Poet’s Note:
This poem is a reflection of my journey through the past two years — a time marked by loss, perseverance, and growth. Despite homelessness, grief, and countless obstacles, I refused to give up on my education or my family. As I prepare to graduate and turn 27, I carry every hardship as proof that resilience is real and that purpose can rise from pain.
Almost There
I started this climb in 2024,
books heavy,
heart heavier.
The road to school was paved
with loss,
with nights I called “home”
a place that barely held my name.
I carried grief like notebooks
my sister’s laughter folded
between the pages,
a baby I never got to hold
still echoing in my ribs.
And yet, I kept showing up.
Even when the drive from North Carolina
drained a tank and half my hope.
That old truck was horrible on gas,
but I drove it anyway
because staying still
wasn’t an option.
Now I’ve got a car,
and somehow, that small mercy
feels like a hymn.
No paycheck to catch me,
no job to make ends meet
just faith stitched to hunger,
and a dream I refused to bury.
My fiancé hurt,
both of us breaking and binding
in the same breath,
fighting courts and odds
to bring my nieces and nephew home,
to keep our family from scattering
like pages in the wind.
Before all that,
I fought just to get back here
back to the chance to finish
what life once paused.
And now, two years later,
I’m standing in the last stretch
of a storm that almost took me whole.
My son will turn four in January
bright-eyed,
proof that love grows
even through concrete.
And in May,
I’ll walk that stage.
A cap, a gown,
and the weight of a thousand prayers.
I’ll turn 27 right after
older, wiser,
carved by survival.
No one knows how long
these two years have been
unless they’ve lived a lifetime inside them.
But I did it.
I’m almost there.
And that almost
is already a miracle.