I think of the challenges of my life as the trimesters of pregnancy. The first trimester was when I was only six and had an experience no one, especially a child, should go through. My innocence was stolen from me without my awareness, I thought it was okay, saying “it’s just how my uncle plays with me.” I remember telling people and how their faces would instantly fill with sadness. The second trimester was a constant battle for survival. My birth parents were always in and out of jail, drunk, or physically abusing one another. We moved around all the time, from great granny’s apartment, to many of my dad’s “at that time” girlfriends' houses, to living in a van. Four kids and two adults in one van was so chaotic! Making sure I attended school was the least of my parents' concerns, but on the occasional days I did go I always tried my best. School was my home away from home; even though I was bullied for being poor I really enjoyed learning. I got held back twice, but was able to make up one of the grades. I always told myself “one day things will get better.” The third trimester was my journey to finding myself. My siblings and I were placed into foster care and the first home was quite strange so we did not stay too long. Only my sisters and I were allowed to live in the second home because they did not house boys. My brother went to another family who later adopted him. I thought this home would be good but as years passed I dealt with constant verbal abuse, being othered, and treated as a housemaid. I realized that this is just how my life is going to be. My eldest sister moved homes when I was a fifth grader; I did not get to say goodbye. My second older sister left when I was in the ninth grade, but I would still see her at school sometimes before she graduated. Living in that home for nine years taught me to put up a wall, mask my emotions, and that I was inferior. The day they terminated my legal guardianship they dropped me off at the courthouse with all my belongings after the hearing and left. It reminded me of when I was first placed in the foster system; eight years old and confused. After leaving the second home, I was placed in the home my eldest sister lived in when she left us. She told me good things about the family so I assumed it would be better. The foster parents wrongfully accused me of being untruthful, and my sisters disowned me. I was outcast and moved homes again. It felt like a routine to me. My postpartum phase when I was reborn, is when I finally received the love the younger me deeply yearned for. I was finally placed into a home where I was treated as their own.The first year with my new family I struggled a lot with embracing my past trauma and trying to let go of the constant negative thoughts, but with great support from those who truly cared for my wellbeing, I was able to cope. For a while I resonated with this phrase I heard that went, “trauma isn’t your fault but it is your responsibility to heal.” I eventually realized that the reason everything felt as though it was falling apart is because my new life will cost me my old one.