The Girl Who Stopped Unpacking
I was sixteen when I decided I was done with school.
It was not one dramatic event that pushed me to that decision. There was no final argument, no single terrible day. It was simply the result of years spent learning that nothing in my life was permanent.
Homes were temporary.
Promises were temporary.
Even adults who said, “You’re safe here,” could change their minds by the following month.
I had been moved through so many foster placements that I eventually stopped unpacking my bags. My clothes remained folded inside an old blue suitcase with a broken zipper. Wherever I went, I kept my shoes near the door.
That way, when someone told me I was being moved again, I could leave quickly.
Some foster families were kind but overwhelmed. Others treated me like an obligation they had reluctantly accepted. A few tried to make me feel welcome, but by then, I no longer trusted warm smiles or carefully prepared bedrooms.
Every time I allowed myself to believe I belonged somewhere, I ended up leaving.
So I learned not to belong.
At school, I became the girl who sat in the back and rarely raised her hand. I was not unintelligent. In fact, I secretly loved science. I loved learning how the human body worked—how the heart continued beating through exhaustion, how broken bones repaired themselves, and how tiny cells worked together to keep a person alive.
But liking something and believing you could build a future from it were two very different things.
College seemed like a fantasy created for students whose parents attended meetings, helped with homework, and saved money in accounts with their children’s names on them.
What happened next changed everything… FULL STORY on the next page.
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