Cardboard boxes were my constellations, rearranged every two years to chart a new, temporary sky. Each move was a forced shedding, a ritualistic discarding of the familiar, leaving behind the ghost of a swing set, the faded chalk outlines of daisies, and the secret language whispered between neighborhood trees. I learned how to neatly and efficiently pack the important things in my life into small boxes before effectively learning how to ride a bike. Each house we moved into grew more distant from the school I attended, lengthening the walk I had to make after school. At seven years old, I had to walk three miles home each day, blood seeping through my worn-in sneakers as my feet grew more and more agitated. The trek through large neighborhoods with freshly mowed lawns and laughter echoing down the street felt both distant and mocking, as well as a reminder of the reality I had in contrast to the people I went to school with.
As I got older, I started recognizing the differences between me and my classmates. I became evidently aware that I did not have access to television or that I was not wearing the newest, most fashionable pair of sneakers that the other girls in my class were wearing. New shoes and clothes were a luxury, and hand-me-downs, which were often ill- fitting and worn, were the norm. Vacations were tips to Yauger Park, and entertainment was reading a book, writing a song, or competing with my siblings to see who could round up the biggest amount of loose change from around the house. We were poor, a fact that wasn’t whispered or hinted at, but rather a loud, undeniable truth that permeated every aspect of our lives. However, poverty wasn’t just about the lack of material possessions; it was a constant, gnawing anxiety. It was the fear of the electricity being shut off, the dread of a medical emergency, and the shame of someone realizing that the notebooks I used for school were halfway filled with words from the person who used it the year before me. It was the feeling of being perpetually on the outside, looking in at a world that seemed so effortlessly accessible to others. Dinner was often a variation of chicken or rice, stretched thin to feed my family of five. Many nights, the only plates that were prepared were for me and my two little brothers, my parents salvaging what was left on our plates when we were done for themselves. Christmas presents were wrapped in various colors of construction paper that the elementary school my mom worked at let her take from the teachers’ lounge. It was unbeknownst to me that there was a certain type of paper specific to presents until I first gained access to the internet in sixth grade.
However, while poverty is a formidable adversary, it also became my unlikely teacher. I was plagued with the feeling of being defined by scarcity, yet I was rich with important lessons that I have carried with me since very early on. With limited access to toys, video games, and television, my imagination became my playground. The cardboard boxes that were once packed to the brim with my entire life transformed into castles, I crafted old sheets into capes for my brothers, and built forts with our rundown couch cushions as we escaped into worlds of adventure and possibility. Witnessing my parents’ dedication to provide for our family motivated me to be resourceful, as I learned how to mend rips in my clothes, holes in my shoes, and how to find creative solutions to everyday problems, which also became a testament to my independence. I became adept at finding beauty in simplicity, understanding that wealth was not measured in material possessions but in the love and support I was surrounded by. This creativity, born from necessity, taught me to see potential in the mundane.
I was also taught the importance of community, the kindness of strangers, and of the helping hand extended in times of need. The local food bank, the friends that donated clothes, and the neighbor who offered a ride home from school—these acts of generosity were the beacons of hope in a world that often felt cold and indifferent. As I grew older, I realized that poverty was not a life sentence. It was a challenge, a hurdle to overcome, a fire that forged my character. Learning to appreciate every blessing, no matter how small. The simple pleasures—a warm meal, a sunny day, a kind word—became my sole sources of joy. This gratitude fostered a positive outlook, enabling me to face challenges with hope and resilience.
At a young age, I taught myself to be a master of deflection, downplaying my circumstances with a forced nonchalance that masked the deep-seated insecurity within. Though the stories etched into my bones and the lessons learned in the shadows are not marks of shame, but a reminder of a cultivated strength that cannot be bought or broken. I learned to wring resilience from thin air, to build community from shared struggles, and to see the world not just for what it lacked, but for the boundless potential that remained.
Most importantly, I learned that one is not defined by the poverty they endured, but by the unwavering spirit that refused to be extinguished. We are the architects of our own abundance; built from the very foundations they tried to deny us.
