I was in fifth grade when a quiet awareness settled in that I was between two worlds – I hadn’t been living in what most would call the “real world.”

The moment unfolded on a sunlit playground in Los Altos, California, as curious eyes studied me with a mix of wonder and confusion.

It became clear: I was different.

One of the so-called hippie kids—born in San Francisco, raised on intuition, and open skies.

My hair was long, my stepmother walked her path with sacred herbs, and I came into this life with an empath’s gift—feeling deeply, seeing between the lines, sensing what others missed.

That day, I didn’t feel out of place—I felt awakened.

A soul realizing a different rhythm had shaped it, one closer to spirit than society.

It was my first day at a new school, just after George and I had moved in with my dad, my stepmother Dotti, my older stepsister Kathy, and our two baby stepbrothers, Rick and Ron.

As I stepped onto the playground, I could feel the eyes on me. Whispers. Stifled giggles.

I wasn’t sure why at first—but then I looked down.

My shoes were worn, and my clothes didn’t match the polished, preppy style of the kids in Los Altos.

It was jarring. I hadn’t expected to feel so out of place, so clearly marked as “different.”

But in that moment, I knew—I didn’t belong to their world of wealth and ease. I was carrying a different story.

Then came lunchtime.

The other kids pulled out brightly colored lunch boxes—superheroes, ponies, cartoon characters smiling back at them.

Inside were neatly packed meals: crisp apples, bananas, slices of pizza, sandwiches layered with cheese, ham, lettuce, and tomato, bags of chips, and homemade cookies or brownies. I sat quietly with my brown paper bag.

Dotti didn’t believe in spending money on lunch boxes for George or me.

Inside was a single peanut butter and jelly sandwich—simple, familiar, and slightly squished.

It wasn’t just lunch.

It was a moment of realization—that even in something as small as a midday meal, the gap between worlds could be felt.

I came back the next day wearing the same shoes and the same dress.

A few kids came up and asked, “Didn’t you wear that yesterday?”

Without hesitation, I replied, “Yeah… does it matter?”

Their question lingered, but not in the way they intended.

I had already begun to understand something more profound—that identity isn’t woven from fabric or stitched into labels.

I thought of San Bernardino, the life I once knew before my mother passed. The dresses, the shiny shoes, the ribbons she lovingly tied in my hair. All gone. But my spirit remained.

Even as the outer things faded, something more substantial began to rise within me—an awareness that appearances could never measure my worth.

I was learning, even then, to walk in the truth of who I was—soul first.

As the years passed, I noticed Dotti’s reluctance to invest in the basics George and I needed—braces, glasses, or even the chance to join a sports team—while Kathy, Rick, and Ron were given everything without question.

She blamed it on my father’s meager earnings. My father worked tirelessly as a veterinarian, from sunup to well past sundown—burying himself in his practice to avoid the emptiness at home and the painful truths he chose not to see.

Today, only Ron and I remain in this world. It’s been more than a decade since I last saw him. Still, I carry a deep sense of gratitude for the life I have now. I endured.

The road was anything but straight—scattered with detours and moments so disorienting, I lost all sense of direction. Yet somehow, the dreams never entirely left me.

When they crumbled, they found their way back—revived and reshaped by unseen hands, by the quiet presence of spiritual guides walking beside me.

Did I fall short?

Many times.

But I never let go of the vision—or the gifts I came here with.