Growing Up in the Bronx:

Growing up in the Bronx wasn’t always easy, but it shaped who I am in ways I’m only just beginning to fully understand. To outsiders, the Bronx is often reduced to a handful of headlines—poverty, crime, and broken systems. But for those of us raised within its blocks, bodegas, and busy streets, the Bronx is a place of resilience, community, and untold stories of survival.

My childhood was filled with the hum of sirens and the scent of dry dollar sandwiches from the bodega. We wore Chinese slippers like stilettos and played tag on cracked pavement like it was Central Park. It wasn’t always safe—but it was home. I learned how to double-dutch on the sidewalk and witnessed firsthand the hustle of single mothers, immigrant families, and neighbors who acted like aunties and uncles when mine weren’t around. The Bronx, in all its grit and glory, taught me how to observe, listen, and adapt. It gave me street smarts, heart smarts, and a relentless drive to push through.

But somewhere along the way, I fell victim to the stereotype. A young mom on welfare, fighting to make ends meet. My entire twenties were spent trying to piece together a broken home—or maybe, more truthfully, trying to build a home that should’ve never been built in the first place. I have many regrets. I gave my heart, my youth, and my energy to someone who wasn’t ready to be a partner—a boy, not a man. I depended on him emotionally, financially, spiritually. And in return, I lost pieces of myself. But even in the darkest moments, my children remained my reason. They were my why, my light, and my second chance.

After many hurdles and heartbreaks, I made a decision that changed everything: I would no longer let my past define me. I decided to create my own narrative. I told myself; I am the author of my story. And with that affirmation, I enrolled in school. That single step was the beginning of a lifelong journey toward healing, growth, and self-discovery. It was terrifying—but it was also empowering.

Growing up as a young Black girl in the Bronx came with its own set of expectations. There was pressure to be strong, to hold things together, to grow up fast. But there was also a fierce sisterhood—between cousins, classmates, and the women in our community—who modeled what it meant to survive and thrive. They showed me how to walk with purpose, how to speak with fire, and how to hold space for others even when your own cup felt empty.

Education became my way out. It wasn’t just about degrees or diplomas—it was about reclaiming my voice and choosing a future I could be proud of. The library became my escape; books introduced me to worlds beyond my own and whispered to me that I was meant for more. Still, I carried my Bronx identity with pride wherever I went, even when others tried to shame it. I learned to walk into rooms where I was underestimated and let my knowledge, my experience, and my Bronx-born strength speak for me.

Now, I look back not with shame, but with gratitude—for the struggle, the survival, and the second chances. I’ve learned that even when life knocks you down, you can still rise, rewrite the script, and create something beautiful from the ashes. The Bronx didn’t break me. It built me. And every day, I’m writing a new chapter.