My name is Simone, and at 31 years old, I’m facing a decision I never imagined I’d have to make. I’ve built a life I’m proud of, but the past has a way of showing up when you least expect it. I’m hoping that by telling my story, I can finally see things more clearly.
When I was 16, my mother told me I had to leave. Her boyfriend was moving in, and he didn’t want “another man’s kid” living under the same roof. I remember standing there, stunned, asking her where she expected me to go.
She shrugged and said, “You’ll figure it out.”
That was it.
One night I had a home. The next, I didn’t.
I walked out carrying a single backpack. No savings. No plan. Just a teenager pretending not to be terrified. At first, a couple of friends let me sleep on their couches. I tried to stay small — not to eat too much, not to be in the way, not to overstay my welcome. But eventually, those options ran out.
After that, I slept wherever I could — on benches, in stairwells, sometimes in places I’m still ashamed to describe. I learned which spots were safest, which people to avoid, and how to make it through the night without drawing attention.
I finished school late because survival came first. I took whatever work I could get — washing dishes, cleaning offices, stocking shelves overnight. I went hungry more times than I can count. There were days I felt invisible, like I had slipped through a crack in the world and no one even noticed.
What hurt most wasn’t the cold or the hunger.
It was the silence.
My mother never called to check if I was okay. Never asked where I was sleeping. We barely spoke. It was as if I had stopped existing the moment I walked out that door.
So I learned to exist without her.
I learned to survive without anyone.
And slowly, painfully, I built something from nothing.
