From a homeless shelter to college, a Florida teen makes a new start

TAMPA — After packing all her clothes in a donated suitcase, Kenneisah Cummings, 18, sat on her bottom bunk in the group home, opened her laptop and started to sob.

The next morning, her mentor would drive her more than two hours south, to start at Florida SouthWestern State.

But before she went to bed, she had to write her first college essay: My personal journey.

She wiped her eyes and stared at the screen. Where should she start? How much should she share? What if she had to read it aloud?

Miss Vicki had encouraged her to be proud of her story: Instead of being a victim, celebrate your survival.

So Kenneisah closed her eyes and saw her 7-year-old-self foraging in the fridge to feed her younger brother and sister. Their mom had been gone for days. They had already eaten all the ketchup, drained the steak sauce.

"Poverty took my mom through a downward spiral," she typed through tears. "It seemed like she was only getting worse. Then she started beating me."

Foster care. Her dad's house. Foster care again. Back to dad who berated her, screamed that she was stupid, wouldn't let her cry. Until one terrible night in 10th grade when she called the cops, begging them to come get her.

She was staying in a teen shelter when a guidance counselor at Hollins High told her about a free program for homeless youth called Starting Right, Now. She could live in a group home, get help with budgeting and tutoring, rides to the doctor. Kenneisah had never been to a doctor.

If she held down a job, went to self-help classes and got her grades up, she might even be able to go to college. No one in Kenneisah's family, no one she knew, had gone to college. It seemed like another world. What were dorm rooms and book clubs?

"When I was sixteen, I was allowed to embrace change," she wrote. "I was accepted into a program for homeless youth, and it rescued me from my parents' abuse. ... I no longer felt alone."

After an hour, she closed the laptop, turned out the light and curled up with a small stuffed raccoon she has carried since fourth grade. The only remnant of her childhood. The last thing she would pack.

• • •

Kenneisah didn't know there were so many other teens like her, living on their own.

In the new program, she learned there's an official name for her demographic: Unaccompanied youth. If a teen has left home on their own, rather than being removed by protective services, they're not eligible for foster care — no matter what they may be fleeing. Many live on the streets or crash on friends' couches.

Across the United States, 1.7 million youth fit the description, including more than 8,000 in Tampa Bay.

Vicki Sokolik first heard the term in 2008, while she was trying to help her son's high school classmate find housing.

Vicki had never known poverty. She grew up in Dallas, where her family's home was used to film the TV series of the city's name.

But after years of volunteer work, she knew how to help. She set out to create a safety net — and launching pad — for homeless kids.

She formed a nonprofit, got grants, courted donors. At first, she rented apartments for the teens. But without transportation, they couldn't get to school or hold jobs. Without guidance, they couldn't navigate the world.

Most of them, like Kenneisah, had suffered physical and emotional abuse. Some had addictions. Many had never been to a grocery store or had a family dinner.

One girl had been arrested for stealing tampons. Another had been living without electricity for two years. Several had turned to sex to buy food. "They had to survive," Vicki said. "We have to help them."

By 2012, she had raised enough to renovate the former Beach Place Runaway Center across from Tampa General Hospital. She furnished rooms for 32 students, added counselors and house parents, an on-site chef. In 2017, she opened a St. Petersburg campus, 35 beds in a former school.

She added a curriculum: financial literacy, conflict management, etiquette, even a Dale Carnegie class where students learn to shake hands and make eye contact. She assigned everyone chores, made them get real-world jobs, work 20 hours a week and save 30% of what they earned. And she enlisted mentors to take the teens to museums and soccer games, check in every day.

She touted her program to schools, social workers and law enforcement, helped teens get insurance and birth certificates, fought to change 10 Florida laws.

Kenneisah, like all the students, had to sit through a two-hour interview with Vicki and the counselors, sign a 14-page agreement, consent to drug testing and be home by the 10 p.m. curfew.

"We don't play," Vicki said. "I tell them: If you're leaving home because you don't like your mom's rules, you won't last a day with me. We're not passing out money. Only opening opportunities."

Of the 300 teens who have gone through the program, almost 98% earned high school diplomas. About 80% go to college, where they have become teachers, social workers, nurses. Most, like Kenneisah, get scholarships to cover the costs.

• • •

Kenneisah was carrying her last load out of the group home when her mentor pulled up. She set the box on the curb and ran to hug her.

"Good morning!" Kimberley McDaniel called that Friday morning. She and her husband had cleared out their SUV, filled the tank for the drive to Fort Myers. "Are you ready?"

Kenneisah hung her head. She looked like she was going to cry.

She had been up all night, alone in her small room, tossing and turning in the dark, terrified about leaving the only people who had believed in her, the only place she had called home.

What if her college roommates didn't like her? What if she couldn't keep up with the classes or got lost on campus? What if the professors yelled at her?

"I don't think I can do this," she said.

She had pulled a flowery orange crop top from the give-away bin, draped on a cream cardigan.

"You look like a college girl," Kim told her, beaming.

Kim couldn't believe how much Kenneisah had changed. She was standing straighter, looking up, speaking up. Instead of being quietly defiant, she seemed to have gained determination, even confidence. Until now.

"Alright," Kim said, grabbing the suitcase. "Let's rock and roll."

Kenneisah met Kim in the spring of 2023. She had never known anyone like her. A former Army officer and current life coach, Kim is kind and self-assured, no-nonsense but laid back. She took Kenneisah shopping, bought her a prom dress, told her she was beautiful. She showed her a world of museums, told her about her African-American heritage, arranged college tours. At Thanksgiving, Kim introduced her to her three grown kids — and croissants. She watched Kenneisah go from nodding off in class to making the principal's list. From refusing help to asking: How can I?

She saw her save most of what she made working at McDonald's, and she talked to her about getting a job on campus and becoming a psychology major. Kenneisah wants to help people.

While Kim and her husband loaded Kenneisah's four boxes into the car, Kenneisah ducked back into the group home to make sure she hadn't forgotten anything — and to tell her house moms goodbye.

She was by the front glass door, thanking them, when panic suddenly struck, her hands fluttering to her face. She crouched in the corner. Refused to look at them.

She was so grateful for everything these women had done for her, so anxious to make them proud.

But heading into the unknown on her own felt so overwhelming. All her excitement had turned to terror.

"No, no, no!" she wailed. "I can't go."

Gently, firmly, the house moms led her out the door, where her mentor wrapped her arm around her shoulder.

"You got this," they told her. "You've worked so hard. You can do this."

Kenneisah nodded, folded into the backseat. "OK," she whispered. "I love you."

She waved through the window as they drove away but never looked back.

To learn more For more about this program for homeless youth: Starting Right, Now .