National Foster Care Month: What Survival Actually Became

A post about survival, growth, and learning to define success on my own terms while recognizing how far I’ve come from where I started.

Each May, during National Foster Care Month, I reflect on a life that was never supposed to look like this.

I spent most of my childhood in foster homes, group homes, and a period of homelessness all before I was 17 and still in high school. There are parts of my story I continue to learn about even now, and by every early prediction, I shouldn’t be here. Not in these rooms. Not in this role. Not living this life.

And yet, I am.

For a long time, people have asked me, “What makes you different?” or “What made you successful?” I never had a clean answer, because I never saw it that way. I don’t believe in a line that separates successful from unsuccessful foster youth. I believe if you made it out of the system alive and into adulthood, you already made it. Everything after that is continuation not comparison.

But over time, I’ve come to understand something deeper about my own journey.

I started this race not just behind the starting line but in another field entirely. And still, through sheer persistence, I caught up. Then I passed places I never imagined I’d even see, let alone belong in. Not because I had perfect conditions, but because I refused to stop moving.

There were moments I couldn’t breathe in high school, moments I considered dropping out simply to escape the weight of everything. Moments I felt unseen, unloved, overlooked by the world and even by life itself. But what I didn’t recognize then and what I can clearly see now is that I was being sustained in ways I didn’t yet have language for. Small moments of support, reinforcement, and grace that kept me going when I didn’t know I was being held up.

That realization changed everything.

I’m originally from St. Louis, and during my freshman year of college I made the decision to move to Reno, Nevada. I did it to prove to myself more than anyone else that I could choose a direction for my life and follow through on it, even when others strongly encouraged me to stay on a different path to avoid instability. Today, I live and work in Reno, carrying forward everything those experiences taught me.

I’ve earned two degrees, with a third in motion (maybe haha). I serve in higher education as an assistant dean. I’ve formed lifelong connections through my professional and personal networks, and I’ve worked with talented writers whose work is being seen by major industry leaders. I’ve stepped into spaces I didn’t even have language for as a child in care.

It also reflects my experience working with and teaching college students, often without fully realizing the impact I am having in the moment. Over time, I’ve been able to see that impact come to life in ways I didn’t expect. I’ve supported current and former students in meaningful ways that are hard to fully articulate, and those experiences have reinforced how powerful presence, guidance, and representation can be in someone’s journey.

And on a deeply personal level, I’ve coached my son’s baseball team. He walks into my office and sees my name on the door. Something that would’ve been unimaginable to the kid I once was.

I’ve also learned through lived experience that growth is never a straight line. It is iterative, layered, and often built through skills you didn’t know you were developing while surviving.

But the most important shift is this. I no longer define success as a destination. I define it as the fact that I’m still here, still learning, still building, still choosing to grow.

And by that measure, I’ve already won.

And through sharing my personal story with new incoming college students to empower and inspire hope, I’ve realized the fight isn’t over. Every year, I meet a new student or two who are reliving the same conditions I was raised in. That reality grounds me. It reminds me that my story isn’t just something I survived, but something that is still actively unfolding for others. It turns reflection into responsibility.

To my fellow former foster youth, this is MVP work. There was minimal guidance, often no roadmap, and still we are here. Not just surviving, but shaping spaces that once never included us.

And I don’t take that lightly.

Even when things don’t unfold the way I envisioned, I don’t see it as loss. I see it as part of a larger path still shaping itself. I still smile, still move forward, and still feel anchored in the belief that I am always winning in ways that go beyond a single moment.

I carry that forward with gratitude, responsibility, and love for those still coming through the system now. My commitment is to keep opening doors, naming possibilities, and helping the next wave of youth see what I eventually had to learn for myself:

You were never disqualified from greatness. You were just early in a system that didn’t know how to measure you yet.