My earliest memories are of cold apartments and the sound of my grandmother’s prayers, muffled and desperate in the next room. My mother worked herself to exhaustion, but she never spoke my father’s name—except once, when she told me he had another family. That silence shaped me, but so did the fierce love between three generations of women, determined to survive in a world that tried to forget us.
One desperate morning at the supermarket, I found myself staring at a gallon of milk locked behind an anti-theft device, and everything in my world cracked. As a struggling single mom, I grappled with humiliation, anger, and the urge to provide for my son in a society where even basic necessities come with barriers. That day forced me to confront my own values, my community’s silent suffering, and the question of what kind of country we’re becoming.
I was once invisible on the streets of Chicago, fighting every day to keep my dignity and hope alive. After losing everything—my job, my home, even the trust of my family—I found purpose through unimaginable struggle. Now, I lead a movement that brings light to the darkest corners, proof that even the most broken roads can lead home.
My mother never spoke about my father, but once she told me he had his own family and children. My father knows I exist.
