“She didn’t wake up brave and strong one day. She just kept showing up, getting back up every time she got knocked down. No one was there cheering for her survival. She just kept finding a way.”
That was another one of those motivational garbage quotes that floated across my screen during my homeless phase. I didn’t know why I screenshot it at the time. It sounded ridiculous. But something in it pricked at my mind — the same thing that kept me alive: I’ll figure it out. I always had to. Fate never gave me a choice.
Getting knocked down was a given in my shit‑show of a life. First I was conditioned to expect it, then I learned it was guaranteed with the way I’d been forced to handle everything. It was a bad hand dealt from a stacked deck. I couldn’t fold, couldn’t raise — all I could do was ride it out. Bluff when I had to. Double down when I shouldn’t. A polite way of saying I threw gasoline on fires that were already roaring.
“I’ll figure it out” buzzed in my head like a broken neon sign. And I did. Not gracefully, not efficiently, not in any way that would make a therapist proud — but I found a way. The path was never straight. It was one‑way streets, roadblocks, and forks that all led to Black Diamond mogul slopes. Pick your poison.
I had no help. No cheering section. No “atta‑girl” waiting at the finish line. That phrase didn’t exist in my childhood, and I learned early not to expect it. Not in my universe. Maybe my therapist said it once a week, but I paid her — she was obligated. Sorry lady, I know you meant well.
What I did have were my creative, chaotic, DIY survival experiments — the ones I invented out of desperation and stubbornness. And armed with those, I always found a way.
I still do.
Still standing, still figuring it out, like I always do,
K.