Since the age of eight, my life has been structured around seven-day cycles. Sunday comes, and it's time to switch. I compress my limited wardrobe into a large plastic Ikea bag, and the rest of my belongings into a canvas tote. I've never thought of this as weird. It's just the rhythm that raised me. I heave the bags into the back of my dad's car after every Sunday closing shift, arrive at the next house, and don't even bother to unpack. I learned early that I'm never stationary long enough to truly settle in. There's a small, guilty part of me that wants to blame my parents. On the long nights, I want to give up and say I've done enough. There's no point in trying to soothe the ache in my shoulder from the strap of my bag when I know the weight will come back next week. I look at my undecorated walls—the same, nauseating shade of blue that I picked when I first moved. And I hate it. It would be easy to blame it on them. It's their fault that closets and permanent decorations are a foreign concept to me, isn't it? But it isn't so clear-cut. They are the reason I have that bag and the clothes inside it. They're the reason I can work those long hours to save for my education. If it weren't for them, I would have no ride home in the dark. No foundation. No me. If it weren't for them, I wouldn't have learned to adapt or stay relentlessly resilient. Through the mess of bags and conflicts, I learned to love. I was taught that love comes in many ways: it's the way my father always puts on a friendly face after an argument; the way he welcomes me home after a stressful week; it's the way he always hugs me a bit tighter on Sunday nights; and it's the way my stepmother always brings me a cup of hot chocolate when I'm sick. It's the way my life, split between houses, is held together by their efforts to keep me whole. I've gained an incredible amount of self-reliance from this constant cycle. I've had to. I'm the one who carries my bags; I'm the one who must carry myself. But it shouldn't have to be that way for everyone. I found a voice in the long shifts, in the trunk of my father's car, in the blue walls that surround me as I write this. And I'm going to use that voice. My goal is to use my passion for narrative to share the stories of kids like me. For the kids who sit restlessly at night, missing the pillow from the other house. For those whose bags are worn out at the straps but continue to hold. Whether I turn to education or journalism, I will be the person who shows up. I want to be the one who helps those kids finally unpack. No matter the family structure, everybody deserves a place—and a person.