[In February 2021, a nomadic life for Rose, her mother, and six brothers and sisters ended when their RV home was destroyed in a fire, and they relocated to a Brooklyn homeless shelter. For long months she was often hungry, bullied by classmates, and depressed, until a cautious but heart-to-heart talk with a middle school counselor began to lift her spirits. Her story, in her own words, continues here.] 

Then, in the summer between 9th and 10th grade, the front desk manager knocked on the door to tell my family that we were finally off the waiting list for public housing. “What borough do you want to live in?” she asked. My mom asked for Manhattan, and it took a month for our NYCHA (public housing) apartment in Harlem to be ready. 

I was happily stunned when I walked in. The apartment is on the fifth floor, with big windows, which we could open and shut, looking over the city. It has wood floors, not concrete. The walls were painted a beautiful, clean white. 

It felt like a home. 

It seemed like all of us had shut down our emotions and separated from each other in order not to acknowledge how bad life in the shelter was. In the apartment, we gathered like a family again, watching movies together on the couch like we used to. That Christmas, we got a tree for the first time in several years and opened presents together.  

Along with the apartment, my family received enough money to buy beds, a couch and other furniture, and new clothes. Having decent clothes and a reliable shower helped to end the bullying in my 10th grade year.

I started to realize how bad life in the shelter had been. With some distance and perspective, I thought, “I can’t believe I had to go through that so young,” instead of “It’s just another day.” I was finally able to see how depressed and isolated I had gotten. I had pushed away both my own feelings and the people who tried to help me. 

When I lived in the shelter, I hated going to school. I was so miserable, I didn’t see a future, and I couldn’t see school as a way to succeed and get independent. 

In the fall of 10th grade, my grades went up, and I started to make friends. 

I also met Sebastian. He is tall, with a smile I love admiring. We are in the same grade but go to different schools, and we met online. The first time we were together in person he bought me a slice of pizza, which sounds small but meant so much. Nobody – adult or teenager – had ever given me food without asking, “Can you buy it yourself?” I ate the slice with a smile on my face and a warm heart, and he quickly became my ride or die. 

Before Sebastian, all I knew of New York City was how to get to school and home again. But he opened up a new world for me. I would ask him, “What is that building?” and he told me. He never asked me “Why don’t you know this? Are you dumb?” I felt like a new person in his presence, a person who deserved to see color, who deserved to be happy. 

Sebastian answered any question I had, including, “What are your parents like?” He didn’t judge me, even when he found out how many siblings I had, and no dad. He texted me a lot just to find out how I was doing.

Four months after we met, Sebastian and I sat together on a bench looking out into the harbor. 

“Rose, what’s wrong?” he asked. He could read my moods. 

I told him that I had lived in a shelter for a year and a half, that I used to cut school and do drugs with a bad group of friends. (Sebastian takes care of his body and hates drugs.) Then I said, “I didn’t believe in happiness until I met you.” 

As I spoke, it felt like everything stopped and I was floating. I began to cry, thinking, “He’s gonna leave now.” 

Instead, he looked at me and said, “I am here to listen.” 

I told him the whole sad story of my life. He held my hand, and we watched the water in the harbor move up and down as I talked. It hit me how much I’d been holding in and I began sobbing into his jacket. 

“It’s OK to cry Rose, you’re a human being with human emotions. You didn’t deserve any of that. Rose, you’re gonna be OK.”

Knowing that there are people in this world that choose to care, and choose to understand me, makes me feel less burdened and more able to express my feelings. Besides Sebastian, I made friends who I can talk about things with. 

My older brother has started coming into my room and we both discuss our lives. In the shelter he never came out of his room at all, so it was a huge step. It’s good to be there for each other. 

Being seen by Sebastian and my friends and my brother made me realize that there is so much more to life than the bad parts. I no longer isolate myself when something sad happens. I talk to someone about it or tell myself that I can heal from sad things. In the shelter, I didn’t see the possibility of anything ever changing. 

When I was in the shelter, I never recognized my mental health as something important. Crying was never an option; it was always “Get up, your feelings are useless. Crying won’t help you get out of this shelter.” 

Now, I tell myself that it’s OK to cry. And that means I get to be happy, too. Feeling all my feelings is a huge step in my healing process, and the healing started with talking to my counselor and then getting out of the shelter.

Having a stable place to live has granted me the space to feel and express myself, and also allowed me some independence from my mom. I know I can stay in the same school through graduation. And in a year and a half, I can go to college and be in charge of my own fate.

Bruce Cory is editorial advisor at the Center for New York City Affairs at The New School.

Photo by: InsideSchools