At 18, I was desperate for money and a place to stay. A woman I met on the street told me about a “job opportunity” in a nearby city where I could earn good money quickly. She said all the girls she knew were making easy money and living comfortably. I trusted her, thinking it was my chance to escape the streets. But when I arrived, things were very different. I was forced into situations I didn’t agree to, and I couldn’t leave. Every day was a struggle to survive, and I felt completely trapped.
I soon realized the promises were lies. My phone was taken, my movements watched, and every attempt to push back was met with threats. The woman who brought me there disappeared, and the people in charge made it clear I owed them for transportation, food, and a place to sleep. The debt never seemed to shrink, no matter how much I did. Days blurred together. I learned how to stay quiet, how to read moods, how to survive one hour at a time.
What hurt almost as much as the fear was the isolation. I felt invisible, like my life had been paused while the world moved on without me. I blamed myself for trusting a stranger, even though I was just trying to survive. Some nights I clung to small hopes, a kind word from another girl, a moment alone by a window, the idea that someone, somewhere, might notice I was missing.
Eventually, an opportunity came through a moment of carelessness on their part and courage on mine. Getting out was not the end of the story. Freedom brought its own battles: trauma, shame, learning how to trust again, and figuring out who I was outside of survival mode. Recovery was slow and uneven, but it was real.
Now, looking back, I understand how easily vulnerability can be exploited and how important it is to listen when someone asks for help. My story is not just about what was taken from me. It is also about what I reclaimed: my voice, my agency, and the belief that my life is worth protecting.
*The name in this story has been changed to protect client confidentiality.