In August of this year, I will turn 40.
I'm in college now, chasing the dream I carried quietly for most of my life—to become a published author. And if not that, then at least to live in the world of stories, shaping and holding them the way they've always held me.
What many don’t know is that I dropped out of school in the 8th grade.
Because of that, I was told—and shown—that I would never become anything. That I was stupid. That I didn’t belong in the spaces where dreams are made.
But what they didn’t see was how I kept learning anyway.
I read everything I could get my hands on. I listened to documentaries like they were lullabies. I devoured knowledge like it was survival—because in many ways, it was.
At 21, without a prep course or study guide, I walked into a testing center and earned my GED. I passed every subject with the highest possible marks—except for math and science, which I barely scraped by. But I passed. And that mattered.
It took nearly two more decades to believe I deserved more—to believe I had the right to sit in a college classroom, even virtually. But here I am, 39, almost 40, and I’ve made the Honor Roll more than once. More than twice. I’ve proven over and over that I am not who they said I was.
I am who I say I am.
I am what I’ve built.
It’s taken almost two full years of college to even admit this, to look at the pride rising in my chest and let it stay. But I am proud. Not just of what I’ve done, but of the fact that I kept going, even when no one believed I could.
And I’ll keep going until that degree is in my hands.
Because I was never stupid. I was never less.
I was just unrecognized.
And now, I refuse to remain unseen.
And then, there are the people I’ve found along the way.
The ones who chose me, who stayed, who became family not by blood, but by bond.
They see things in me I still struggle to face.
They speak pride aloud when I try to bury it.
They hold up mirrors when I would rather look away.
In their eyes, I find proof that I am becoming someone worth believing in.
In their presence, I remember I’m no longer walking alone.
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