I am from acres of open fields and woodlands, a black shingled brown house nestled in a small town, a flowing creek and open yard accompanying my home.

I am from the strong steady hands of a wise father, and the warm comfort of a mother’s welcoming embrace.

I am from the golden sunlight filtering through the bay window, casting my faint shadow on the carpet and brightening the house by shining off the furnished hardwood floors.

I am from the giant wooden table crafted from my grandfather’s hands that every family gathering has taken place around. Food aromas mixed with the loud conversation of cousins, aunts, and uncles while crowding around the finished oak surface for a big family meal together, for every occasion.

I am from my father’s reoccurring reminders of “never let anyone else push you around”, building my strength and readying me for the world I faced ahead of me.

I am from the occasional walks down back roads surrounded by woods following the creek, where we’d go to splash around under the radiant summer sun.

I am from a family of Latvian blood; my father’s side of heritage also teaching me the ways of hunters, where my good shot originated from. A mixture of Polish and Native American, my mother’s side blessed me with an intellectual touch, making me aware of the world around me.