Against All Odds is a blunt and emotional memoir about growing up in poverty, surviving horrific abuse, entering the foster care system, and clawing a way toward stability, purpose, and adulthood. Why was this an important book for you to write?

I grew up believing that instability was normal—new homes, new schools, new last names on the mailbox. Writing this book was my way of refusing to let chaos be the whole story. I wanted to document what that instability does to a child’s sense of identity and possibility, and to show that survival can become purpose.

It was also a letter to three audiences. To foster youth: you are not what happened to you; you are what you choose next. To caregivers and professionals: stability is not an idea, it is a practice—measured in rides to school, ceremonies you don’t miss, and promises you keep. And to the broader public: systems are made of choices; better choices are possible. The memoir gave me language to transform private pain into public service.

How did you balance honesty and authenticity with protecting privacy—yours and others’?

I followed three rules. First, I wrote from the “I”—what I saw, felt, and believed in the moment—without assigning motives to others. Second, I protected people who were not public figures by changing names, compressing timelines, and removing identifying details, while keeping the emotional truth intact. Third, I applied a dignity test: if a detail sensationalized trauma or exposed someone’s private struggle without advancing understanding, it did not belong in the book.

When possible, I sought consent from supportive adults who appear in the story and shared passages with them. I also set boundaries for myself—there are scenes I chose not to relive on the page because my present and the youth I serve deserve a healthy author. Truth and care can coexist; that tension shaped every edit.

What was the most challenging part of writing—and what was most rewarding?

The hardest part was narrative order. Lived experience is nonlinear; trauma scrambles memory. Turning 25 placements and 13 schools into a coherent arc meant revisiting rooms I’d rather forget and deciding what belonged to the reader and what belonged to healing. Writing about my mother’s death and the first nights in strangers’ homes required frequent stops—walks, prayer, and time.

The reward has been hearing from youth and caregivers who used the book as a bridge—youth who said, “Now I have words for what this feels like,” and caregivers who changed a practice so a child could keep a school, a therapist, or a ritual. Reclaiming my narrative was personal; watching it make someone else feel seen has been the joy.

What is one thing you hope readers take away from your story?

That pain is data, not destiny. For kids in care, the difference between drifting and developing is often a single steady adult plus continuity—of school, relationships, and story. If readers finish the book believing they can be that steadiness—by mentoring, fostering, advocating, or simply showing up reliably—then the pages did their job.

And for those who grew up in instability: you are allowed to build a life that is quiet, rooted, and yours. Resilience is not just surviving the fire; it’s learning to live without smoke.

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