I ended up a homeless teen, too. Because I thought I was a lesbian and got thrown out. It was a very unstable time. I joined the service after moving around & moved to Los Angeles with $10 in my pocket. Six months later, I swore into the Air Force at age 20. I stole a loaf of bread from a grocery store once and didn't feel guilty about it. I was hungry. My neighbor had some peanut butter & jelly, too. I shared with her, but she drank her lunch. I had just gotten off the streets for a fucked-up blow job and had a small studio until I went to L.A. on a Greyhound. Bold-ass move.
You brought me straight into that greenhouse, into the weight of memory and the sweetness of that first carrot. I felt the clarity of it—a moment that fed more than hunger. Your words gave texture to what home can mean when it’s grown, not given. When it begins as survival and blooms into nourishment.
The way you carried us from teenage instability to tomato vines reaching four feet tall—that’s the arc of rootedness in motion. It moved me deeply to witness that through your voice.
Thank you for trusting this space. For tending growth on every level. You’ve sown more than vegetables—you’ve offered a real harvest.
Really moving, Robin. The food that nourished you all those years ago nourishes now as food for thought (and heart). Thank you. And thank you for all your generous reflections this month - I'll miss them. 🩵🩷🤍
I ended up a homeless teen, too. Because I thought I was a lesbian and got thrown out. It was a very unstable time. I joined the service after moving around & moved to Los Angeles with $10 in my pocket. Six months later, I swore into the Air Force at age 20. I stole a loaf of bread from a grocery store once and didn't feel guilty about it. I was hungry. My neighbor had some peanut butter & jelly, too. I shared with her, but she drank her lunch. I had just gotten off the streets for a fucked-up blow job and had a small studio until I went to L.A. on a Greyhound. Bold-ass move.
Robin, I’m holding this story with so much care.
You brought me straight into that greenhouse, into the weight of memory and the sweetness of that first carrot. I felt the clarity of it—a moment that fed more than hunger. Your words gave texture to what home can mean when it’s grown, not given. When it begins as survival and blooms into nourishment.
The way you carried us from teenage instability to tomato vines reaching four feet tall—that’s the arc of rootedness in motion. It moved me deeply to witness that through your voice.
Thank you for trusting this space. For tending growth on every level. You’ve sown more than vegetables—you’ve offered a real harvest.
Really moving, Robin. The food that nourished you all those years ago nourishes now as food for thought (and heart). Thank you. And thank you for all your generous reflections this month - I'll miss them. 🩵🩷🤍