Everyone on my school bus knew what I was going through. It was a small bus—tight-knit and talkative. One day, I casually mentioned that I couldn’t go on my senior trip because I didn’t have the money. Without hesitation, our bus driver, a sweet older woman with a shock of white hair, pulled the bus over. She marched into the dean’s office and handed them $80. “Let the girl go on the trip,” she said. Just like that, I was included.

At the time, my family was homeless. My science teacher, Ms. Bernard, knew. Sometimes she’d give me $20 to tidy up her classroom—not because it really needed cleaning, but so I could have something special for my birthday or grab a pizza with friends. And our dean, Ms. V, used to quietly let me take home leftover food from the cafeteria, even though that wasn’t technically allowed.

Without these people, I don’t know where I’d be.

I was a kid desperately craving attention, weighed down by too much too soon. I love my mom, but she struggled mentally, especially after everything life had thrown at her. I was caring for my younger brother while navigating school, bullying, and an abusive stepfather. Most people only noticed me for one thing: my grades. So, I poured everything into schoolwork.

That’s how I got close to my marine biology teacher, Dr. Khan. He saw me—the real me—and didn’t shy away from it. We bonded over our love for the ocean and for music. His class became my refuge, where sea creatures and songs offered escape. I’m not into dolphins like most people—I love whales, and sharks even more.

That Christmas, Dr. Khan gave me two unexpected gifts. The first was a box of cookies his wife had baked for me—salted chocolate, soft and sweet. She owned a bakery, and they were easily the best cookies I’d ever had. He said, “My wife hears me talk about you all the time.”

The second gift? A custom CD. On it were songs we’d talked about—Blink 182 among them—blended with video clips of my favorite marine animals. One was a hammerhead shark gliding through crystal water, perfectly matched to the beat. On the card, he’d written: “Remember, you can always talk to me.”

That moment meant everything. It still does.

Looking back, I realize that it wasn’t just the big gestures—like paying for a trip or giving food—it was the little ones, too. A cookie. A song. A safe space. A conversation.

They helped keep me afloat when I was drowning.