Walking off that stage with my Bachelor of Business Administration in Management on May 4, 2024, felt like a moment of triumph hard-won. I was proud, hopeful, and ready for anything that came next. Two days later, I accepted a position in campus housekeeping—good, humble work that I did with conscientiousness and dignity. But the sense of accomplishment I felt soon began to be undermined. There was no proper training, no access to regular supplies, and I was paired with a partner who rarely pulled her weight. The sweltering summer heat, physical exertion, and emotional exhaustion piled up fast. In the meantime, I was living in a tiny home away from my emotional support animal, Scarlett. My body ached, and my spirit felt isolated.
In August, a ray of hope resurfaced. Scarlett and I moved into our own apartment in Waco, and I began my dream job as a Graduate Apprentice for Student Leadership Development at Baylor University. The team was wonderful, the work fulfilling, and I felt like I was exactly where I was supposed to be. I also began my Master of Higher Education and Student Affairs program—driven, motivated, and willing to do whatever it would take to be successful. But as the semester progressed, I was overwhelmed by its demands. The work was deeper, denser, and more complex than I had expected. Managing full-time work, graduate school, and maintaining myself was a daily uphill battle. But I believed I was hanging in there—until a November meeting with the director of my program blindsided me. I was told my grades weren’t good enough to continue.
The news broke something in me. Not just because of the academic letdown, but because of how it went down—out of the blue, without support, without room to fight for myself. I pleaded with the one person I knew would understand: my mentor. Her response was swift, sympathetic, and steady. She created room for my meltdown, pointed out that systems can fail even the most dedicated students, and said that my effort, my heart, and my dedication had never gone unnoticed. The same kindness was echoed in my supervisor, who sat with me—both of us in tears—and said that I hadn’t failed anyone. If anything, the program had let me and others like me down who were just trying to get by.
By December 28, I was finished at Baylor. I spent the following month at my parents’ house, in a cloud of disappointment and decision. I would not give up on my schooling and applied to a number of programs and was eventually drawn to Grand Canyon University’s online programs. Their flexibility, course of study, and a sympathetic admissions rep made me feel seen. I began classes in January and have gone on to make a 4.0 GPA in four classes completed. But despite academic success, the job hunt sucked me into yet another cycle. I was rejected and rejected, oftentimes in utter silence. My parents’ pressure to “get it together” mounted, even though I had always cut life on my own terms. I began to internalize their doubt and question my value.
I found myself working as a hostess at a restaurant by default. It was never my aspiration, but it was income. It soon turned toxic, though. I was berated by colleagues, ignored by management, and scheduled against availability that I had been very clear about. When a customer screamed in my face during a shift and no manager came to help for what felt like forever, something had to give. My dad—who had pushed me to get the job in the first place—told me flat out: no job is worth this. That was all the permission I needed. I quit on June 9, without notice or fanfare. I never heard anything afterward. And the silence? It spoke volumes.
These recent months have been more challenging than I ever expected. Depression and anxiety have been constant companions. Some days, getting out of bed itself appears to be an impossibility. The lake—that had become my source of spiritual connection—appears distant. I have not gone to therapy for weeks following a disappointing session. I’ve resumed medications that I thought I was done with, and even simple spiritual disciplines such as church and Bible study have been harder to approach.
Now, as I near the end of my lease in Waco, another shift looms heavy on the horizon: I have no choice but to move back in with my parents—despite a history that makes the space feel far from peaceful. It’s not just a change in location; it’s a step into an emotionally complicated space that threatens the independence and healing I’ve worked so hard to build. The decision isn’t out of comfort, but out of necessity—a reminder that sometimes survival means returning to places we’ve outgrown.
And yet here I am. Still trying. Still trusting—though weakly—that this pain is not without a purpose.
They recently played The Father’s House by Cory Asbury in church. I just stood there and cried. The words touched me in a way nothing else had in weeks. I’d been feeling such a failure, but that moment opened something up in me. It reminded me that I am not my worst moments—that even when I’m lost, I’m still being held.
That’s where I am today: going forward not because I have answers, but because I still have faith. I’ve survived what could have broken me. I’m learning that sometimes grace looks like still trying. And grit is choosing to trust that every chapter—especially the hardest ones—can shape you into something stronger.
That’s not weakness. That’s purpose in action.
Faithful Healing 