I was born and raised in the Bronx, New York. I’m a second-generation Puerto Rican, raised in a family where addiction, mental illness, and trauma were all around me. My mother suffered from severe depression and PTSD. She masked her pain with alcohol and a smile—pretending things were okay, even when they weren’t.
My childhood was filled with neglect and emotional abuse. We lived in filth—hundreds of thousands of roaches infested our home. I’d wake up with them crawling on me, their bite marks on my skin. In the morning, when I’d pour cereal into a bowl, roaches would scatter out of the box. I was constantly sick. My body reacted violently to my environment. I was in and out of hospitals, getting epinephrine shots just so I could breathe. I had severe respiratory issues because I was allergic to the roach feces that surrounded me.
At school, things weren’t any better. I was poor, dirty, and I smelled—and for that, I was bullied relentlessly. Every day was just about survival. And by the time I was 15, I couldn’t take it anymore.
I started skipping school, drinking, and using drugs—not because I wanted to be rebellious, but because I was trying to escape. I used substances to make friends, to find a place to stay, to survive outside the four walls that were supposed to be my home.
At 15, I started staying wherever I could—couch surfing with friends, sleeping in motels, traveling, just trying to stay one step ahead of the next crisis.
I avoided my mother’s house as much as I could, because even though it had walls, it wasn’t safe. It never felt like home.
There were nights I had absolutely nowhere to go. I remember curling up in parked cars or riding the D-train back and forth from the Bronx to Coney Island—all night—just to stay warm. Just to stay alive. Most of the time, I hustled for a roof. That meant putting myself in dangerous, terrifying situations. At 16, I even went to another country, desperate for something better—and I was almost kidnapped. I could’ve died. I almost did, more than once.
I also stayed with men who would let me stay in exchange for things I didn’t want to give. Some paid me. Some didn’t. I sold my body because I had to. Not because I wanted to. Because no one was helping me. I was a child, just trying to survive in a world that didn’t seem to care if I lived or died.
And that’s the part people don’t understand. Being homeless isn’t a choice. I didn’t choose this life. I didn’t want to be sleeping in cars or fearing for my safety or wondering where my next meal would come from. I didn’t have options. I didn’t have help. I fell through the cracks, and I had to figure it out alone.
What the government is doing right now—it’s not enough. Food and shelter should not be luxuries. They are basic human rights. We should be moving toward that truth, not further away from it. People are suffering. Children are suffering. I was one of them.
