The sun had barely begun to peek over the horizon, but the faint brightness of early morning sunrise stirred me in my sleep. For a moment I felt almost normal — perhaps even happy. But as I woke, I felt the cold concrete under me, and smelled asphalt and urine. I remembered where I was: under a bridge. Anxiety paralyzed me.

That was five years ago. During the six months that I was homeless, here were always moments like this, moments when I had to remind myself where I was and who I'd become. My mind seemed to reject its surroundings — unable to fully accept the present. I constantly found myself lost in vivid memories of my past (my grandmother! her cornbread!), as if my psyche was trying to remind me who I was. And then, within the same breath, I'd feel pangs of depression as I remembered my reality.

I was homeless, forgotten, abandoned, and alone. After eight years in the Texas foster-care system, I'd aged out at 18. I had no one. My life was reduced to two sets of clothes, a well-worn backpack, and the streets. By day I begged strangers for their change. By night I turned tricks for a place to stay, a shower, a hot meal, or whatever other resources I could trade my body for.

That was my reality.

As a foster child, I lived in more than 20 different homes, usually moving every six to eight months—never staying in one place long enough to create support systems, build community, or establish roots. Sometimes, I think that maybe this was for the best: Almost all of the group homes I lived in were imbued with abuse. By the time I was 18, I had been raped and beaten more times than I care to remember.

On the streets, I found out quickly that there aren't a lot of resources for homeless youth in Houston, especially if, like me, you're gay. (According to True Colors Fund, 40 percent of homeless youth are lesbian, gay, bisexual or transgender. They've declared today, April 29, 40 to None Day.)

I learned to make do with what I had. Most nights, I wandered the streets in Montrose until someone picked me up. Sometimes I'd get lucky and they'd let me spend the night, but more often then not, I'd end up sleeping on the roof of a shopping strip on the north side of Houston — no more than ten blocks from the group home where I was living when I aged out of the foster system and into homelessness.

I was living day-to-day, surviving through the street economy — alone, ashamed, and guilt ridden.

Then I got lucky.

One day in August 2010, I was in downtown Houston, searching for an air-conditioned space and a restroom. I wandered into the University of Houston-Downtown. An admissions fair was serving food.

At the fair, I found out that in Texas, youth who age out of the foster care system are eligible for a waiver that covers the complete costs of tuition and fees at state-funded institutions of higher education within the state. With the help of university staff, I registered for classes and applied for financial aid.

I spent the majority of my first semester homeless, struggling to keep up with my coursework. But eventually I received a refund check for about $2,000. I used it to get my first apartment. I still live there today.

In the five years since I enrolled at UH-Downtown, I've done a lot. I've advocated for greater protections for foster youth, testifying countless times before committees in Congress and the Texas legislature. I've worked to elect progressives to public office; most recently I worked for Senator Wendy Davis' gubernatorial campaign. I've won national leadership awards from the Human Rights Campaign and the National LGBTQ Taskforce, and I've even had the chance to intern on Capitol Hill for Senator Patty Murray, inspiring her introduction of the 2014 Tyler Clementi Higher Education Anti-Harassment Act.

My life was, still is, and will always be worth something. I wasn't a lost cause, a degenerate, or a waste of space. Because of my life's circumstances, I ended up on the streets. But with the right opportunity, I was able to surpass those circumstances and accomplish much in a short period of time.

I know now that thing that I tried hard to remember in the years that I was homeless: I am worth something. And so is every other homeless youth.

My life is proof that we can change the future of thousands of youth forced into homelessness by simply valuing their lives, making investments in their futures, and recognizing that they are worth more than a few bucks and some leftover lunch. They are not lost causes.

I share my story to tell you that there is hope, there is life after homelessness, and our lives do matter. Invest in us, value us, recognize our worth, and watch us soar to unimaginable heights.

Kristopher D. Sharp will graduate from UH-Downtown in May with a bachelor's degree in social work.

Bookmark Gray Matters. It's as good as an enrollment fair with free food.