I grew up in a household where addiction was the norm, and stability was a distant dream. My father, a hardworking man, was also an alcoholic. As a child, I idolized him—mimicking his every move, even the destructive ones. I remember the times when I would pick up cigarette butts he left behind, trying to smoke them. One day, I grabbed a container I thought was filled with liquor, only to realize, too late, that it was kerosene. That near-fatal mistake should have been a wake-up call, but it was just the beginning of my struggle.

At six years old, my mother decided to leave my brother and me with our grandmother and move to California, searching for a better life for us. But to me, it felt like abandonment. I felt unloved, lost, and unseen. My relationship with my grandmother was strained—she favored my younger brother, and I sought to escape by running away, skipping school, and hopping trains.