September 9, 2001 was the day I ran away from home for good. I was seventeen years old, and I never saw my mother again.
For most of my childhood, I believed escape was impossible. I was raised to think there was no way out—that I belonged to the chaos I was born into, that survival meant endurance, not freedom. Still, I dreamed of running away. I dreamed of being brave enough to leave, even when I didn’t believe bravery was something I possessed.
On the morning of September 9, I woke up with a black eye. Later that day, I went to a dog show. Friends I knew from the show saw what I couldn’t hide and took me home with them. For the first time, I felt safe enough to breathe. Eventually, the courts allowed me to stay with that family. But six months later, they kicked me out for being queer.
That was when I became truly homeless—moving from couch to couch, trying to survive without stability or certainty. I made the heartbreaking decision to rehome my dogs. I loved them more than anything, but I wanted them to have the stability I couldn’t give. Letting them go felt like losing the last pieces of safety I had, but I did it because I loved them.
I left because I knew that if I didn’t take that chance when it appeared, I might never get another one. That day wasn’t just an escape—it was the moment I saved myself. I stepped into the unknown with nothing but fear and hope, taking the first unsteady steps toward building my own life.
For twenty-four years, I never regretted leaving. Not once.
This year, the anniversary feels different.
In December, I received a call from the county medical examiner. My mother’s body had been found. She had died alone—lying half-dressed on piles of trash, surrounded by thousands of empty wine bottles, clutching the only thing she seemed to love in the end:
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