My name isn’t important. You can call me Kara. I’m 15 years old, live in Clark County, and over the last two years, I’ve been charged with two felonies.
When I was 13, I stole my first car. At 14, I did it again. I won’t pretend those weren’t serious mistakes—they were. But if all you hear is “criminal” then you’re missing most of my story.
At the time, my home life was unstable. I didn’t feel safe or supported at home and was dealing with adult problems that I couldn’t control. Feeling trapped, I didn’t have the tools to cope or language to deal with it, so I avoided being home as much as possible. I wasn’t trying to ruin my life; I was trying to escape what was happening around me at home.
That escape led me straight into the juvenile justice system.
After my charges, I spent time in juvenile detention. People sometimes assume that time “sets kids straight.” For me, it didn’t. It wasn’t good. I was more scared and less safe than ever. Being locked up didn’t fix what was going on at home. It didn’t teach me how to manage my anger or stress. It just made everything feel heavier.
What actually changed my life happened when I was kept in community and given support and supervision.
I was incredibly lucky. There was a waiting list for community-based services, and I happened to get a spot so I could get help. Through that, I gained access to the Boys & Girls Club and a therapeutic support program that worked with me in the community instead of locking me away.
At first, I had three different therapists supporting me and court officers tracking me. We didn’t just sit in an office and talk the whole time. Sometimes we got food, built Legos, or went to the library. It sounds small, but those moments mattered. They helped me trust adults again. They helped me learn how to calm down, make better choices, and focus on school.
As I improved, the level of support adjusted. One therapist stepped away, then another. Now, I meet with one therapist every other week. I also know that if I’m ever in crisis, I can call for help instead of spiraling. That safety net made all the difference.
I live with my grandma now. For the first time in a long time, my life feels stable. I go to school every day—and I actually like it. My grades are good because I’m staying on top of my work instead of giving up. I enjoy art, learning new things, watching movies, and baking at home. I’ve made new friends who support where I’m trying to go, even though it meant walking away from people I cared about before.
I’m proud of myself for stopping, for taking responsibility, and for choosing a different path.
Here’s what I wish lawmakers understood: even though I did mess up and got into bad stuff that I shouldn’t have, it doesn’t mean I’m a bad person. Just like any other kid, my past and my home life don’t define me—and they shouldn’t define other kids either. What matters is what I’m doing now and the future I’m building.
It also matters how much our choices as a system cost—both financially and humanly. It costs about hundreds of dollars a day to lock kids up. That money didn’t make me safer. It didn’t make my community safer. The support I received in the community cost far less and actually worked.
Most of the time, it’s not kids just wanting to do stupid things. It’s kids trying not to focus on what’s going on at home and what they cannot control. When adults respond with punishment alone, they miss the chance to change the outcome.
I’m not a statistic; I’m a sophomore in high school who wants to graduate, get a job, and buy my own car. I’m someone who made mistakes—and then was given the chance to grow from them.
Community supervision didn’t excuse my behavior. It gave me the tools to change it. I hope lawmakers choose to give more kids the same chance I was lucky enough to get.
