I once hid in the bathroom of a restaurant just to breathe in the smell of food… and ended up washing dishes for a plate of cold leftovers.
I was 17. I hadn’t eaten in three days, and the hunger ached deep in my bones. I walked into a restaurant pretending I was waiting for someone. I sat down, ordered a glass of water, and just waited. When the waiter walked away, I slipped into the bathroom—just to stand there and inhale the smell of steak, warm rice, and fresh bread. I stayed so long they thought I’d passed out. When they found me, the manager didn’t throw me out. He just looked at me and asked if I wanted a job. I nodded, holding back tears.
That first day was a disaster. I burned a pot, broke a glass, and cut my finger peeling potatoes. But I didn’t quit. I survived the yelling, the heat, and my aching back. Because at the end of my shift, they handed me a plate of food. Cold, sure. Dry, maybe. But it was mine. I ate it with my hands. From then on, I washed dishes like it was the greatest honor in the world.
Over time, I learned to cook, to wait tables, to run the register. I became someone people depended on. For the first time, I showed up clean, with a pressed uniform and my head held high. I was still sleeping on a busted mattress, but every day I felt a little less invisible. A year later, they handed me the keys to open the restaurant on Sundays. That’s when I started to dream of something of my own—something I wouldn’t have to borrow from anyone.
When you hit rock bottom, every little win feels like a feast. What matters isn’t what you’re eating—it’s what you’re building while you’re hungry.
— Santiago
I once hid in the bathroom of a restaurant just to breathe in the smell of food… and ended up washing dishes for a plate of cold leftovers. 🍽️🚿
I was 17. I hadn’t eaten in three days, and the hunger ached deep in my bones. I walked into a restaurant pretending I was waiting for someone. I sat down, ordered a glass of water, and just waited. When the waiter walked away, I slipped into the bathroom—just to stand there and inhale the smell of steak, warm rice, and fresh bread. I stayed so long they thought I’d passed out. When they found me, the manager didn’t throw me out. He just looked at me and asked if I wanted a job. I nodded, holding back tears. 🥲🧼
That first day was a disaster. I burned a pot, broke a glass, and cut my finger peeling potatoes. But I didn’t quit. I survived the yelling, the heat, and my aching back. Because at the end of my shift, they handed me a plate of food. Cold, sure. Dry, maybe. But it was mine. I ate it with my hands. From then on, I washed dishes like it was the greatest honor in the world. 🥵🍛
Over time, I learned to cook, to wait tables, to run the register. I became someone people depended on. For the first time, I showed up clean, with a pressed uniform and my head held high. I was still sleeping on a busted mattress, but every day I felt a little less invisible. A year later, they handed me the keys to open the restaurant on Sundays. That’s when I started to dream of something of my own—something I wouldn’t have to borrow from anyone. 🔑🥖
When you hit rock bottom, every little win feels like a feast. What matters isn’t what you’re eating—it’s what you’re building while you’re hungry. 🍲
— Santiago
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