Growing up, I was that kid your parents warned you about—wild, angry, and out of control. By the time I hit 13, I’d been labeled a “troubled teen” more times than I could count. But the truth was, I wasn’t just troubled. I was lost. I felt like the world had given up on me before I’d even had a chance to figure out who I was. If you have followed some of my previous blogs, you know this wasn't out of nowhere considering the abuse and neglect I encountered.

My first trip to juvenile hall happened when I made a bomb threat to my middle school. I didn’t have a bomb. I didn’t even have a plan. What I did have was a deep, aching need to scream at the top of my lungs, “Notice me! Understand me! Help me!” Instead, they handcuffed me, and I spent my first night in a cell. That would be the first of nine trips to juvie between the ages of 13 and 15.

Juvenile hall wasn’t just confinement; it was torture. The walls seemed to close in on me, and every day felt like a year. I was constantly on edge, waiting for the next fight to break out. And they did—a lot. I got beat up more times than I care to remember. My body bore the bruises, but my spirit took the real hits. The guards weren’t much better. Their indifference cut as deeply as the fists of the other kids. I wanted to stop rebelling, to stop being this version of myself, but it was like my anger had a mind of its own. I couldn’t control it, and it controlled me.

When I wasn’t locked up, I was shuffled between five different behavioral health centers. Each one came with its own cocktail of medications and a laundry list of labels: ADHD, bipolar disorder, conduct disorder, Manic. The labels felt like sticky notes slapped on my forehead, each one a reminder that I was broken. Therapy sessions were mandatory, but I’d sit there, arms crossed, stone-faced, daring the therapist to fix me. Spoiler alert: they didn’t.

By 15, I’d hit rock bottom. I felt suicidal, misunderstood, and trapped in a cycle of retaliation. Every time someone tried to control me, I pushed back harder. I wasn’t just rebelling against authority; I was rebelling against the emptiness inside me. I didn’t want to die, but I didn’t know how to live.

My turning point came after my last stint in a group home. Something shifted. Maybe it was the endless therapy sessions finally sinking in. Maybe it was seeing the pain in my mom’s eyes every time I got in trouble. Or maybe it was just pure exhaustion from living a life that felt like an endless fight. Whatever it was, I made a decision: I was done being the victim of my own story.

By 16, I took a step that most teens never even consider—I got emancipated. It was a legal declaration that I was no longer a child but an adult in the eyes of the law. For the first time, I felt like I had control over my life. I got my own place, a tiny apartment that smelled like old carpet and freedom. I started working in telemarketing sales. It wasn’t glamorous, but it was mine. Every paycheck felt like proof that I could make it on my own.

Turning my life around wasn’t easy. The scars from those years didn’t magically disappear. But I learned something crucial: troubled teens don’t need punishment—they need connection. They need someone to see past their anger and chaos to the pain underneath.

This lesson doesn’t just apply to teens. How many adults are out there, feeling lost, low, and misunderstood? How many are stuck in cycles of anger, depression, or self-doubt? The truth is, the same principles apply. We all need someone to see us, to hear us, to remind us that our story isn’t over. We all have the power to make a difference—whether it’s by reaching out to a struggling teen or simply being kind to the person who seems to have it all together but is silently falling apart.

Today, I look back at that angry, broken girl, and I’m not ashamed of her. She fought like hell to survive in a world that seemed determined to crush her. And because of her, I know what it means to be resilient, to fight for a better life, and to never, ever give up.