LIFE: High School and Low

“The Yearbook Never Told My Story”

Growing up in Huffman—a community tucked into Birmingham, Alabama—life felt like everything a kid could hope for. My world revolved around neighborhood adventures, schoolyard laughter, and long days on the baseball field. I had a solid group of friends, and it honestly felt like I was living in the highlight reel of my childhood.

But at 13, everything changed.

My mom remarried, and we moved to Jasper, Alabama. It wasn’t just a change in location—it was a full-on uprooting of everything I knew. I lost touch with almost every friend I had back home. To this day, I don’t know where most of them ended up. That move shattered my comfort zone, and a part of me never fully recovered from it.

I was dropped into Curry Middle School—a place I instantly hated. Being the new kid in a small town is never easy, and back then, I didn’t have the confidence to navigate it. I felt like I had a target on my back. Eventually, I met a few people who became lifelong friends, and I’m still grateful for them. But that initial sense of not belonging never really faded.

Then came high school.

I wish I could say it got better—but it didn’t. I joined the band and stayed in it for five years. In that school, being in the band basically meant open season for ridicule. I was an easy target. My sophomore year, I finally made the baseball team, which gave me a small sliver of identity. That team would end up shaping big parts of my life later on, but during those years, it was hard to see anything beyond the hurt.

Senior year was supposed to be the victory lap. It wasn’t.

I had a decent group of friends, but the truth is, I was just counting the days until it was over. The worst part wasn’t the hallway drama or cliques—it was one particular teacher. I won’t name her, but she made me dread every single day of my final year.

She humiliated me in front of the class more times than I can count. Sarcastic remarks, backhanded insults, jokes at my expense. And the worst part? She was supposed to be the kind of adult who built students up—but she broke me down every time I walked into her classroom.

She made me feel worthless.

There were days I sat in silence, praying she wouldn’t even notice me. I wasn’t part of the “cool crowd,” and it felt like that gave her permission to mock me with no consequences. That year, I stopped raising my hand. I stopped trying. I just wanted to disappear.

If I could talk to her today, I’d tell her exactly what she did to me. How her words made me feel invisible and inadequate. But would it matter? Probably not. So I held on. Graduation came and went—and I walked away, never looking back.