My eyes wandered to the anatomical charts in the classroom, igniting my love for biology and geography. It sparked a realisation in my young mind that everything is connected, like a fascinating tapestry of knowledge.
But this wonder was not enough for my parents. So, I chased As, fought for ‘Player of the Match’, and practised the piano until my fingertips burned – all for a smile or a “good job” from those who gave me life. But it was never enough.
When I was nine, my dad died. The moment my mum found out, she collapsed, crying. I tried to console her, a child’s clumsy attempt to mend the universe, but the beating was immediate. Her heart had lost its anchor, and in her grief, she couldn’t see mine. Who would carry me to bed now? Who would keep me safe?
Two weeks after the funeral, my mum sent me off to live with our pastor uncle. For the smallest mistake, I received a hiding. But the worst hiding came for no reason at all. He once destroyed my face with a fan for opening a door the wrong way. He smashed a kettle of boiling water over my head because I hadn’t put enough water in it. The worst was when he stood on my neck. In those moments, my freedom was stolen, and my personal motto became tit for tat. It wasn’t right. Brisbane Youth Service (BYS) helped me unlearn that later. But at the time, it was how I survived.
At 15, my nan decided she wanted me, and for a moment I thought things would change. But she was no saint either, pushing me to my limits in the pursuit of academic excellence.
Three years had passed when R&B artist SZA entered my life. Her songs became an anthem of defiance. The idea of not wasting a good day, and that my own wellbeing mattered more than external validation, began to resonate.
Slowly, a quiet confidence grew, and with it the courage to be myself. I told my nan I liked men, thinking she would accept me. Instead, I was disowned. That was the day I became homeless.
For the next few months, I drifted between motels and youth homes, carrying only myself and the hope that somewhere, there was a place I could finally exhale. That hope became real when I was referred to BYS and offered a room at Sandgate House. I had heard of BYS – whispered about like a safe harbour for people like me – and the moment one of the workers greeted me, I felt it. No shackles, no storm. Just me, and people who wanted to see me grow. That’s where the true work of rebuilding began.
BYS didn’t hand me the answers. They guided me to find them myself. They stood beside me as I learnt how to build connections, set boundaries, and rebuild trust.
I spent years telling myself that attachment was dangerous, that love was a double-edged sword. My mum’s hands had taught me that. I’d often wonder, “Is this what love is meant to be?” I convinced myself I didn’t need anyone. That being alone on my laptop was enough, safer even. But BYS helped me see connection differently. They didn’t force me to open up. They created the space where I could. The friendships I built at school became my anchor. And in that space, I began to claim myself. I could say the words with no apology: I am a gay man. I stopped living for approval and started living my truth.
At Sandgate House I found something I never really had before: stability. With that foundation, I could finally start shaping my own life. No more waking before dawn or travelling far just to make it to work. Soon, I was stepping into a team leader role. For the first time, I was living with purpose, not out of fear or obligation.
At first, homelessness felt like the death of my education. I believed the stereotype that people like me couldn’t amount to anything. But through the guidance I received, I saw how wrong that was. BYS reminded me that mistakes weren’t failures, but lessons. They asked questions that helped me find my own answers. They reminded me that pushing myself to breaking point was harmful. For once, I was praised and encouraged, not punished. And that meant everything, because praise was a language I had rarely heard before.
With their support, I graduated Year 12. No one from my family came to my graduation, but my Sandgate House manager did instead. I cried that day, not from sadness, but from being seen. In that moment, I felt what family was meant to feel like: steady, proud, and present. Even in the smallest moments, BYS guided me back to myself. I remember calling them from my formal, tears streaming because I didn’t feel comfortable in what I was wearing. “It’s one night, Seth. Just be yourself. Have fun, get some food, and come home,” they said. Those words carried me through the night. Guided by their support and my own wish to grow, I also learnt how to regulate my emotions.
One of the workers shared a Rumi poem with me that unlocked something already stirring – that emotions weren’t enemies to fight off, but guides to listen to. I am learning to welcome them all now – the dark thought, the shame, the malice – and meet them at the door, not with a fist, but with curiosity. The weight I had carried for so long was replaced by a surge of empowerment and a newfound sense of potential.
The biggest lesson I’ve carried is that you cannot judge a book by its cover. I see students today, even, who are homeless but still show up to class, their resilience etched into every step. They deserve to be praised and lifted up. BYS didn’t give me just a home. They helped me discover how to build one within myself. Now, I am studying at university, chasing my love of biology and teaching, hoping one day to ignite a spark in my students that will burn for the rest of their lives – like my biology teacher and BYS helped awaken in me
The chaos is still within me, but now, there is also the flicker of a dancing star, born from the deepest darkness. I am not just what happened to me; I am what I am choosing to become. I am free, and I am happy, surrounded by people I know will and can support me in the roughest spots.
