Mom was 13 when I was born in Washington, D.C. She kept the pregnancy secret until a few weeks before I was born—the last secret she ever kept from her own mother, I made sure of that.

She raised me along with help from both of my grandmothers, both single mothers in their 40s raising 14 kids of their own between the two of them. My mother was the youngest.

I was a community baby from the start, tagging along behind my teenage parents, aunts, uncles, and godmother, none of whom had time for baby talk or slow walkers.

Those times were sweet; I would wake up at the crack of dawn and drink coffee with my grandmother before she left for work, hang around my uncles while they worked on cars, and stay up late ordering takeout with everyone and their significant others.

My grandmother would have her friends over to play cards and I would insert myself into the party for a dance or two before having to go upstairs. These happy memories live rent-free in my mind, and in them I can see the foundations of the woman I am today.

By the time I turned five, my mother had her own apartment, which just happened to be in one of the D.C. neighborhoods most affected by the crack epidemic.

Although my mother never drank so much as a beer back then, we were right in the center of the commotion, having to navigate drug and death-riddled scenarios, witnessing people very close to me get addicted to crack, and having to process all of this at a very young age.

A few years later, mom gave birth to her second child, and whether by obligation or desire, I instantly became a protector and caregiver for my little brother. Being so responsible for another human at that young age really impacted my life.

My mother supplied the roof and the rules, but I did everything from sterilizing bottles to grocery shopping and laundry.

We lived far away from my elementary school, so I'd have to jump in a cab with him every morning at the cost of $5.50 to get across town. It was common practice for these drivers to take advantage of two young kids, whether inflating the cost of the ride, making advances toward me, or dropping us off miles away from our requested stop.

I'd have to walk the rest of the way with my little brother, carrying my backpack and his diaper bag. I quickly learned how to avoid risk and get away from people trying to take advantage of us, not only for me, but to protect the person I was caring for.

It was tough, dealing with things like that, and having to talk my way out of dangerous situations.

I remember our electricity getting cut off and having to go to the Pepco building in D.C. to talk to the reps about why we didn't have any money. I distinctly recall one lady asking: "Who is here with you?" as she stared at this 11-year-old trying to negotiate getting the electricity turned back on.

By 14, I had another brother, so I was always with two kids on my hip. The youngest was with me so much in high school that people secretly thought he was my child.

This was the norm for me. I had no clue that we were without. It was just my life and what I knew. I felt loved by my mom and grandma, and all these other people who surrounded me.

By 17, I was in and out of school, following the only example that had been set for me. It wasn't a lack of interest in school, quite the opposite actually, but I was more of a supplier of needs during these times.

We were on public assistance, receiving food stamps every month, but even with that, food and cash were scarce in the house, and that responsibility often fell on my shoulders.

My mother never asked where the money came from and I never offered up the information—if we had needs, I helped to supply them however I could.

This was the year I got pregnant. I remember the day my mom put my coat on and found a note from the doctor in the pocket breaking the news. She read the note and said: "Well, get ready to be a mother, because abortion is not a form of contraception."

In no way was I ready to be a mother myself, and the constant bombardment from people around me as the news spread was almost more than I could handle.

I called my grandmother and she said: "You've never allowed the words of others to weigh you down, don't start now. Your mother said she'll be there for you, and I will be too."

These words, and their support, were all I needed, and I thank them both to this day.

Although I had been responsible for my brothers, I still had my mom for support. But caring for my daughter was all on me.

While that shift didn't happen overnight, her birth—August 3, 1995—was the defining moment in my life. Just two months after she was born, determined not to become another statistic, I earned my GED, having only prepped for two weeks.

But over the next two years, my daughter and I found ourselves without a roof over our heads. The help that my mother had promised was nonexistent.

My daughter, Laniayyah, and I were living out of my car in between nights spent on a friend's or my grandmother's floor. Reality at this point was washing her formula bottles out with a gallon jug of water I kept in my trunk.

The years that followed were full of attempts to be better by doing better. But I quickly learned that while I was incredibly proud of the accomplishment, hiring managers weren't impressed with a GED.

When I applied for jobs, people would turn their nose up. Here I was: A plus-size black woman with natural hair, a southern, urban dialect, and a GED—not exactly the package they were looking for.

And the opportunities I did land? Let's just say I wasn't always treated with fairness or respect. But I had to learn how to interact with diverse groups of people and to create a space for myself, remaining strong and steadfast in who I was instead of falling victim to the way I was perceived.

I became a sponge, absorbing not only everything about my role but adjacent positions and those higher on the ladder, all the while never being taken seriously or truly heard.

Swimming against the current like that was exhausting. But I wanted to provide for my family in a way that didn't force me to resort to other things. I had the will and desire to persist when so many others felt they had no choice but to give up.

A couple of years later as the holidays were approaching, there was a point when we didn't have any money. Christmas was a big deal, so in a moment of desperation to give Laniyyah the childhood I never had, I went to the store and stole gifts for her.

As these stories tend to go—I got caught. I'd gotten in trouble for stealing before, but because of the value of the toys I stole, this was classified as a felony charge.

At that moment, I remember thinking: You're doing this for your child because you don't want her to miss out on the same things you did. But if you get put away for this, you won't be there for her at all.

That was a pivotal moment. I thought back on all these things that we had survived, and knew it wasn't worth going away over some Christmas presents. It set me on a new trajectory—if I continued to do what I had always done, then that's all I would ever get, and I'd continue to be a product of my circumstances.

