Blog

When I was a sophomore, I stopped going to school. Not by choice, but because I got swept up by the system. What I thought was going to be a short week in a day program turned into years of living in various facilities. By the time I was supposed to graduate, I had almost entirely missed my sophomore, junior, and senior years. And yet, somehow, I still graduated on time.

If you’re wondering how that was possible, it is because a few of the facilities I lived in had “schools”. One of them was a tiny room at the top of a steep and narrow staircase, likely a repurposed attic. All of us, ages twelve to eighteen, were crammed in this space together. We did word searches and were rewarded with lollipops if we knew what 2+2 was. This was our education that counted toward our eventual graduation. After receiving my diploma and turning eighteen, I remained stuck in residential programs. It took a couple of extra years after that to convince the powers that be to allow me to go to college. During the years I spent between high school and college, I was not really living; I was just existing. Looking back on it now, I had successfully internalized what people who have never had experience with the system tend to believe about people like me: that we will never participate in society in a real way. That we are people who will never contribute to the world or amount to anything. I was in limbo. I didn’t believe I would get better, and a large part of me didn’t want to. It is easy to slip into that mindset, and it is even harder to pull yourself out of it.

I assumed I could never be successful, especially after missing so much school. Before all of this, I had loved school. I had big dreams. But by the time I was allowed to go to college, I had come to believe that everything was stupid, including the idea of school. When it came time to choose classes, I planned to take them online exclusively. I had no desire to meet people and make friends.

Luckily, somebody who worked at the college saw something in me and encouraged me to take classes in person. So, I did.

The first time I walked into the school, everything changed. For the first time in years, people spoke to me like I mattered, not like I was just another group-home kid. Like I had something to say that was worth hearing. I thrived in this environment. I was invited to take honors classes and was offered an internship exploring how trauma affects students in higher education. I finally felt like a person again. A person who was intelligent, valuable, and capable.

However, every day, after class, I had to return to the group home. There, I was spoken down to, reduced to a diagnosis, and dismissed as another “mentally ill” client. The whiplash of being respected in one place and degraded in another was exhausting. Still, I learned something from this infuriating contrast: that the person I witnessed on campus was, in fact, the real me.

Most people who have spent a lot of time in the system don’t get the opportunity I had. They don’t get the support, encouragement, or even the chance to prove themselves beyond the label placed on them. I am one of the lucky ones.

My story isn’t just about surviving the system; it’s about what can happen when someone finally believes in you. The truth is, potential exists in every single person who is overlooked or written off simply because of where they have been. I was never supposed to make it this far, but I did. Not because the system helped me thrive, but because I found a way to reclaim my worth in spite of it. Now, I am building a life that once felt impossible. My hope is that one day, others like me will not have to rely on luck to get the same chance.

Written by Ashley Smith, a Youth MOVE Massachusetts Intern