I was blind from birth, diagnosed with Septo Optic Dysplasia. I was shy, and I didn't believe in myself. However, everyone else did. Wherever I went, everyone followed. With brownish red, thick hair and blue eyes that everyone complimented, I still never believed in myself. But, there was always one thing that I carry, one thing that I hold dear every second. I carry not a materialistic possession, but an idea, a thought. I carry triumph. I overcame so many struggles in my lifetime that made me grow like a budding flower. Still, I survive.

In 2016, my father faced a heart attack. He was starting up the four-wheeler that my Uncle Dean gave to me. My Dad fell over in pain and asked my Mom to take him to the hospital. This was a red flag to me immediately. Dad never went to hospitals, I thought. Something must be really wrong.

The first night, Mom took Dad to the Hospital in Clare, a quaint little village near where I lived in a village called Farwell. Farwell was a small village, and everyone knew me. I was famous in that village. The villagers helped me through everything. They comforted me when Dad was at the hospital. They made sure I was always ready to do my work, even though I knew my Dad was not quite right. Opinions are like buttholes, I thought. Everybody's got one. That was a saying Dad always used, and it made me laugh all the time. I repeated it over and over like a mantra in my mind, hoping it might help Dad.

The next day, Mom called me. She was the harbinger of bad news. "He had a heart attack," Mom said to me. "And now, he has to go to the Midland Hospital. They specialize in heart attacks, and they can help him there."

My mind was addled from the bad news, and I distracted myself with the cookbook I had just gotten from Challenge Mountain, a camp for the Blind. Mom called again with good news. "He has to get a stint in his heart and take medicine for life. We'll have to make changes to how we eat for him, but he'll survive!" My heart leapt at the thought of precious Dad coming back to me.

Months later, Dad improved, back to giving me and my sisters rides on my four-wheeler, back to making us milkshakes and helping us with school, back to all the things Dad did for his girls.

Later in this year, Grandma Tracey contacted me. She had made a fundraiser. It was for the Findlay Hancock County Public Library. Before the fundraiser, it had no books for me to read. All the sighted children could read books in the library, but I couldn't. Grandma Tracey raised $1330, and then a lawyer presented a check for $220 dollars. I was famous in the library by now. News articles were published about me, and I had a plaque dedicated to me. It said the following: This plaque is in honor of Abby Renea Hurt. I even had my own library card, and I loved it all. I am still commemorated to this very day.

Two years later, the fire happened. It was a scar in my mind, a trauma I can't get over. I had just won the school spelling bee two years in a row, and I was on my way to the Regional, for the second time in a row. I had also learned that night that my family was taking my sisters, Reva and Hope to Castaway Bay. I was so excited, I could barely wait. The date was April 12, 2018. On that day, I had so much fun, but little did I know I would have the worst night of my life.

I went to sleep, my dreams filled with winning the spelling bee and Castaway Bay. Bang! A sound played in the distance. Must be Dad doing something, I thought sleepily to myself. I was about to go back to sleep when the fire alarm pierced the house.

Beep! Beep! Beep! Over and over it beeped and warned, beeped and warned. Panic rang through us, as Hope and Dad said, "Wake up, girls! Go to the car!" The house where I
had lived most of my life, where I had made memories, where I had developed relationships, all burned around me. The memories, my chance at the spelling bee. Tears slowly streaked down my face. Would everything be okay? I thought desperately. It felt like forever getting away from the fire. My father, a hero as always, went into the house to search for our belongings. 

My sisters and I were waiting. Waiting for our father to be okay. Waiting for our Zoey, and our
Shadow, and our Tigger. We loved our pets with all our hearts, and to see them possibly ripped
away from us was hurtful. My sister Hope tried to comfort Reva and me, but to no avail. I was
crying silently as if I was a prisoner in a cell surrounded by a jailor's watchful gaze.

