Kendalynn Friend
When I look back on where I came from, it feels like a different world from where I stand today. I grew up in a small town in eastern Kentucky, a place that seems to have been forgotten by time and opportunity. The backdrop of my childhood was a community filled with addiction, poverty, and generational cycles that most people don’t escape. My parents, both addicts, were unable to provide the stability and security a child deserves. By the time I was 16, I was living with someone who wasn’t even related to me, working jobs just to keep myself afloat, and learning what it meant to survive without a safety net.
Kendalynn Friend
I didn’t grow up thinking college was possible. No one in my family had ever gone, and when I talked about the idea, people looked at me as though I were imagining something impossible. Yet, deep down, I knew education was my way out—the one tool that could help me break the cycle of poverty and addiction that surrounded me. I wanted more, not only for myself but also for my six younger siblings who were watching me, waiting to see whether someone from our family could actually make it.
The first big challenge came when I applied to college. Because I had been financially independent for years, I had to write a letter to my university explaining my circumstances: that I supported myself; that my parents were unable to provide any help; and that every bill, meal, and basic expense came out of my own pocket. It was intimidating to put my life on paper, exposing the reality of my situation to strangers, but it was necessary. That letter became one of the first times I realized my story wasn’t just a burden—it was a strength.
Once I started school, the financial struggle intensified. While some of my classmates received care packages from home or financial help from parents, I was juggling part-time jobs, scholarships, and careful budgeting to make it all work. There were nights I went without enough food and months when I worried whether I could pay rent and still keep up with the costs of daily living. But those moments taught me lessons about money that no classroom ever could.
I learned quickly the difference between wants and needs. I learned how to stretch a dollar so that not only did my bills get paid but I also had a small emergency cushion. I discovered the power of financial literacy—how saving, no matter how little, creates a sense of stability in a life that otherwise felt uncertain. While I couldn’t yet invest in stocks or retirement accounts, I was investing in myself. Each tuition payment, each late-night study session after a long shift at work, was a contribution to a future I could barely yet imagine.
Graduating with my bachelor’s degree was more than just walking across a stage. It was proof—to myself, to my siblings, and to anyone who doubted me—that where you come from doesn’t have to define where you end up. I was the first in my family to wear a cap and gown, and the pride in that moment extended far beyond me. My brothers and sisters saw it happen. They saw that someone from our little town, someone who had faced the same struggles they face, could push through and achieve something no one thought was possible. That moment lit a spark of possibility for them.
Still, I know the journey ahead won’t be easy. Pursuing a graduate degree means new challenges: larger financial commitments, higher expectations, and the constant balancing act of academics and survival. But I carry with me the lessons I’ve already learned about money, resilience, and sacrifice. I know how to live within my means, how to say no to unnecessary expenses, and how to prioritize what will matter 10 years from now over what feels good today.
If there’s one message I want to leave my siblings—and others who come from backgrounds like mine—it’s this: financial struggle doesn’t mean financial failure. Growing up poor, with addicted parents and no financial guidance, I could have easily fallen into the same patterns. But instead, I chose to view money not as a source of shame or stress but as a tool. A tool that, when managed carefully, could create opportunities, security, and freedom.
I’ve had to learn financial lessons the hard way, through trial and error, through working hours I should have been sleeping, through choosing between groceries and gas. But those lessons have given me wisdom that will stay with me long after I earn my degree. I want to carry those lessons into my future career, using not only my professional skills but also my personal experience to show others—patients, peers, and even my siblings—that it’s possible to take control of your life, no matter the circumstances.
My dream is not just to succeed individually, but to lift others with me. I want to stand as proof to my siblings that we can make it out of eastern Kentucky, that we are not doomed to repeat the mistakes of our parents, and that we can build lives rooted in stability, education, and financial independence. One day, I want to be the person who can help my siblings pay for their schooling, who can send care packages, who can offer them the support I never had.
The White Coat Investor’s mission resonates with me deeply because I know firsthand how financial decisions can shape a person’s future. I know that learning to manage money wisely, even when there isn’t much of it, can mean the difference between staying stuck and moving forward. And I know that by continuing my education, building a stable career, and making smart financial choices, I can change not just my story but the story of my entire family.
I may have started with nothing, but I refuse to let that define me. I’ve built my path step by step, dollar by dollar, and choice by choice. And as I continue forward, I’ll carry both the scars of where I came from and the pride of knowing I’ve turned those hardships into fuel. This scholarship would not just support my education—it would be another reminder to my siblings and to myself that perseverance, financial discipline, and hope can carry you further than you ever imagined.