I Had to Choose  

There’s something nobody tells you about being on the edge, like how quiet the breaking point is. It doesn’t arrive with sirens or screams. It creeps in on an ordinary day, when you’re tired from a double shift, proud of yourself for showing up, and hoping maybe, just maybe, home won’t feel like a battlefield this time. 

But it did. 

That night, after another fight with my mom, I asked my little brother to help me pack. I didn’t cry. I didn’t yell. I just said, “Help me put my stuff in the car. I’m not coming back.” I was too close to the finish line, too close to my college graduation, to risk my peace for pain. 

I drove to a hotel and got a room with two beds. One was for my needs. The other, for my wants. 

I laid out my life in piles, not just of clothes and toiletries but choices. One bed held the essentials: my shower stuff, my work uniform, my school supplies. The other held dreams I couldn’t afford to carry, things I wanted but didn’t need to survive. I slept next to survival that night. I left desire behind. 

That’s where the story really begins. Not at my graduation, not in the cap and gown with the stitched-on dreams. It started with that decision, in a hotel room, surrounded by silence, where I realized I would rather live in my car than live in chaos. 

I spent the next two weeks like that. During the day, as a social work intern, I was intervening in court cases and teaching life skills to youth in residential care, then Door Dashing all evening, hustling meals to strangers not only to scrape together gas money but to keep myself moving. (A parked car can be a target. For a young Black woman alone, staying mobile felt safer than risking harassment or worse.) After that, I’d clock in for the third shift at a group home, and when the sun came up, I’d sneak into my office, nap for two hours in a chair, splash cold water on my face, and start over. There was no time to feel sorry for myself. I was grinding too hard to let grief catch up. 

I had no bed. No shower. No quiet corner of the world that felt like mine. 

Until Covenant House. 

I found them through a link in an email after reaching out for help. Something told me not to call, just go. So, I did. I walked in on a Saturday and put my name on a list. On Monday, they called me back for intake. I walked through the doors that day with low expectations and a broken spirit. But what I found floored me. 

The welcoming staff was an added layer of comfort. They were everywhere, running the building, running the show. Running toward me, not from me. 

I was greeted by Shalisa, who to this day reminds me of my granny — my rock, my heart, my anchor, gone just months before. Shalisa didn’t question me. She believed me, stood up for me, and made me feel like someone worth fighting for. 

At Covenant House, they handed me clean linens, a private room, and something I hadn’t felt in months: dignity. I took a hot shower and fell into a bed that didn’t require explanation. I didn’t have to sleep in my car with the seats reclined. I didn’t have to calculate which gym I could sneak into for a rinse. I didn’t have to perform strength while silently breaking. 

For the first time in a long time, I rested. 

I ate food that didn’t come from a fast-food bag. I did my skincare routine without rushing. I breathed deeper. I laughed louder. I stopped moving to stay afloat and started moving with intention, with direction, with hope. 

I didn’t just survive. I healed. 

Covenant House didn’t just hand me a dream. They reminded me I had one all along. 

And now, I’ve made it. At 22, I’m a college graduate with a degree in social work. The same girl who was once expelled from high school now teaches life skills to youth in care, shows up in spaces that once tried to shut her out, and chooses daily to be a safe place, something she never had. 

The staff at my internship offered me a full-time job. They saw in me what Covenant House saw. What Shalisa saw. What my granny saw. A young woman who’s more than her hardships. A young woman who’s going to change the world. 

My story isn’t just about homelessness. It’s about resilience. It’s about the quiet power of being seen. Of being believed. Of someone saying, “you can stay here.” 

To the supporters, to the people who make Covenant House possible, I need you to know that your gift isn’t just a bed or a meal. It’s a second chance, a breath of air, and belief in someone who’s trying to believe in themselves. 

You may never see all the results. You may never hear all the stories. But I promise you this: your support is not wasted. It lives in me, in the youth I serve, in every want I left behind that is now becoming a reality. 

And to that girl in the hotel room, I say—you did it. 

You picked the right bed.