I remember going to the church shelter that we went to the most, looking for her. I remember the staff looking at me with pity in their eyes, and my realizing that I never wanted to be looked at that way again. I remember sneaking out of there before social services came for me, sleeping under monkey bars that night. I remember spending the next few weeks sneaking in and out of shelters and soup kitchens, sleeping in beds sometimes, closets other times, never staying anywhere long enough for my case worker to catch up with me, never finding my mother. After a few weeks, a lady at one of the church-run soup kitchens asking me if I wanted to help make cookies. Me foolishly saying yes. Being cornered by this lady, my social worker, and a priest I would learn to call Father Joe.

The next several years being a bit of a blur. Foster homes, group homes, some state run, some church run. Father Joe getting me involved in the church school I was enrolled in the whole time. Him getting me to help plant gardens, or try to learn a musical instrument. Foster homes that were good, foster homes that were bad. Running away form several of them, ending back up at the same church-run homeless shelter until getting picked back up by Social Services. The words that summarise this point of my life: neglect, abuse, hunger, sometimes happy, sex, learning what people really want from you. My first love on a playground, sharing a moment over a sunshine meal toy. More men coming into bedrooms at night, girls pulling me into bathroom stalls at school. Didn’t matter, they all wanted the same thing from me. I was almost fifteen when I finally snapped. I said fuck this. I was tired of being used, tired of the trail of homes, of not having any control in my life. I remember stealing $200 from my current foster parents, packing a small bag with my worldly possessions, and hopping a bus to LA. I hit that starting line to a new life and took off running.