When people ask where I’m from, I give a vague smile and say, “Here and there.”
It’s easier than explaining the truth: foster homes, nights spent staring at unfamiliar ceilings,
and a childhood defined by being passed from one place to another.
By the time I turned 18, I had learned not to expect much from the world. But there was one teacher,
Mr. Peterson, who refused to let me fade into the background. He pushed me, believed in me,
and encouraged me to apply for a college grant. Without him, I don’t know where I’d be.
College wasn’t easy. While others called home for money or advice, I juggled two jobs and survived on
microwave dinners. After graduation, I landed a position as an assistant to a relentless businessman.
He taught me everything: how to negotiate, how to read people, and how to work harder than anyone else in the room.
Five years later, I left to start my own logistics company. By the time I turned 34, I had built a life I was proud of—
a life that felt worlds away from my beginnings. I thought I had finally moved on from the questions about my past.
