Towards the end of my senior year of high school, my mom insisted we mail out as many graduation announcements as possible. To help with this she gathered all the addresses of friends and family and created invitation labels so that I didn’t have to fill out each envelope individually. While for the most part, it was a mindless task, occasionally a name or address would catch my eye. One specific invitation had two components that shook me: The Bell County Sheriff’s Department and an inmate number. My biological father had consistently been in and out of jail years before I was born, and then in the years to follow. I have one memory of my father when I was a child. I was four years old and he was staying at my mother and I’s home for a few days. This memory is so vague that all I remember is that he was there. It wasn’t until I was a teenager that I found out the only reason he was staying there was because he was going to prison not too long after. My father was never truly around when I was so young, and at the age of four, he was sent to prison for ten years. I tried to write, but because I was encouraged to. When I was in eighth grade, he was out and back in our hometown. He and my mother tried their hardest to force a relationship between us, my mom wanting me to have a father and my father wanting to have a daughter. It wasn’t until my senior year that I wanted to finally entertain the idea of possibly fostering a relationship with him. I even invited him to my fall choir concert and introduced him to my boyfriend. I had planned on inviting him to my spring musical and choir concerts until that idea was fizzled out by a jail address and an inmate number. Having an incarcerated parent, especially a father, always meant my life could go one of two ways; I could fail in my educational pursuits, or, spend my life being labeled the strong one, and having to live up to that expectation. I’ve spent time in both situations but ultimately realized that I don’t have to live in others’ presumptions of what I can or can’t be. For too long I was worried that any path I chose would be too ambitious or an overcompensation for what I lacked at home. Since I’ve been in college I have discovered that I am perfectly capable of just existing as who I am. I can work hard and take breaks. I can achieve what I want while grieving what could have been. I will be thirty when my father is no longer represented by a system inmate number. While this idea hurts my heart, the strength I have to persevere will continue to flourish in my academic and career ambitions.

When I came into this world, there was light—a light in my mom’s life, and those who loved her. Before I was me, doubt and uncertainty surrounded the baby that grew in my mother’s stomach. This darkness crept along for nine months, and questions arose. How will this baby be cared for? Can the mother do it on her own? What will become of this child? The validity of these questions created a fearful atmosphere. The day my mother gave birth to me, her love for me outweighed the possibilities of what could have gone wrong. From the day I was born, my mom’s love has exceeded the expectations of those determined to make us a statistic. The love my mom has shown me has too made me loving, resilient, and resolute. My mom has supported me in ways she was not. If there is anybody in this world who wants the best for me and wants me to strive for greatness, it is my mom. As I exist here, a rising university junior, it is because of her light. There has never been a doubt in my mom’s mind about whether or not I was going to be successful. She has always publicly expressed my talents and made it clear that nobody is as proud of me as she is. Statistically speaking, children of single mothers tend to have higher dropout rates than those who have both parents present in their lives. Academic hardships worsen for children of single parents, causing the idea of future educational endeavors for said children to be harder to reach. My mom did everything she could to make sure this was not a statistic that I succumbed to. Throughout grade school, my mom was constantly making sure I was being the best student that I could be. She insisted I stayed on top of my grades and encouraged my involvement in extracurricular activities. As I got older and the arts became a more integral part of who I was, my mom confirmed that there was a future in this field for me. She came to every play I was ever in and made sure she was in attendance at all my choir performances. When applying to colleges, she made it well-known that she would do everything she could for me to attend the top university I had gotten into; the University of Texas at Austin. My mother’s support has not stopped now that I am in college. I have always been a well-rounded student, but with the pressure that university brings, I have struggled. Between maintaining university honors, being active in the theatre department, dealing with financial difficulties and all in all figuring out who I am supposed to be, the transition into college has been arduous. The only constant I have had since making this transition has been the undisputed love and support from my mom. She has a million and one things on her plate including providing for both of her children on her own, and working two jobs all whilst finishing up a registered nursing degree. Despite her busy schedule, my mom has always made it her number one priority to check in on my mental health and reassure me of my career choices. Not a day goes by that I don’t receive an “I love you,” or “I’m proud of you” text message. My number one supporter has always been and always will be my mom. I am beyond appreciative of her as I progress in my educational journey. I am thankful for her light.