I never thought a pile of discarded cords could bring me back to life.
They were outside a Dollar General — chargers, headphones, wall plugs, all unused but tossed away because they were “expired.” At the time, I was staying in a domestic violence shelter east of Pittsburgh. I gathered them up, cleaned them, organized them, and left them outside with a note: “Free. Take what you need, leave the rest for someone else to appreciate.”
The next morning, I heard the kids on their way to school. They stopped. Their voices rose, bubbling with excitement. Parents lingered behind them, wary but grateful. I stood inside listening, and for the first time in a long time, I vibrated with joy.
That moment — the sound of children delighting in something the world had thrown away — changed me.
I know what it feels like to be discarded.
I grew up in a family weighed down by addiction and absence. My father, Gary William Miller, passed away in Allegheny County Jail in 2010 when I was a child, leaving a void I didn’t know how to fill and shaping much of the resilience I would have to carry into adulthood.
Later, as a young mother, I faced heartbreak I wasn’t prepared for. Being told you are “unfit” to raise your own child cuts deeper than anything I’d ever known. It almost killed me.
Without support, I slipped. I numbed my grief with drugs. I spent six years surviving homelessness, eating from dumpsters and crashing wherever I could find a couch. I learned to stretch every resource, and when systems turned me away, I told myself I was being punished — meant to suffer.
I stopped planning for tomorrow. Some nights, I didn’t plan on waking up at all. But something inside me refused to die: a stubborn faith, a persistence, the faintest belief that my life could still mean something.
One Mother’s Day, I sat in a bar in Carnegie, aching for my daughter and the years I’d lost with her. Across from me, another woman spilled her bitterness about her own mom. I could have drowned in my pain, but instead, I spoke gently. I told her not to waste the time she had. My words came from a place of loss, but also of love.
That night, I realized: Even if my own heart was shattered, I still had the power to offer grace.
Gifts from dumpsters
The cords weren’t the first thing I salvaged, and they won’t be the last. Over the years, I’ve pulled clothes, shoes, toys, even furniture from dumpsters. I’ve carted items to donation bins, given gifts to friends’ kids, and filled my own home with what others considered trash.
I once found a bird feeder and gave it to a friend’s mom who loved birds. When Rite Aid closed, I found stacks of greeting cards and gift bags; I used them to write thank-yous to my public defender, my doctors, my friends. Jewelry, bags, coats — if I had it, someone else had it, too.
When I was hungry, dumpsters in Westmoreland County fed me. In winter, food stayed fresh longer. I’ve eaten steak, fish, bread and produce under the stars, even while living in a tent.
I’ve lived among the discarded, but I’ve also seen how much life is still in what others throw away.
Now that I have a home, in Westmoreland County, those same kinds of finds furnish it. Found items also make up most of my clothes, shoes, kitchenware and small gifts to friends and their children. Each item carries a story of survival, creativity, and the quiet ways I’ve transformed loss into something meaningful.
Hope amid failure
I’ve known abuse, betrayal, poverty and neglect. I’ve seen the systems meant to protect us fail.
But I’ve also seen what happens when we choose grace anyway. What I’ve learned is this: Staying soft in a world that wants to break you is a kind of resistance.
A charger cord, a toy, a coat — these aren’t just things. They’re proof that resilience is real, and that compassion can ripple outward. Proof that the smallest acts can carry someone through another day.
The world discards people the same way it discards objects. But I’ve learned to look again. To see worth where others see waste. To believe in potential where others see failure.
After years without a stable home, I’ve started to get back on my feet. The domestic shelter I stayed at connected me with a supervisor through the Alle-Kiski Area HOPE Center, which is helping cover my rent for up to a year while I work toward stability. In the meantime, I’ve been supporting myself through my book, “Even on a Rainy Day,” and I have a caregiving job lined up to start within the next few weeks.
Now that I have a place of my own, I’ve begun to build more than just a home for myself—I’ve built space for the people I love. One of the bedrooms is set up for my daughter, waiting for her. There’s a bed, a dresser, clothes, jewelry, coloring books, even a Steelers jersey and a fishing hat because I know the things she enjoys. Even if she isn’t here yet, her presence fills the room. It’s a reminder of what I’m still working toward, and why I keep pushing forward.
The world will keep failing. People will keep disappointing. But I’ve found something stronger than despair: the choice to keep showing up with grace. And sometimes, that choice starts small. Sometimes, it’s as simple as seeing the value in what the world has thrown away — and sharing it with someone who needs it.
I am no longer the woman waiting to die. I am the woman who listens for children laughing over a pile of salvaged cords.
Samantha “Sunshine” Rave is a survivor, writer, and believer in human potential and can be reached at sunshine.saammie@gmail.com.
Inspired to share your own Pittsburgh-area experiences and insights? Read a few more essays here and then propose your own here.
MOST READ STORIES
Republish our articles for free, online or in print, under a Creative Commons license.
