In May, it will be twenty years since I graduated from college.

Me—the high school dropout they quietly counted out.

Me—the mother of two children by the age of twenty-one.

Me—the welfare recipient society loves to reduce to a statistic.

And also me—the college student who walked across that stage with a 3.8 GPA, a yellow honor cord resting on my neck, and every single doubt I’d ever swallowed left behind in my footsteps.

That wasn’t luck.

That was grit.

That was late nights, stubborn faith, and refusing to stay in the box people tried to seal shut around my life.

Twenty years later, I still carry that moment with me—not as a trophy, but as proof.

Proof that narratives can be rewritten.

Proof that resilience has a long memory.

Proof that I did that shit.