The Weight of the Cards Dealt

I was born without a safety net. Coming from a poor family isn't something I pit, nor is it a tragedy I ask anyone to grieve with me; it is simply the reality of my baseline. It means every step forward, every piece of stability I’ve secured, required twice as much work as it did for those around me, especially in a rich white suburb just shy of Philadelphia.

Now, everything I’ve built feels precariously close to slipping away. Losing my stable income was the first blow; To compound the nightmare, I was slapped with a defamation lawsuit by someone I had once trusted to care for me, a blow onto of the blow that was mental, physical, and sexual abuse. Finally, after calling 911 to report a stranger stalking me down South Congress Avenue, I was brutalized by guards inside the Travis County Jail after an unlawful arrest. Three major, traumatic events in a four-week span, all resting heavily on the shoulders of one person, me.

While the physical and financial trauma is heavy, the hardest part to process is the profound lack of compassion from the world around me.

Today, I reached out to Victims of Crime Compensation team in Texas, seeking answers about my rejected application for emergency financial assistance while I apply for jobs. Instead of assistance, the employee accused me of abuse just for asking questions, and then hung up on me mid conversation. When the very systems designed to support victims end up punishing them, the anger becomes impossible to ignore. This is just one example of the abuse I endure each day, and the lack of compassion that eats away at my soul. How can I exist in a world that hates me, simply for existing to begin with?

I am not free from the systemic chains of poverty, consumerism, and a male-centered world that often feels structured to watch me fail rather than help me succeed. No one is truly free when basic human dignity is conditional. I’m not unique in my experience, but I am exhausted from climbing the mountain of survival in America.

During my therapy session today, the focus turned to picking up the pieces. What can I do to zoom out? What can I do to support my success from this moment forward? As I sit alone with these burdens, the path forward feels like an impossibly steep mountain I have to climb. I still don't fully know how I am supposed to do this by myself, but sitting still isn't an option, so I perservere.

I will figure this out.. Not just for my own survival, but for Milo’s too. We deserve a good life, a roof over our heads, and a community defined by kindness, respect, and compassion, regardless of how neatly I fit into other people's expectations of me. I am me. I am kind, I am caring, I am hardworking, and I am dedicated. When I lost my job in May, I committed to speaking out against injustice, no matter how uncomfortable or scared it makes me feel. I’ve done that - and an in turn I’ve been beaten, raped, and slapped with lawsuits in an effort to silence my voice. This is my story- if I can’t share it freely, how am I supposed to move forward? How am I supposed to believe in the goodness of the people around me?

These may be the cards I was dealt, but they aren't the end of the story. I’m going to trudge forward, but God, please have mercy on me.

M.E.W.