“I was 12 the first time I was taken away. I didn’t have much—just a trash bag with my clothes and a few old toys. Each house felt different, and I was always the ‘new kid,’ the one no one really knew. I kept moving, from one place to another, never staying long enough to unpack. I couldn’t dream about the future when I didn’t even know what tomorrow looked like. School was tough, not because I didn’t try, but because I had too much on my mind—like, where I’d sleep next or if anyone would ever care enough to stick around.
When I turned 18, I aged out of the system with nowhere to go. No family, no support—just a few more trash bags and a world that felt just as lonely as before. I ended up sleeping on park benches and in shelters, trying to survive without a home. A few years later, when my own child entered foster care, I realized I was right back where I started, watching history repeat itself. I wished someone had been there for me back then, because maybe, just maybe, it would have been different for both of us.”