On the last day of 8th grade English class, my teacher asked us to reflect upon our goals and

write a letter to our future selves. Dutifully, I grabbed my pencil, but could only stare at the
purple construction paper on my desk. When the bell rang 45 minutes later, the blank sheet
stared back at me, mockingly and accusingly; I could not identify a single thing that I wanted to
accomplish. This is the story about why.

A few months before that final day of 8th grade, I am curled up on the couch watching Big Fish
with my mom and sisters, when we hear slurred shouts from the hallway. We rush to find my
dad drunkenly hitting his head and mumbling, "I do not want to be here anymore. I want to go."

I drum my fingers together nervously and incessantly while whispering to myself, He doesn't
mean it. He's drunk. I repeat this until my heart stops racing and my fingers stop tapping. We
rush to procure some food and water, but when we return, he is gone. Five frantic minutes later,
we find him standing on an elevated surface with a rope around his neck.

I freeze. My mother, like a robot, calmly walks over to him, unties the rope, and helps him
down. It was clearly not her first rodeo.

At the time I attempted to write this letter to my future self, I was filled with anger, basing my
own self-worth on the misguided idea that I was not enough to get my dad to stop drinking. It
was difficult to survive each day, much less cultivate any long term dreams.

In my next class after English, everyone was celebrating the last day of middle school, and as I
watched my classmates laughing and having fun, something shifted. That blank letter clenched
in my fist began to appear as a blank canvas on which I could create a future; one free from my
father's disease and the shackles it precipitated. That moment was the dawn of a new attitude,
perspective, and motivation. I began to believe that I was strong enough to overcome the
negative feelings I harbored if I chose to, and I was determined to come out on the other side as
a survivor and a conqueror. As my classmates celebrated, I dragged a chair to a corner,
unfolded my crumpled blank letter, and wrote three things that I thought would make me happy:
Music, exercise, and working. As summer unfolded, I took it day by day, and my perspective
continued to grow and evolve. I grew from hating my father and my situation, to acknowledging
and accepting that they contributed to my story, but did not define me, Alice Martinez.

Dealing with my father's disease has molded my character and many of the values I hold close
to my heart. I live authentically, understand the fallibility of human nature, and know the power
of forgiveness, compassion, and self love. It is likely that I will face adversities equally or more
difficult than my journey with my father's alcoholism, but something I've learned is that I am
more than capable of surviving and overcoming these challenges. Dealing with my father's
alcoholism helped me find myself and heightened my gratitude for the gifts and opportunities
that life has to offer. If I found myself back in that English class today, "travel the world, manage
a major company, founder of a small restaurant by the ocean" are just a few of the aspirations I
would list. One thing I can say for certain is that present day Alice would not have enough space
to articulate all of her dreams and ambition on that small piece of paper.