help me write MY MEMOIR

It’s not unusual for me to cry at a heart‑warming story, and yesterday was no different. A YouTuber raised nearly a million dollars to buy a fully furnished home and a car for a young homeless mother and her two children. No mortgage. No car note. A true blessing.

As I watched the tears roll down her face, mine followed. She shared that the father of her kids didn’t want anything to do with the kids. She didn’t explain why. Maybe addiction. Maybe mental illness. Maybe incarceration. We don’t know, because she didn’t say.

But her story stirred something deep in me.

It reminded me of my own history, when I was a young woman fresh out of high school. I tried hard to stay married for the sake of my two children, but after two and a half years I was suddenly alone. I never imagined that the smart, charming man I married would turn out to be dark and unpredictable. This was a man who spoke six languages fluently. A man who became a commercial airline pilot in the last year of our marriage. A man who co‑owned a used car dealership. Yet this same man chose violence, crime, and destruction over supporting his own children.

Why someone so intelligent would choose to take a life instead of taking care of his family was something I couldn’t understand back then. It baffled me for years. But now, in my late fifties, I finally have clarity. I see the patterns. I see the brokenness in an entire group of people. And I understand why, deep inside, I sometimes feel envy. I suffered so deeply, and that suffering still lingers, even though I know I’m blessed. I know I’m loved and worthy.

And, there I was, a single mother with a toddler and a colicky one‑year‑old boy. As Catholics, we are taught to serve others, to give of ourselves as Jesus did. To walk as closely in Jesus’ footsteps as one could. And that’s what I did in my younger years. I made choices I believed were good, choices rooted in faith and hope. But sometimes the choices I thought were right cost me more than I would have ever imagined.

Still, I pushed forward. No child support. No car. No extra money. I sacrificed so my children could have a Catholic education. I wanted them to be disciplined in faith. Structured so they could achieve what God set out for them to do. I wanted them to have a chance to get ahead in life. In a life where kids were expected to fail without a father present. My mother did the same for us. She went without so we could have careers and change the next generation.

And yet, even with all my sacrifices, I still found myself living inside a stereotypical nightmare. A stereotype I never imagined would touch me, especially since I married outside my ethnicity. Yes, the age‑old story society assigns to young Black women of my generation became my reality. I was in a fatherless home. A home where the father is incarcerated for life with no parole. A home where some men believe it’s acceptable for the mother to carry both roles. A home where people assume a man would do a better job raising a boy than his own mother. A home where no male figure is allowed to step in to assist because of past trauma and the damage left behind from the boy’s father.

One day, a friend of my mother’s dropped off two garbage bags filled with professional clothing. I was grateful. I felt blessed. I had just graduated from an eight‑month program to become a travel agent and was finally ready to provide for my children. The suits were perfect for my new job as a corporate travel agent. They were classic, executive‑level pieces, and many of them were designed by Chanel. I loved the style. For the first time in a long time, I felt like I had made it on my own.

When her friend was leaving, she told me she was glad I liked them. They had belonged to her mother, who had recently passed away.

And that’s when it hit me. I took a deep breath, swallowed my happiness, and thought to myself, “Why me? Now I have to wear dead people’s clothes.”

These dress suits weren’t thrift‑store donations or second‑hand finds. They weren’t someone’s outgrown wardrobe. They didn’t even come from St. Joachim’s rummage sale. My new clothes came from a woman who had died. After swallowing my pride, I eventually wore the suits and was very grateful because I had just started the job and had no money for a professional wardrobe.

That’s the part people don’t see.

People look at the homeless, the addicts, the visibly broken. They pour out sympathy, donations, GoFundMes, and viral compassion. And yes, they deserve help. But what about the ones who fight every day just to stay afloat? The ones who work hard, who stay out of trouble, who raise their kids, who survive trauma after trauma, and they don’t rest. They learn to fake it until they make it. They don’t give up, even when life keeps knocking them down.

What about the invisible struggler? What about me?

Sometimes I wonder:

Do I have to be homeless, toothless, and on the street for someone to see my struggle as worthy of help?

Now, this once-homeless, toothless parent of two has no mortgage and no car note. That’s heaven-sent. She’s blessed. The YouTuber truly blessed her by covering two of the biggest expenses outside of an education that any household would have. But what about me? Decades of pain, sacrifices, and silence. No stranger ever congratulated me for my small victories. No one handed me keys to a house, a car, or free tuition. No one filmed my tears and turned them into a blessing.

But I’m still here.

Still standing.

Still thriving.

Still blessed.

Not sure if I’m striving any longer. I’m now worn.

And maybe, just maybe, it’s time the world hears our stories too. “Ours,” meaning the people who struggle but remain invisible. Don’t get me wrong, when my children were younger, families donated Thanksgiving baskets to us, and every year they received surprise Christmas gifts from strangers through a charity program from their school. I was grateful for that kindness.

They were happy. They felt loved and knew no difference.

And once I got on my feet a little more, I gave back. I donated to charities that helped educate kids in countries throughout Africa. Donated to charities in the Asian countries to build wells, so they could have fresh drinking water. I never forget where I came from, so yes, I was able to donate to charity groups that had helped provide food and shelter for people throughout North America. If I saw someone who needed help, I was overjoyed to give what I could. But I never had the money to buy anyone a car or a house, and I’ve never had enough on me to hand a struggling person more than a twenty at once. I gave what I could, and I felt good about it. I was like the widow in Biblical Scriptures whoJesus honored. She wasn’t honored because she gave in abundance. She was honored for giving a couple of coins. Her last that she could give. That’s powerful. It’s a teaching that I relate to. He told His disciples that her small gift was actually the greatest, because she gave with a sincere heart. Just like her, I did not come from wealth. I always gave something. I helped, volunteered, and served others as a good steward.

I mentored young Black mothers into getting a trade, going to college, earning a GED, or returning to high school. I encouraged them not to settle into welfare as a lifestyle.

It was hard for some of my mentees to break free from the welfare trap. A few of them I had to let go, because my time was limited, and I couldn’t help anyone who didn’t want help. Although both my parents and their parents worked, I’m empathetic toward those who weren’t raised like I was. I understand how difficult it can be to imagine relying on yourself when you come from a family where welfare was the norm.

Many of my mentees had never been told they were worthy of learning the kinds of skills that could lift them beyond the life they inherited. They were told that they weren’t worthy of choosing where they wanted to live, worthy of deciding how much money they wanted to make, and worthy of raising their children in neighborhoods where bullets weren’t flying through their windows. They never realized they were worthy of sending their children to schools that could teach them, guide them, and break the generational curse that held their family captive for so long.

Yes, I helped a lot throughout my younger years. Catholics are taught to give of ourselves without expecting anything in return. And I’ve always done that. But as I get older, and the bills grow heavier, I sometimes wonder if I ever acted in my own best interest. Or perhaps, as I’ve thought a million times, maybe I’m simply not of this world, and my true blessings are waiting for me when I die.

If I sound bitter, maybe I am. If I sound envious of others, I doubt that. Living in the space between the lower middle‑class and the working‑poor isn’t a phase; it’s the invisible struggler’s biggest burden.