I started taking care of myself at a very young age!
It’s common knowledge that children can start learning self-care habits early, but in most families, these routines come under the watchful eye of loving parents or caregivers. That wasn’t exactly my story. Sure, I learned to brush my teeth, wash my hands, and do the basic things like any other kid. But the circumstances that shaped my early years were far from ordinary, and freedom came not by choice but by circumstances.
When my dad passed away, my world changed overnight. I was barely two years old, the youngest of three. My elder brothers were just old enough to realize that life was no longer the same, but I had no idea. Dad had left enough property behind to secure our future, but my mother, still reeling from the loss and with limited education, never fought for what was rightfully ours. I think she wanted her freedom more than anything else. She told me later that, for her, walking away from everything gave her peace.
So we left with nothing. No family business to lean on. No inheritance. Just the clothes on our backs and whatever strength my mom could muster as a single parent. She found work in a local restaurant, slaving away for hours to bring home whatever she could. Her shifts stretched from dawn until well after sunset, and while she was out trying to keep us afloat, we were left to our own devices.
My elder brother, barely old enough to be in school, was suddenly thrust into the role of caretaker. While most kids his age were focused on recess and playtime, he was responsible for keeping us alive, entertained, and out of trouble—though, in reality, the trouble was where we found our fun.
We lived near a large hospital, and one of our favorite pastimes was scavenging the nearby landfill for “treasures.” My brothers, with their insatiable curiosity, would lead the way, and I would follow closely behind, eager to see what they’d find. Our prize discoveries? Used syringes. Yes, the same ones you’d see in a doctor’s office, discarded and buried in the dirt. We’d use them as water guns, completely unaware of the danger they carried. In our young, unfiltered minds, they were just another part of the adventure.
The days blurred together in a whirlwind of risky explorations. There were no rules, no boundaries—just the thrill of being free to roam the world around us, even if that world was filled with hazards. My big brother was the mastermind, always pushing the limits. Each day was a new chance to dive headfirst into whatever caught our eye. We’d climb onto rooftops, dig through piles of debris, and fashion toys out of whatever we could get our hands on.
Mom would come home late, weary and worn, a bag of takeout in hand. She was too tired to ask how our day had been or if we were safe. For her, it was enough that we were still standing, still smiling. The next day, the cycle would begin again—more mischief, more freedom, more dangerous adventures with no one to stop us.
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