When My Mother Took Us to Panhandle

Despite my best efforts, I have never been able to get rid of the image of that cardboard sign. "Hungry. Struggling," the words cut through me like glass, and the edges were distorted. The marker was smudged, and the words were curled. It doesn't matter what." Although my mother was the one who wrote it, it was my hands that were holding it up.

At the time, I didn't believe it was even possible to feel smaller than I did on that particular day. In order to give the impression that we were more compassionate, my mother had my sister's leg cast since she had broken her foot. I am confident that she did this. As we stood on the corner of a major street, more vehicles sped by us in rapid succession. My stomach churned, but not because I was hungry; rather, it was because I was embarrassed. My mother gave me the instruction to grab a dollar bill whenever someone broke their window in order to slide it through the breach. As a result, each time I did it, a part of myself passed away.

A Lesson on Desperation
We weren’t lying. We were famished. We were struggling. At home, the refrigerator was empty save for a couple of bottles of ketchup and a carton of outdated milk. Rent was overdue. My mom’s sobs were incessant, her anguish evident. But knowing we were telling the truth didn’t make it any easier to stand there, placard in hand, hoping for shreds of kindness.
I’ve heard people say that desperation makes you stronger. That it improves character. But the truth? Desperation doesn’t make you feel strong. It makes you feel vulnerable, raw, and less than human. That’s how I felt every time a car slowed down, the driver’s eyes avoiding mine as they handed over a crumpled dollar. Like I was invisible and yet too visible all at once.

The Shame of Survival
There was a time, though, that cut harder than all the others. A classmate’s automobile pulled up. I recognized him immediately—he sat two seats behind me in math. He didn’t glance at me, but I know he noticed me. His dad handed me a five-dollar bill, and I wanted to disappear. I wanted the ground to split open and devour me entirely.
I despised myself for being there. For being the child on the corner instead of the youngster sitting shotgun in a warm car on the way to supper. I despised my mom for making me do it, even though I knew she didn’t have another option. And more than anything, I hated that I felt ashamed for something that wasn’t my fault. We were doing what we had to do to survive. But survival, I discovered that day, doesn’t come without its costs.

A Mother’s Sacrifice
It took me years to comprehend what my mom was carrying that day. She wasn’t simply holding a cardboard sign—she was holding the crushing weight of failure, guilt, and love all at once. She didn’t want to be out there any more than I did. But she was a single mother with three kids to feed and no one to turn to. That corner, that sign, those damaged windows—they were her final resort.

Looking back, I can see the bravery it required for her to stand there. The bravery it takes to face the judgment, the sympathy, the stillness. She swallowed her pride because we were her world, and she would’ve done everything to keep us afloat. Even if it meant breaking a piece of herself in the process.

What I’d Tell My Younger Self
If I could go back to that corner, to that terrified youngster with the sign in his hands, I’d tell him this: It’s acceptable to feel humiliated.

It’s okay to feel angry. But don’t let those feelings define you. You are greater than this moment. One day, you’ll see this for what it is—a monument to your mother’s love and your own strength. The humiliation you feel isn’t yours to carry. Let it go.
And I’d tell him something else, too: It’s alright to feel broken. But you’re not. Not really. You’re bent, yes, but not broken. You’re surviving. And that’s more than enough.

For Anyone Struggling Now
If you’ve ever found yourself in a moment like this—on a corner, in a shelter, at the end of your rope—please hear me: You are not your lowest moment. Your worth isn’t defined by the handouts you’ve taken or the guilt you’ve suffered. You’re doing what you have to do to survive. And that takes strength, even if it doesn’t feel like it right now.

One day, your kids will see it. They’ll look back and understand what you carried for them. They’ll see your courage, your sacrifice, your love. And they’ll carry that love with them, into their own lives, into their own families.

You’re not failing. You’re battling. And that fight—as hard, nasty, and hurtful as it is—is what makes you extraordinary.

So if today is one of those days where everything feels like too much, where the shame threatens to swallow you whole, remember: You’re still here. You’re still trying. And that, in itself, is a win.
You’re enough. You always have been.