Becoming the Person I Needed

When I was thirteen, I used to wait by the window for hours after school, hoping my dad would show up. He rarely did. I’d convince myself that maybe his truck broke down again or he had a long day at work. But after a while, the excuses stopped coming. He just wasn’t coming.

My mom worked two jobs and hardly had time to notice the emotional craters left behind. I don't blame her — she did her best. But I needed more than what she had left to give. I needed someone to talk to, someone to listen when I was spiraling, someone to tell me that I was enough — even if I didn’t believe it.

At school, I wore silence like armor. Teachers saw me as a quiet student, sometimes brilliant, mostly withdrawn. Kids either ignored me or labeled me “weird,” and I let them. Fitting in seemed like a task for people with confidence. I didn’t even have a voice, let alone a place in their world.

By the time I turned sixteen, I’d become a master of invisibility. I skipped classes, failed tests, and smoked under bridges with kids who also didn’t want to be seen. None of us were bad — just broken in places we didn’t know how to fix.

But then came Mr. Anderson.

He was the new literature teacher — wiry hair, coffee breath, and a passion for books that bordered on obsession. On the first day, he read aloud from The Catcher in the Rye, and when he looked up, he said, “This book isn’t about phonies. It’s about pain. And if you’ve got some, welcome to the club.”

Something shifted.

I started staying after class, not for extra help, but just to talk. He never pried, never gave sermons. He just listened. Sometimes, that’s all a person needs. One afternoon, I told him I didn’t think I’d be anything in life.

He said, “Maybe not now. But who you are today isn’t who you have to be tomorrow.”

I carried those words like a lifeline.

The change didn’t happen overnight. But I started showing up. I passed English with a B+, which felt like an A considering where I started. I began writing — first in secret, then for the school magazine. My stories were messy and raw, but they were mine. I found my voice on the page, and eventually, in life.

Still, it wasn’t all uphill. There were nights when the past clawed at my mind. When I’d hear a knock and hope it was my dad — even though I knew it wasn’t. But instead of drowning in the hurt, I began to write through it.

College was a different world. I majored in psychology, not because I had it all figured out, but because I wanted to. I wanted to understand why people leave, why some wounds never heal, and most of all, how to be someone who stays.

I volunteered at youth centers, mentored high school students, and led writing workshops for teens who thought their voices didn’t matter. And every time I sat across from a kid who reminded me of the person I used to be — quiet, distant, uncertain — I saw the gap I had once fallen into.

So I built a bridge.

I became the person I needed when I was younger. The one who listens without judgment. The one who says, “You matter” before the world convinces you otherwise. The one who stays.

Now, I work as a counselor in a community school not far from the one I used to skip. Some days, I sit with kids who cry without knowing why. Others just need a quiet place to exist. I don’t have all the answers, but I’ve learned that presence — real, consistent presence — is more healing than perfection.

Sometimes I still write. I tell stories that no longer come from pain, but from hope. Stories where the broken find purpose, and silence gives way to song.

A few months ago, a student left a note on my desk. It read:

"Thank you for seeing me when I didn’t know how to be seen."

And in that moment, everything came full circle.

We all need someone. A mentor, a listener, a lifeline. But life doesn’t always deliver them when we need them most. Sometimes, we have to become that person ourselves.

Not because we’re obligated to fix others.

But because, in becoming who we needed, we also heal the parts of ourselves that were once forgotten.