I was born into a world already marked by struggle. At just three months old, Child Protective Services took me from my birth mother. Those first days were a blur of uncertainty—a fragile infant thrown into the cold machinery of the foster care system.
My early years became a carousel of foster homes, each a temporary refuge that could quickly turn into a battleground. The children’s cries, shifting faces of caretakers, and unspoken fears became my constant companions. Abuse—physical, emotional, psychological—cast long shadows over my childhood. Burns marked my arms, as if cigarettes had branded me; my palms were scarred by matches. A foster sister introduced me to harsh, premature physical contact but also, paradoxically, protected me from worse harms within that broken home.
Yet even in that darkness, resilience grew. Amid the chaos, there were glimpses of light. Linda, my stepmother for a brief time, was a sanctuary of kindness and calm. She was the eye in the raging storm of my childhood, teaching me that love could be unconditional. But even her warmth couldn’t shield me forever. At age eight, without legal claim and after my biological father left, Linda had to return me to the state. I found myself in an orphanage—a place far from paradise, yet there I discovered something unexpected: chess.
A counselor introduced me to the game’s intricate patterns and strategies, and I took to it quickly. Chess became more than a pastime—it was a language of logic and foresight, a refuge where I could control something in a life otherwise unpredictable.
Around age ten, my world shifted again when I was adopted by a new family. Their home had its challenges—siblings who could be cruel, parents who were distant and authoritarian—but it was a place to start building belonging. It was also here that my spiritual journey began. Baptized into the Church, I felt a stirring inside—a call toward something greater than my past pain. The sealing at the temple and the patriarchal blessing I sought at sixteen laid a foundation for hope and purpose.
As a teenager, I didn’t belong to any particular crowd but moved easily between groups. I gravitated toward adults more than peers, finding friendship and encouragement with a home teacher companion who was a high priest. These connections deepened my faith even as I navigated the complicated landscape of adolescence.
After high school, I enlisted in the Army Reserve, completing basic training and Advanced Individual Training. Although I enjoyed monthly drills, I chose to enter the inactive ready reserve to answer a higher call: serving a full-time mission for the Church in Guayaquil, Ecuador.
