The decision to apply for the visa to move to live with my partner in Sweden was not an extremely difficult one to make.
I had many clients who were wealthy executives, married with children –- supposedly upstanding citizens -- but who led double lives as drug-hungry perverts.
I was ready to just cry about it for a few hours and move on, but my family saw the discrimination my naive, young mind couldn’t yet detect.
My coordinator would send me packages full of test tubes, I would have a nurse fill them with my blood, and then I would FedEx them to various places in the country. It was like a morbid and boring hobby.
You feel responsible for the kid you see in front of you, the kid clearly suffering from a lifetime of abuse and neglect, this kid whose life might have maybe been different, if only. You play “if only” a lot.
I wasn’t married, didn’t have money saved and I wasn’t even sure I had maternity coverage on my insurance policy.
Everyone seemed friendly enough and I eased into the work without a hitch. But then, it happened.
He held my face to his and told me: "I have a history of heroin use, but I’m clean, and I’ve been tested. Are you sure you want to do this?"
I am regularly referred to as "lean" and "thin." And yet.
People see me smiling all the time and ask, "Why are you so happy?" My smile comes from being able to be me.
Even though I've always been staunchly pro-choice, I've never really had to defend that decision before
I don’t think anyone believes that her first love will end in a courtroom before a judge.