Hannah’s Story
When I Grow Up, If the World Lets Me
A poem written by a former NewPath client about her personal journey to achieve a brighter future.
NewPath Opens Doors to Brighter Futures
If you attended our annual Heart & Hope Gala this year, you had the opportunity to listen to a former NewPath client’s journey and how she was able to overcome adversity and achieve a brighter future in adulthood.
“My name is Hannah Klausing. At 26 years old, I stand before you as proof that statistics don’t define destiny.
I was born to two individuals struggling with addiction. I experienced poverty, spent time in foster care, residential facilities, and hospitals. I overheard more conversations than I can count; that kids “like me” don’t make it.
And statistically… they’re right. Children of parents with substance use disorders are more than twice as likely to develop addictions themselves. And for youth who age out of foster care, nearly half will face addiction or incarceration before they turn 26 years old. But I didn’t become a number. I became an exception.
Today, I own a successful business. I am the founder of a local nonprofit organization. I even serve as the vice president for the LEAD Board here at NewPath. And every night, I go home to my loving husband and not one, but THREE dogs waiting at the window for me. But I didn’t get here alone. I got here because doors opened – because people opened. Because someone saw me, believed in me, and left the light on long enough for me to step through.
And that’s what tonight is all about. Statistics don’t have to define a child’s story, but you can. If I can ask one thing of you this evening, I challenge you to be a door. “
Watch Hannah’s Live Performance
When I Grow Up, If the World Lets Me
A Poem by Hannah Klausing
When I grow up, maybe I could be a firefighter…
I’ve been putting out fires since I was five.
Not with water –
with silence.
With apologies that weren’t mine to give.
With tiptoes and forced smiles
so someone wouldn’t explode.
When a CPS worker came knocking, we knew what to say and what not to say to keep the flames down.
Maybe I’ll be a chef!
And cook for real families –
ones that sit around the table,
not ones that scream from opposite rooms.
Ones that pass plates,
not blame.
I’ll make mashed potatoes from scratch —
not the boxed kind from the food bank.
And nobody will have to hide their food under their bed…
just to make sure they have something for tomorrow.
Or maybe a therapist.
Because I know what it feels like
to cry quietly into a pillow
and pretend it’ll do.
To beg for help with your eyes
while your mouth says, “I’m fine.”
I could be the first person who looks at a kid like me and doesn’t see a “problem”
but a soul – fighting for what feels like “home.”
I thought about being a judge –
Because someone should finally listen
when a kid says,
“I don’t want to go back there. Please.”
Someone should bang the gavel
for the broken and brave – for the voices silenced by adults that were once supposed to keep them safe.
Or maybe I’ll be a writer –
because paper doesn’t call me a liar.
Because a pen lets me tell my truth
when the world keeps erasing my voice.
But other days…
I don’t know what I want to be.
Because I’m tired of starting over
And I’m afraid good things don’t last.
Tired of knocking on new doors
with a trash bag full of hope
that no one ever bothers to unpack.
They say I have “behavioral issues.”
I say I’ve had to be an adult
since I was old enough to pour cereal
while my Mom was passed out on the couch.
They say,
“You just need structure.”
I say,
“I just need a door to stay open long enough for me to take my shoes off.”
7 placements.
Three schools in one year.
Christmas isn’t the same in a facility.
You won’t find any framed baby photos, but you’ll find CPS files as thick as my skin.
They gave me a therapist I see once a month —
but I see fear every night when I close my eyes.
I see a mother who didn’t want me –
And hear the echo of “we don’t have room for her anymore”
way louder than any diagnosis could scream.
Maybe I’ll be a builder!
So I can craft something that doesn’t collapse —
four walls, a roof, a room that smells like me
A front door that doesn’t swing shut behind me
every time I get close to love.
Or maybe a librarian.
I’d fill shelves with stories
about kids like me who survive –
not just in headlines or reports,
but in pages where they’re heroes,
not just statistics anymore
Some nights, I think I’ll be a mom.
The kind that never forgets picture day.
The kind that packs lunch with little notes.
The kind that doesn’t convince you to hand over your birthday money to support her habit.
Sometimes? Sometimes I dream of growing up and being “happy”. Maybe even safe.
Just someone with a key to their own place
and a fridge full of food
that doesn’t belong to someone else.
A home where doors don’t slam.
A dog that waits at the window.
A quiet life –
finally mine.
But until I grow up…
I’m still standing in doorways
that never seem to stay open long enough.
Doors that shut in my face
before I ever step through.
Conversations I overhear
They’ve already written my future for me
High school drop out
Multiple diagnosis’s
Repeat convictions
Drug addiction
Will I grow up?
if the world lets me,
I won’t build walls to keep people out.
I’ll build doors that stay open,
hinged with mercy,
framed in grace,
wide enough for the lost and the loud
and the kids who’ve been told “not this time”
too many times.
And one day –
you’ll find me there.
By a door that doesn’t close when you’re crying.
A door that doesn’t need knocking.
A door that opens
just because a child needs it to.
Because I’ve learned:
it’s not the walls that makes a home –
it’s the door that never turns you away.
…and now I’ve grown up.
My fate… my story… changed because of open doors.
I carry scars –
some worn like medals,
others hidden deep in rooms I still don’t open every day.
But I’ve learned how to build doors –
strong ones.
Doors that don’t just swing open for me,
but for every lost soul waiting outside.
I AM the firefighter who still puts out fires –
not with silence,
but with words and truth and fierce love.
I’m the chef who makes real meals –
for families that gather,
for hearts that hunger for more than food.
I’m the voice that listens –
not just to kids like me,
but to every unheard story.
I’m still tired sometimes,
but I don’t give up on doors.
Because I am living proof.
Proof of the difference between a door slammed in fear – and a door opened in hope.
What I didn’t realize is that these “doors” were more than solid wood and a set of old hinges – these doors were people. Just like you and me.
Teachers. Friends. Neighbors. Foster parents. Members of a church, good Samaritans, and even sometimes strangers… they were my doors.
Doors that opened when I came knocking.
So… when I grow up?
Maybe I’ll just be a door…
Contact Us
"*" indicates required fields