One Story Away by Hailey Evans
Second Place – Adult Category, 12th Annual Poetry Contest, Anderson County Library System
Five years. Three degrees.
Carved from hunger, sleepless nights, and ink-stained hands.
$52,000 in scholarships and grants—
not luck, not charity…but fought for in the margins of survival.
By ink and fire.
By sleepless nights and stubborn hope.
By telling a story so undeniable,
they had no choice but to say yes.
But before the victory,
before the open doors,
there was the wreckage.
At 31, I sank into a cracked vinyl chair,
the scent of stale coffee and paper forms thick in the air.
Fluorescent lights flickered overhead,
toddlers wailed, mothers murmured prayers in hushed defeat.
No degree. No job. No plan.
Just a government form that asked too much,
while my boys played at home,
unaware of the price of an empty fridge.
This wasn’t me.
I couldn’t stay here.
I wouldn’t stay here.
So, I fought.
I wrote.
Scholarship essays at 2 AM.
Babysitting and eBay sales by dawn.
Juggling food stamps, Medicaid, court dates,
my sons’ soccer games, in exhaustion.
Then, a call.
A Women’s Leadership Foundation.
Their first endowed scholarship.
But the interview?
Eight hours away. In person.
No PTO left. No flexibility from my boss.
No exceptions.
If I stayed, I’d keep my paycheck but surrender my dreams.
If I left, I’d risk everything…but maybe, just maybe, gain more.
So, I drove.
Five women.
Kind eyes, unreadable faces.
Clipboards. Questions.
I did not hand them paper.
I brought them into my story.
I shared the weight of hunger, heavy and deep.
Of stacking hospital bills higher than my hope.
Of selling my past, piece by piece, to buy my future.
I told them the truth:
That I was tired.
That I was scared.
That I was still here.
Then silence.
A week of waiting.
A week of whispers in my mind—
"Was it enough?" "Was I enough?"
Then the phone rang.
My breath caught, my hands clenched.
"Congratulations."
The word hit like thunder, like light splitting the sky.
Five thousand dollars a year.
More than money—
momentum. Freedom. A door kicked wide open.
Speaking on stages…my voice, strengthened.
Representing 400 scholars…my story, their anthem.
An MBA tailored for my future…because I would not be stopped.
One moment.
One risk.
One story, rewrote everything.
Your scars? Not your shame.
They are proof. They are power.
When you're ready to own your story—
to shape it, sharpen it, make it undeniable—
I’ll be waiting.
