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I was loved wrong before I ever knew what love was supposed to feel like. The streets taught me survival. How to wear confidence like armor. How to smile through pain. How to make broken look beautiful. People saw the body ,The pretty face. The woman who knew how to survive. But very few ever stopped long enough to see the little girl underneath—the one still carrying wounds she never asked for. Yeah, I sold pieces of myself while trying not to lose my soul. Not because I did

After all the bullshit, I thought I had just enough game to be on my own once again. I was tired. Tired of the bullshit, tired of these niggas, tired of people trying to control me. I was ready to do my own shit. Thank God I was back in Oakland. At least Oakland was familiar. I knew just enough to stack up. Being that I wasn’t 18 yet, I jumped into scamming and gangs. Man things was crazy. See, Oakland ain’t really have Bloods and Crips like that. We have hoods… blocks. And w

I moved through Oakland like I belonged to the streets. Meeting new people. Traveling to places I never imagined. Stacking what I could — shit really, just surviving the only way I knew how. Trying to outrun pain that somehow followed me everywhere I went. To the world, I looked grown. Like I had it figured out. Like I knew exactly what I was doing. But behind the fast life, the money, and the hard face was still a little girl trying to understand why life had forced her to

Life often forces us to become someone we don’t recognize before we truly understand who we are. The title Carried by the Game is more than just words; it reflects the journey through pain, instability, and trauma that shaped a path toward healing and self-discovery. This platform is a space for those who have survived difficult moments and continue to seek peace, purpose, and identity. Every story shared here is a piece of truth—sometimes painful, sometimes healing, but alwa

By 2009, it felt like the search for me had slowed down. My family still loved me, but life kept moving around me while I was somewhere lost in the streets of Oakland… drifting from hotel rooms, random couches, and places that never felt safe. Sometimes I stayed with friends. Sometimes I stayed wherever I could. I was young, reckless, angry, and searching for love in all the wrong places. But yea 2009 would change me forever. I was kidnapped by five men. Beaten. Raped. Choke

By this point… I wasn’t just around the streets anymore. I was in it. For real. ⸻ "Shit" at 15… everything sped up. 2009 wasn’t just another year for me. It was the year everything changed. What once felt like freedom… started to feel different. At first, it was fast money, no rules, no one telling me what to do. I could move how I wanted. Come and go as I pleased. I was considered a renegade. But that feeling? It didn’t last. ⸻ What I once thought I understood… I really didn

By now… at just 14 years old, the streets weren’t new to me. And I wasn’t known to them either. At first, I was just passing through—lost, confused, trying to survive day by day. But somewhere along the way… surviving started turning into something else. Something I didn’t even recognize at first. Routine. ⸻ I wasn’t going to school anymore. My family was looking for me, and my mom would report me missing. Days and nights started blending together. I moved how I wanted, staye

This where my story begins. Not where I was born... but where I was planted. I wasn’t born hard. I was born in Oakland, California, in 1994 at Summit Hospital—the same city where the Black Panthers were founded in 1966 by Huey P. Newton. Power lived in that soil. So did pain. Growing up, I was quiet… the kind of quiet people overlook. The kind that sits in the corner watching everything, feeling everything, but saying nothing. Before life got loud—before chaos had a name and

Chapter 2: Running Crazy… because little old me really believed leaving would feel like freedom. At the time, we were living in Santa Clara—far from Oakland, the only place that ever felt familiar. Running didn’t feel like a plan… it just felt necessary. The first day I left, I ran to someone I thought could keep me safe. Her name was Sarah. She was my best friend at the time—the first real friend I made after we moved. I didn’t think twice. I just knew I needed somewhere t