The desert wind whispered like my mama’s voice, telling stories that took me far beyond our little Phoenix block. As a kid growing up, sometimes life felt harsh and difficult. I never knew my father. I relied on myself and the support of my only family; my mama. 

She raised me on her own — a single mother through and through. We made the best of it though, never needing anything else but each other. At home, our small apartment bustled with laughter, and Mama’s amazing cooking always put a smile on my face. She always worked so hard. 

We weren’t rich, but we were happy, and every challenge made us stronger, like cacti in the sun. 

Eventually, I went on to high school. I took a ton of classes, did research competitions and even joined a club called Toastmasters to encourage me to speak and tell stories. Each step took me closer to a future full of possibilities, built on the wind’s whispers, mama’s amazing stories and her never-ending love.

Community college opened a world of knowledge that fueled my passion for people and their stories. I chose communication studies in college, which stemmed from a desire to improve my speaking confidence and storytelling skills. Like anyone trying something new, I faced some initial fear and hesitation, but I ultimately pursued this path because I believed it was the right fit. Determined, I took courses to confront that fear, gradually transforming anxiety into confidence and finding my voice.

Beyond the classroom, my heart opened a lot at St. Mary’s Food Bank, where I volunteered to provide meals and food to those in need. As I handed out supplies, stories of struggle and resilience painted a vivid picture far deeper than any textbook. These shared moments within my community sparked something unexpected—a sense that maybe, just maybe, God was working through the kindness and perseverance I witnessed. Some were on their last legs and still had a smile and a “thank you” to give. They brought a powerful reality to my studies, showing me the impact of storytelling, communication, connection and flickers of a higher power. 

In two years’ time, I graduated. With two associate degrees in arts and general studies with a communication emphasis in hand, my dreams were ignited, and the future seemed wide open.

Fresh out of college, I dove into the buzzing world of business sales. It wasn’t just about deals, but solving puzzles, understanding needs and crafting solutions. Dell saw my potential and helped me launch my career where I thrived within a team environment. Then, seeking new opportunities, came Google, where collaboration with clients and colleagues taught me the power of “we.” This success fueled not only my professional life but personal milestones too—a home, a car and a growing openness to spirituality (however, nothing concrete). Through all these accomplishments, I would still think back to the stories of strength and perseverance my mama used to tell me. Life was good.

Then, in 2020, COVID-19 slammed the brakes on everything. Sickness and isolation bloomed like toxic flowers, choking the economy and forcing me indoors. The vibrant world I knew shrank to the four walls of my home, work fading like an echo in the emptiness. Then, my mother unexpectedly passed away with COVID-19-related symptoms, leaving only memories. 

Waves of heavy loss crushed me, leaving me adrift. The aftermath affected my mental health and that, coupled with my inability to perform at work, led to my undoing. Before I could blink, I was another grim statistic — jobless, homeless, and lost. Yet, even in this darkness, there was light. My mother’s memory became my anchor, and her resilience my compass. Drawing strength from her whispered courage and the good spirit she instilled in me, I still felt her so close. The future stretched out like a vast uncharted ocean, and I refused to drown. Mama’s voice echoed in my heart, and surprisingly, God’s guiding hand felt closer than ever before. Somehow, I knew I would navigate the storm.

I had to escape the depths of my misery and find my sanity, so I left what I used to call home. The coastal waters of San Diego seemed like a good place to start. During the day, the ocean shimmered like a promise; its blue sparkle was a stark contrast to the gray fog of my past. But when the sun dipped below the horizon, the city transformed into a chilling beast. Parks became my forced shelters, and the biting December night temperatures weren’t very kind. Each morning, I’d rise with the sun, joining the hungry queue at the food bank and asking for help with resources to get back on my feet. 

I thought about how stark the contrast was from the days when I was on the other end of the table, the one offering a helping hand. Then fate dealt its cruelest blow. One night, while huddled on the cold, unforgiving park table, I stepped away for just a second and came back to emptiness. My small possessions, the last threads connecting me to my old life, had vanished. Despair froze my soul. Lost in a fog of defeat, I felt my spirit fading. With each shivering breath, I surrendered to the icy end.

Or so I thought. Out of the mist and fog, a woman silently walked up to me, placed two blankets on me, and then faded away into the dense fog like an angel sent from the heavens. I honestly couldn’t believe my eyes, and yet the warmth of the blankets that surrounded my body was unmistakable. I looked up into the sky and pondered for just a bit. Death’s shadow brushed against me, and its breath was the bite of winter. 

My whole life up until now, I never really knew God, and I was never into religion or faith, but I was not willing to chalk it up to a mere coincidence. In order for me to see, I first had to believe, and it was at that very moment that I knew God was real. The journey of truly knowing my Father began then, and despite never having one, I was excited to meet him. And to the one I loved most, I couldn’t help but tell her, “Mama, I have a good story to tell you.”