“Everybody’s got a plan till they get punched in the mouth,” shouts the bold letters on one of my dad’s favorite Mike Tyson tees. It’s taken me years to understand the meaning and why my dad loves the shirt. I’m the eldest of three girls, but whenever Dad is pitied for having all daughters, he never agrees. Personally, I think it’s because I am so athletic and brilliant, so he didn’t need a son. In fact, he nicknamed me “Charlie Hustle” normally just shortened to “Hustle,” that silly nickname is now part of my identity. It describes both the way I play basketball and the way I approach life.

Beginning in 2nd grade, everyday my dad would say “Attack the day”, to which I would respond with “with an enthusiasm unknown to mankind.” He has instilled in me a sense of confidence. My dad has taught me about all his favorite things cars, fishing, and football. And now I know how to change my oil, how to bait a hook, and I own a lot of Bengals’ merch. In 6th grade my friends and I created a fantasy football league. It included six boys, two of their dads, our male history teacher, my dad, and me. I insisted Dad not help me with my draft, although he slyly suggested I take Patrick Mahomes. Dad finished first, of course, and I finished second. My Dad is intelligent, abundantly kind, and strong. He’s my best friend. He is also a recovering alcoholic.

My relationship with my parents is unique. We are extremely honest and open. We had the drug and alcohol talk before the sex talk. My dad claims I saved him. He has been on a journey to sobriety since I was born. However, he didn’t just change his life, he completely shaped mine. Luckily, I didn’t live in a household destroyed by addiction because of my dad’s perseverance, but I saw the fight. Many nights he struggles to sleep, he has missed events to attend AA meetings, or time with old friends who only wanted to “have a beer.” Two years ago, Dad sat me down and told me he had a drink. He was disappointed in himself and felt like he let me down. I held back tears because I couldn’t bear to make him feel any worse. But I went to my room and sobbed. Why did he drink? Is he okay? How will he recover? In his fight to overcome his relapse, however, I only saw grit, determination, and hustle to get better.

My parents joke I got their best qualities. My mom is graceful, levelheaded, and ethical while my dad is tough, humorous, and empathetic. I didn’t genetically receive these qualities; they were engrained in me. Recently, my father gave me a letter he wrote two months before I was born, and I can’t believe how relevant his words still are. August 31st, 2005, he wrote, “Aways stand up for yourself, never let anyone talk down about our family or yourself, and never be afraid to fight.” I am proud of the blood in my veins and the fight he put there.

I have a plan. I haven’t been punched in the mouth yet, but because of the foundation my parents gave me, I am abundantly confident that, if I do, I will get back up and wear my bruises proudly. Addiction is not a weakness or something to be ashamed of. Struggle is powerful. I was raised to be a lover and a fighter. My dad ended the line of addicts in his family, and I will be the first Rust to attend college. My dad taught me I am capable of anything and gave me a role model of the hard work that takes. I am confident that, because of their sacrifices, I will always attack each day with an enthusiasm unknown to mankind.