My dad went back into the inferno, bravely sacrificing his health for the three of us, a lion protecting his pride. I was vexed by this and tried to convince him to come back. He didn't. 911 was called. We waited. We waited some more. Just keep waiting, just keep waiting. Just keep waiting, waiting, waiting. I thought, It will be okay. Everything will be fine. I was okay, safe with my sisters. Dad would protect us. Still, I worried. At long last, the Red Cross and firefighters came and put out the fire. When Dad came out of the inferno, he stated he couldn't find Shadow or Tigger. Tigger was a stray we had found and taken care of.

The Red Cross put my family and I in the Baymont Hotel where we could stay safe. My big sister from Big Brothers Big Sisters, Lisa, came and comforted me because I hadn't gotten a lot of sleep from my tears. To this day, it still hurts me. When schools do fire drills, these bad memories come up.

At least I was still able to go to the spelling bee. That was my main worry. Reva and
Hope were always saying, "Stop it. You're not going." That hurt, but I still went. Mom drove me
up to Uncle Butch's house where puppies scratched me, and I screamed. Then, Mom took me to the Spelling Bee. My friends and family were there, cheering me on. It felt good to have so much support, but I was so nervous that I could barely stand still.

I held on to the Holy Crap Handle in the car on the way. I was filled with so much nervous energy that it suffocated me. It was a mixture of excitement as well. I didn't believe in myself. I entered the room, my body shaking. I could feel the eyes on me. My friends and family and even my old para, Miss Molly, were all watching from the seats. I held on to the fact that they were there for me, that I was the sole focus. The person who helped me on stage came and tried to comfort me but to no avail. I made the people laugh, though.

I came up to the microphone; I was the first one to get a word. I spelled it effortlessly. Several words followed. I had several turns. Suddenly, it was the last word. I spelled it also correctly. I got second place in the spelling bee. Unfortunately, though, I couldn't participate in the Scripps National Spelling Bee because Farwell couldn't afford it. After this spelling bee, I couldn't participate in any more, which hurts me still, and I wish that we could have more. I wish that there could be more spelling bees and that it would go until death.

Finally, I got some good news. Just before my 14th birthday, we moved to Lambertville, Michigan. It was a fresh start. I started eighth grade, and it was going well for a while. There was a time right before the pandemic when my para who was with me had to quit because of family reasons. I was passed around between para and para. They were all subs. I cried and cried. For that crying, for all the change, I had to go through many hardships on top of the change from school and house to school and house. I was very upset about this. This would never replace Farwell!

Then, before the pandemic hit, I thought I had a person. I rejoiced. They had it all planned, all so well thought out. Naturally, that's when it all went downhill. The pandemic hit, and it all went crazy from there. For the end of eighth grade and most of ninth, I had to endure virtual school. That was not a good format for me because I failed Algebra I. Then, in tenth grade, I had Geometry. It felt like no one understood me. I hid my true self from everyone. I was failing Geometry. The school was bashing on me for it. I wanted to give up. Luckily for me, an angel of mercy appeared, a spark of hope to lead me out of the darkness. Before the final exam, my teacher approached me and said she made a mistake. She said that one of the tests was supposed to be in the second quarter. She said that if I passed this test, it would boost my grade, and I would pass Geometry.

I studied all night and all day. Will I pass? I thought. Can I do this? She was worried for so long I could barely even think. Sure enough, I passed! Phew! I thought. No more graphing. That was like pulling teeth! Then, in the summer, my principal gave me the best gift of all: Summer School. I was to work with a math teacher, and he would help me pass. I soon passed two days after my birthday. I begged and begged to come back. I wanted to keep having school until summer's end. Sadly, I couldn't.

The good news came with the bad: her Grandpa Dan was diagnosed with terminal small-cell lung cancer. He still keeps pushing to this very day, and my mother said she was the heiress to a large amount of Grandpa's money and property. "Grandpa has a special place
for you in his heart. You'll never have to worry again. He left all of us his money, his farm, and
his house if he doesn't sell them." I was thankful for that news, but I wanted her Grandpa to keep on going. He was a survivor! I know it! I would do whatever it took to keep him going. I knew my grandpa had what it takes.

Triumph always prevails. I know that. I say it to everyone who crosses my path. Triumph is a weight that I love carrying, that I want everyone in the world to know. If a totally blind girl with self-esteem that is terrifyingly low can do it, you can too.