Everyone has a story.

Many of us walk through life carrying unseen weights. We don’t always recognize the burdens others bear and maybe that’s a kind of self-protection. Or maybe it’s just how we survive, quietly handling our own struggles without adding the weight of someone else’s.

I grew up poor, in poverty, on state assistance in the Rust Belt of Ohio, nestled in the foothills of the Appalachians. The region was a melting pot of working-class families from different ethnic backgrounds who came seeking jobs in the coal mines, steel mills, coke plants, or chemical factories.

That’s only part of my story, and I’ll keep it brief because this isn’t about showcasing every challenge I’ve faced. Still, I want to share a few.

From the time I was born until about age seven, we moved constantly. We lived in homes where the floors had rotted out and the carpet lay directly on dirt. Rat infestations weren’t uncommon. At one point, we lived in a pop-up camper on a horse property owned by a friend of my mother’s, bathing in creeks or catching rainwater.

My late mother was the strongest person I knew. Life dealt her tough odds. I was born in 1971, the youngest of three. My brother and sister came two and three years before me.

Fast forward to my teenage years. From age 15 to 17, it was just me and my mother. Those years were brutal. I remember the heat being shut off in the dead of winter. We’d sleep in freezing temperatures, take cold showers, and I’d walk a mile to school shivering, just to get warm and eat. By the end of the month, food would run out. Some days, there was absolutely nothing in the cupboards. I was hungry.

School became my refuge. Warmth. A meal. But my mom had no such escape. She had to endure it all day, every day.

Then my Aunt Sharon stepped in. She came to help us pack up what little we had. Most of it went to the trash. She bought us a car that was barely running and we drove to South Carolina to start over.

We landed on Hilton Head. Mom found work, and we rented a small apartment. I worked after school and weekends. My aunt made sure I gave every paycheck to my mom to help. I was sixteen.

But even with both incomes, Hilton Head was too expensive. We moved again and this time to a trailer in central Florida. No air conditioning. Imagine trying to sleep in a hot metal box, year-round humidity pressing down like a anvil. I worked 25 hours a week, went to high school, and played varsity soccer. I didn’t complain. I didn’t know how.

After graduation, I had no scholarships, no grants, and no clear path forward. I’ll never forget what the school counselor said: “There’s nothing for you.” My grades had slipped during all the moves and hardship. I’d once made the honor roll in Ohio, but in Florida, I was just hanging on.

With no better options, I joined the U.S. Army in late 1991. I served four years, then went straight to work full-time while attending college three-quarters time. I got married. Lydia and I bought our first home in 1996. We both worked full-time and pursued our education. As of this writing, we’ve been married for 30 years.

In 2004, we adopted two biological brothers from Russia, ages six and eight at the time, from an orphanage. They’re grown now. And we’ve lived a life built on endurance, faith, and love.

There’s more to this story, but I’ll end it here.

Thanks for taking the time to learn a little about my life.
If we ever work together, maybe I’ll get to hear your story too.

Sincerely,

Douglas W. Rigsby