Member-only story
Poverty with a Side of Coke
My first panic attack happened in the hallway outside my chemistry class.
I was seventeen. I had not eaten breakfast, but I had a can of Coke and a granola bar from the vending machine.
I told my friends I was just tired. I was not. I was falling apart.
No one tells you that survival has side effects.
You get good at pushing through. You show up. You smile. You volunteer to take notes. You work the closing shift and still finish the essay. You call it grit. Your teachers call it impressive. Your body calls it something else entirely.
My sister once shared how a mentor helped her plan her classes so she could relax in her senior year. I did the same thing. Stacked my schedule early. Took summer classes. Stayed ahead. I wanted to make space for rest, and the truth is that space never came.
Because when you are the first in your family to go to college, rest feels like a risk.
