“Andrew. wake up!”
My mother whispers it urgently into my ear, jolting me awake. “We have to leave now,” she urges, her voice filled with panic. “There are men outside coming to kill us.”
I am 6 years old.
This is not the first time my mother’s delusions have turned our world upside down. In the past she has sent me to lock the doors, desperately trying to keep out the imaginary threats she believed were closing in on us; I would eventually stuff what I could into my backpack and we’d drive away, leaving everything else behind. Chaos defined my childhood — a life of fear and confusion as I tried to make sense of an unstable world.
I was the eldest of seven children, born into a household fraught with instability. My mother, a single parent, suffered from bipolar disorder and paranoid schizophrenia, conditions she’d developed at the tender age of 16 after giving up her first child to the foster system. I was the child who replaced this lost sibling, and from the moment I was born, I became entwined in my mother’s turbulent world. Her mental illness kept friends and family at bay, leaving me to bear the brunt of her condition.
By the time I was 5, my role in the family had shifted dramatically. My mother, overwhelmed, pulled me out of kindergarten to assist with child care — the beginning of my lifelong role as caretaker for my six younger siblings. While other children my age were learning to read and write, I was changing diapers, preparing meals and consoling my mother through her incessant bouts of grief. Later in life, in a brief moment of clarity, my mother admitted that she had viewed raising me as nothing more than babysitting, a devastating revelation.
We moved more than 20 times before I started high school. Amidst this turmoil, I found solace in education. School became my sanctuary, a place where I could temporarily escape the dysfunction. My teachers, recognizing the tumult I faced daily, became more than just educators: They were my mentors, the source of attention and care I so desperately needed and craved. Education became the one aspect of my life I could control. Through it all, I managed to thrive academically. With schoolwork as my refuge, I clung to the prospect of a better future, fueled by a determination to succeed. There simply was no other option.
In high school, I knew that college was my way out of the chaos. Despite long odds, I applied to UCLA, one of the most prestigious universities in the country. I had no idea I had even been accepted until one day I found my acceptance letter stuck to the bottom of an outdoor trash can. My mother, in a cruel act of sabotage, had thrown it away.
In the fall of 1999, I moved into Hedrick Hall with nothing more than a backpack of clothes and an old blanket I’d found at a laundromat earlier that year. My first quarter at UCLA was the most challenging period of my young adult life: I finally had a bed of my own and consistent meals, but I struggled with the guilt of leaving my siblings behind to suffer. My mother fell back into drug use, and they were all eventually split up into the foster system. The weight of all of it was almost too much to bear. But I knew that I had to keep going, not just for myself, but for them. Succeeding at UCLA would be a key step toward securing a brighter future for both myself and my family.
I started as a biology major, but I was unprepared for the challenges of physics and math; as a result, I was placed on academic probation my first quarter. Seeking help, I spoke with an academic counselor who guided me to reconnect with my favorite high school subject, history. This shift allowed me to explore the complexities of the human experience through writing, a powerful tool that helped me make sense of my past. I quickly switched my major, excelling as a writer and finding academic success.
UCLA’s support systems provided me with the resources I needed to navigate this new chapter of my life. I received financial aid that allowed me to live on campus; my resident assistant always made sure to include me in building activities. The support was a lifeline, and I threw myself into my studies with a dogged determination.
In continuing my education, I was admitted to graduate school at UCLA. But now I faced a new challenge: gaining custody of two of my siblings who had been placed into the foster system. After a long ordeal with the courts, and with the support of UCLA’s family housing program, I was able to bring them to live with me as I pursued my master’s degree. It was a full-circle moment — a chance to provide the stability and care that had been so lacking in our lives growing up. The journey wasn’t easy. But it was a proof of the power of education and the importance of support systems for those who come from challenging backgrounds.
My road to UCLA was not straightforward, but it was, perhaps, a testament to the resilience of the human spirit. From navigating the challenges of my mother’s mental illness to overcoming the obstacles that nearly derailed my college dreams, I have learned that perseverance, support and a commitment to education can transform even the direst circumstances. My siblings face their own challenges yet continue to carry on, evidence of our shared resilience. Now, in my professional capacity, I am dedicated to fostering an environment where students can thrive, helping them unlock their potential and pursue their dreams with the same encouragement that paved my own path. Onward!
Read more from UCLA Magazine’s Winter 2025 issue.