It wasn't just about me. All of this translated into a better life for Laniyyah, too. Since she was three years old, she always wanted to play soccer. Let me tell you, soccer was not played in the hoods of D.C. in the '90s. But by the time she was in fifth grade, I found that girl a soccer team.

Fast forward to present day: I'm a college graduate with a master's degree, and a business owner. All because of this promise to her. I run an HR consulting firm designed to help businesses and nonprofits create spaces of belonging for their employees through policy updates, processes, employee relations, and things like that.

I'm also a career coach. I reinvest every dollar from nonprofit clients into helping people in situations like my own. I'm one of the least judgmental people you could come across because I've been through it all. And because of that, I help people to see things differently.

And I'm still in that old fight from when I was a young Black woman with dreads. We're still fighting to belong.

Throughout my career, people would bring me in as this young Black mother because they wanted to check a diversity box. Once I was in the door, there were very few times I was made to feel welcome or supported.

I remember being reprimanded for needing to leave at 4:45 instead of 5pm to pick up my daughter from school 20 miles across town. But the lady I was working for at the time didn't understand because that wasn't her life or experience.

How about this one? At one point I had long dreadlocks, but decided to cut them off because they were too heavy. I was promoted almost immediately. One of the executives said to me: "Look what happens when you cut your hair. Things change."

Can you believe that? But the worst part was I needed the job, so I took it on the chin and kept quiet.

I have a gazillion stories like that. I once sat across from someone reading my resume who asked: "Who wrote this? It's written well."

I said I wrote it. She was surprised. It was written well, and was different from how I speak. I know that's what she was thinking. I've got that urban D.C. tone, with a little country twang mixed in, and hold a lot of pride in that authenticity.

At the end of the day, these were the experiences that shaped me, helping me build this successful business. The truth is, we've made a lot of progress in recent years as a society, but we have so far to go, as discrimination and microaggressions are very much still a part of everyday life for some of us.

As I reflect back on these memories, they pale in comparison to a recent professional experience that left me more hurt and afraid than ever before.

Our team was working with a client to help them establish new, effective HR strategies to improve their business. HR has evolved over the years, and so much of what they were doing was outdated, not to mention costing them a lot of money and resources.

But the lady they had previously chosen to oversee HR had been there for decades and was not happy to see me, nor the work my company was doing. She was professional, but never really welcomed us in.

I felt she took our changes personally, even though we were there to elevate her and to mitigate risks for the organization.

There was one meeting in particular between her, our team, and their CEO, and she was very apprehensive—nasty even—in regards to a new implementation, but we moved forward, and shortly after, I left for a vacation.

When I returned, I was told they had run a background check on me that led them straight to the felony charge from over two decades ago.

The CEO, who I knew and had worked with previously, asked me to substantiate the hours for my business for the first time ever during our engagement. That seemed completely out of left field, and when they finally came forward with what they had found, I was crushed.

I was humiliated. I've always felt I had to hide this piece of my past to prevent this kind of judgment. And I was right.

I am all of these things that I have accomplished, all of these things I've done to positively impact my life and the lives of others along the way, including my wonderful daughter, who is hugely successful in her own right. And here I am feeling ridiculed and judged.

It still hurts me.

All I could think about at first was the fact that I'm a business owner, and I have people working for me and relying on me and this business to feed themselves and their families—my daughter included.

Would I lose everything when my other clients inevitably heard about this?

I lost that contract and had to rejig my workforce, and ultimately decided I had to come clean about this incident to other clients because I did not want them to hear it from others first.

I was scared. I had survived homelessness with a child, been evicted, stolen food to survive, and so much more. But this moment in 2023 rocked my world and broke me down in a way that I had never been before. I cried for six weeks straight.

I told the entire story to one of my CEO clients and he said: "So what's your point?"

He was right. He told me: "This is why companies need you—because you see things differently, things that other people just don't see."

I was so relieved, and it made every other conversation that much easier. Another client said to me: "As a white man, I would never have to go back and talk about why I did something 20 years ago. It infuriates me, Lakia, that you would have to do such a thing."

Every conversation that followed was similar.

"You run our $20 million payroll." "You've been in charge of these credit cards." "You run our audits and make sure everything is cleared." "We're judging you based on who you are today and we're so happy that what you had to go through back then did not impact you negatively and change you as an individual today—it actually helped you."

That is the response we would hope to get in 2024.

The biggest lesson I've taken from all this is: This fight is never over. There's no Cinderella story here—it's a Sneaker Ball. There's no "I made it through this and through that and now I'm running and operating a successful business," because I still face these very same challenges today.

But I celebrate every single win along the way, grateful in knowing I had the drive to overcome circumstances that took so many others out of the game.

So I live day to day asking myself, what does the next fight look like? I'm going to beat people to the punch, keep doing it the way that I do it, keep working extremely hard and getting smarter.

We can still be resilient. I can feel sorry for people who look at someone like me and can't see past my appearance or certain pieces of my past, rather than having the ability to see me for who I am and what I've become.

Most importantly, I'm going to continue helping people.

We're gonna flip the script on people who don't want us to belong. And when I say us, I don't just mean Black women like me. I'm talking about anybody—any race, any gender, any background—because it happens across the spectrum.

I've learned that I have to use my voice. It's scary. I'm scared to share this right now.

But after 20 years of silence, it's time to lay it all out there. It's time to tell my story, and be proud of who I am and what I've fought through. It's time to show others that authenticity, even in the face of discrimination, is the only way forward.

Lakia Elam is principal of her HR partnership firm, Magnificent Differences Consulting.

All views expressed are the author's own.

As told to Shane Croucher.

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