From the ages of five to eleven years old, I was in the foster care system, which meant moving a lot. The exciting part of this was that I got to experience new settings, new people, and new families. The painful part of it was that I never really got a chance to pack any of my belongings, and because of this, I lost many items that held value to me.

Through all of the moving, I eventually got the opportunity to settle down. Within the first month of settling in with my new foster family, I got my first ever letter in the mail. A rectangular yellow envelope with a Snoopy card inside. The inside was filled with a couple of sentences. The letter was from the son of a family with whom I had crossed paths during my journey through the foster care system. I quickly snatched the letter from my foster mom, ran to my room, and hid in private to read it.

After reading the letter, I jumped into action to write back, but after the first sentence, I stopped in fear. I made the decision to rip up my unfinished letter and safely stored away the received letter. The what-ifs occasionally drift through my mind from time to time—the chances that the first family I fell in love with would have maybe become a bigger part of my life if I had just written back.

Fast forward, now a 31-year-old adult, I reconnected with this family. It felt natural, and we picked up from where we had said our goodbyes. I still have this letter, and it’s one of my prized possessions, making sure it is the first thing I pack on my journey from home to home.