Grief first led me to the kitchen, though I never expected it to shape my future. When I was sixteen, a winter night changed everything. A house fire took my parents and grandfather in moments, leaving me standing barefoot in the snow with nothing but borrowed clothes and shock.

The home, the photos, the keepsakes—all gone. I moved into a community shelter for displaced youth, grateful for a bed but numb inside. My only surviving relative offered sympathy but little support, and I quickly learned I was on my own.

During the day, I focused on school, determined to build a future. At night, when the dorm grew quiet, I wandered into the shared kitchen, searching for something that made me feel steady again.