Open Your Eyes (7.5 minute read)

I was called “fast” and “grown.” But no one asked what was happening to me.

When I was younger, people gave me labels — fast, grown — without understanding what I was going through. They judged my behavior without ever asking why I was the way I was. The truth was, I was being messed with, in ways no child should ever experience. I carried that pain silently, and over time, it consumed me.

Control slipped away, and so did I.

As I grew, life felt less and less like it belonged to me. I felt trapped, stressed out, overwhelmed. I was hurting, deeply. Eventually, I was sent to California — an experience that was both beautiful and painful. California taught me a lot, but it also took me far away from everything and everyone I knew. I was alone, trying to understand a life that didn’t make sense.

During that time, my grandma — my safe space, my anchor — developed Alzheimer’s. My family home was gone, and so was the one person who truly saw me. Imagine being forgotten by someone who once held you so close. It broke me.

More loss. More loneliness.

My relationship with my mother unraveled. Our disagreements turned into me being kicked out. The school found out, social services intervened, and I ended up in a group home. I was surrounded by other kids without families or homes — kids who were also trying to figure out where they belonged.

I stayed on the “right path” until I aged out at 18. In January, I returned to my hometown to graduate. I thought it would be a fresh start. But returning wasn’t what I expected.

I was invisible.

Everyone had moved on. They had new friends, new lives. I wasn’t part of it. I didn’t feel included, loved, or even noticed. I felt abandoned, alone, scared. The world seemed to spin around me, but I stood still — invisible.

I’ll never forget that day after school, standing in the hallway as everyone rushed to their buses. I waited, hoping someone would see me, call my name, ask me to join them. But no one did. It was like I wasn’t there.

I wanted to end it all.

In that moment of despair, I opened a bottle of high-dose aspirin. I poured half the pills into my hand, ready to escape the pain forever. Tears blurred my vision. My heart was heavy, broken.

But then, a stranger — someone I had never seen before — grabbed my hand. They whispered, “It will be okay.”

I looked down, and when I looked back up, they were gone. Just like that. A moment of connection that saved my life.

I walked to the bathroom and dumped the pills into the toilet.

Even now, I still fight those thoughts.

I’m 28 now, and there are still days when I feel invisible. When those dark thoughts creep in, I have to fight them — sometimes harder than ever. But now, I fight for more than just myself. I fight for my boys. They give me a reason to keep going, even when it feels impossible.

That’s one of the reasons I’m taking this road trip around the outer parts of the United States. I’m searching for purpose, for meaning, for connection. I want to share my story with others who feel like life is too hard, who feel like they can’t go on.

I make others laugh so they don’t feel my pain.

People often tell me how funny I am, how much I make them laugh. What they don’t know is that I do it because I don’t want anyone to feel the way I’ve felt for most of my life. If I can give someone else a moment of joy, maybe it keeps them from feeling invisible, even for just a moment.

Open your eyes.

I share this story because we need to see each other. Truly see each other. Everyone is fighting battles we can’t see. When we dismiss someone as “fast,” “grown,” or “trouble,” we miss their pain. We miss their story. We miss a chance to help.

To anyone feeling invisible: You are seen. You are loved. Your story matters. I would love to hear it or read about it in the comments 

To everyone else: Open your eyes. You never know when your kindness, your words, or your presence might save someone’s life.