crushing, This situation gave me tenacity and taught me to pull myself out of the “why me” state of mind. and even though I couldn't fully shake the woeful thoughts, I learned to shift the focus and keep up with the fast pace of life.

I wasn't intentional, or passionate. I went into every practice and every track meet meditating on the fact that it would be over soon. I neglected my body and its cries for help. Despite all that I still wound up at the top due to the simple lack of competition and natural physical ability. After securing 1st in districts, the state meet at Hayward field was next. I had the chance to be the 2022 champ as a sophomore. I was at the top of my league and estimated to get first. Did I? No I did not, I didn't even make it past prelims, on the account of me taking last in my race that would qualify me for finals. My head was louder than the incessant chatter of the hundreds of people in the stadium. Before I could blink it the gun went off. I had the lead but people were so close I could feel their body heat. For me that was foreign. I raced all year but I never competed. I didn't know how to, so to stay in first. I leaned, I leaned until my body collapsed under me. Because of the speed I was going, when I hit the ground my body spiraled. Everyone else is putting their hands above their head with the relief of being done. My body felt one hundred pounds heavier. As I lugged my body off the track, I began to feel a torturous pain in my right shoulder but I continued running. When I crossed the line with a heavy heart, I began to analyze the faces around me. They were horror-struck. “Are you okay…your shoulder.” The pain was there but once I looked at it out of place the adrenaline wore away and reality began to sink in. A medic was called who then pulled on my arm to "pop it back into place", but no luck. I sat in the medic tent yearning to be helped, only to be left there waiting. My dad pulled up right on time like a getaway driver and we headed to the hospital, Where my mom got more frantic, so much so that she couldn't remember my birthday or my middle name. A lady then told me my heart rate was extremely high in the most monotone voice to not contribute to my rising heart rate. I was then given a dose of morphine to combat the pain and was taken to get an X-ray. My clavicle bone was not “out of place” it was broken and the tugging the medic did only jarred the break. As I lay in a hospital bed I suddenly sprung up, I remembered I was on the relay team. I started to Whine to my parents “We have to leave” while I vigorously tried to remove the I.V. from my arm. My mom seemed to be mellowed out, but she had passed her frantic posture to me. Soon a nurse came in and freed me from the needle in my arm. I made my way back to the track to watch and support my teammates. While watching I had a revelation. Competing was a privilege, a privilege I didn't know I had til it was gone. Running wasn't the only thing I couldn't do, I couldn't sleep, clothe myself, or shake my failure. So I promised myself that the next time I stepped onto the track I would do things with purpose. Sports taught me to be intentional about everything I do. I became a state champion the next year.