Girl On The Bus Stop

Surviving in Plain Sight

Real Stories From a Survivor's Perspective

The Girl at the Bus Stop

Written anonymously by a survivor

If you had passed me at the bus stop, you wouldn't have thought anything was wrong.

I looked like every other teenager waiting to start her day. Backpack slung over one shoulder. Headphones in. Eyes half-awake from not getting enough sleep.

I knew how to look normal.

That morning, like most mornings, my stomach was already in knots before the sun had fully come up. Not because of school. Not because of a test.

Because I didn't know what kind of day it was going to be.

I had become an expert at reading people. Their moods. Their tone of voice. The look in their eyes. I knew when something was wrong before a word was spoken.

That wasn't a skill I learned because I wanted to.

It was a skill I learned to survive.

As the bus rolled through Milwaukee, kids laughed, complained about homework, and talked about their plans for the weekend.

I sat quietly.

Not because I had nothing to say.

Because my mind was somewhere else.

I was wondering if I had enough money. Wondering what kind of mood someone would be in later. Wondering how I was going to make it through another day without upsetting anyone.

The strange thing about survival is that eventually it becomes normal.

You stop noticing how much pressure you're carrying because you've been carrying it for so long.

You stop asking yourself if something is wrong because wrong becomes familiar.

Back then, I didn't wake up and think, "I'm being exploited."

I didn't have language for what was happening.

I just knew I felt trapped.

I knew I felt responsible for keeping everyone else happy.

I knew I was constantly afraid of making the wrong move.

And I knew I couldn't see a way out.

When school ended, everyone scattered.

Some went home.

Some went to sports practice.

Some met up with friends.

I remember watching people make plans for the future.

College.

Jobs.

Apartments.

Dreams.

The future felt like something that belonged to other people.

I wasn't thinking about five years from now.

I was thinking about making it through the next five hours.

That's what people don't always understand.

Trauma shrinks your world.

When you're in survival mode, your dreams get smaller.

Your confidence gets smaller.

Your voice gets smaller.

Until one day you look in the mirror and barely recognize yourself.

The hardest part wasn't that people didn't care.

The hardest part was that they didn't know.

Teachers saw me.

Cashiers saw me.

People passed me every day.

But nobody could see the battle happening inside my head.

Nobody could see how exhausted I was from pretending everything was okay.

Nobody could see how badly I wanted someone to ask the right question.

Years later, I still think about that girl at the bus stop.

The girl who looked fine.

The girl who smiled when she had to.

The girl who thought surviving was the same thing as living.

I wish I could sit next to her for a moment.

I would tell her that none of this is her fault.

I would tell her that one day she will find her voice.

I would tell her that the fear she's carrying won't last forever.

Most of all, I would tell her that she is worth fighting for.

Today, when people hear the words "human trafficking," many still picture dramatic scenes from movies.

What they don't picture is a teenager sitting quietly at a bus stop.

What they don't picture is someone going to work, attending school, laughing with friends, and carrying a secret battle nobody else can see.

That's why awareness matters.

Because the people who need help don't always look the way we expect.

Sometimes they look just like the girl at the bus stop.

And sometimes all it takes to change a life is someone willing to see what others miss.

— Surviving in Plain Sight | A CRC Survivor Series —

If this speaks to you, there is more to this story. I'll be back soon with Part Two.