In this op-ed, writer and artist Julia Fox tells the story of her friend, Kayla Gerdes, who has overcome obstacles including incarceration, and now works to help others.

We first met at John Jay Park in Yorkville, a dystopic suburb in the Upper East Side of Manhattan. The park was buzzing on that first warm day after a long, cold winter. My friends and I staked our claim on a corner of the basketball courts, where each school held its own spot. We sat on the warm asphalt, legs crossed, watching boys skateboard.

Kayla marched right up to me, as if we had known each other forever, and linked her arm through mine. She whispered to me that she had a crush on a boy in my class, pointing to him and asking if I could introduce her.

We became close. Most kids kept Kayla at an arm’s length because her behavior often blurred the line between angsty outbursts and painful cries for help. But I saw her, and she confided in me during late hours under luminescent lights of fast food restaurants. She told me tragic stories about the abuse she had to endure at the hands of multiple men her mother had entrusted her with as a child — but she never felt sorry for herself. To Kayla, her tragedies were mechanisms that aided in her survival.

When Kayla was 13, she disappeared from my life. At the time of her departure, there was no goodbye. Rumors spread that she had run away from home, but I soon discovered that her mother lost custody of her and she had been sent to court-mandated rehab.

I was heartbroken, but time passed and the talk faded. Those of us who survived grew up, moved on, and moved out of the neighborhood, and Kayla became a childhood memory.

Until 2010. I received a message from an old friend with a YouTube link, and the subject read, “OMG.” As the clip began to play, my jaw dropped. There she was. Kayla. Little Kayla. My Kayla. In handcuffs, sobbing, being escorted into a police car where she would soon face prison. On her way to court for a previous charge, Kayla was high on prescription pills when she had driven across a front lawn and into a house, killing a 69-year-old retired doctor as she was gardening.

I watched the video of Kayla’s arrest a hundred times. My first thought was for her, and my next was that it could’ve been me in her position. The only difference between the two of us is that I got lucky.

I kept up with her story online, but I never had the courage to reach out. In some ways she was like a mirror, in which I couldn’t stand to see my reflection. She was released from prison in 2015, and I sent her a message with my phone number, asking if she would be willing to meet with me. Almost immediately, she called. She sounded the same, with that subtle New York accent all Yorkville girls have.

The next day, she came over. Surprisingly nervous, I had cleaned my whole apartment as I waited for her to arrive. What would she be like? My first unintentional thought when she walked through the door was, I can’t believe she just spent five years in prison. She wore an unassuming tank top and jeans, and looked clean and well-rested. In fact, she looked great — articulate and confident.

Just like our first encounter over 15 years prior, we immediately warmed up to each other. She was still as sincere and affectionate. We spent the next 10 hours together, and I tried my best to hold back tears as she explained her experiences.