How I got my GED after leaving a neglectful home and started planning an astronomy career
The registrar slid a clipboard across the counter and asked me to fill in my intended major. I had not thought much about a major. I had thought about passing the last section of my GED, about getting to this campus, about whether my jacket looked too obviously thrifted next to the freshmen in new hoodies. I wrote “astronomy” in the blank because it was the one thing I cared about. She looked at the form and said, “Have you taken the math placement test?” I said no. “You’ll want to do that. Astronomy is fairly math-heavy.”
She meant it as information. I took it as a beam of cold light.
I left home two years before that. Not dramatically—no police car, no social worker in the yard. I just stopped coming back. My mother had a lot going on, and I’d learned early that making lists, writing things down, and showing up were not skills I’d get from that house. By sixteen I had a job at a diner, a phone with no service, and a habit of sleeping at friends’ places when things got loud. School was the first thing I stopped noticing I was missing. I’d sit through second-period economics watching the clock, then slip out the side door and walk to work.
It took about eighteen months to sign up for GED prep. That only happened because a public librarian named Elena kept being quietly present—not pushing, just there when I came in to use the public computers. One afternoon I was looking up tenant rights on the old iMacs and she asked whether I’d ever seen the library’s free high school equivalency classes. I brushed it off. She didn’t press. She just printed the one-page schedule, put it in a clear sleeve, and set it on the counter where I dropped my backpack every day when I came to search for shifts. It sat there for three weeks before I picked it up.
The GED had changed since I’d first heard about it. It’s now four separate tests. The free volunteer tutor, a retired high school teacher named Mr. Ortiz, gave me the most genuinely useful advice in the whole process: “Don’t study everything. Take the practice test first. Figure out what you don’t know. The stuff you do know, you’ve known for years—you’ve survived this far.” So I did that. Language arts and social studies were things I’d been reading about online for years. I passed those two, plus science, in one Saturday session. Math took me four more months of a weekly class at the library, working through algebra problems with pencils stamped with the credit union’s logo.
And that math class is what led me to the registrar’s office, staring at the word “astronomy” on a form.
The people who truly helped me were the ones who aimed me at the smallest possible next step. Luis, the advisor I was transferred to after the registrar’s comment, is that kind of person. He asked me what I imagined doing with astronomy. It wasn’t a therapy question. He said, “There’s a difference between wanting to decode data, wanting to build instruments, and wanting to simply enjoy the sky. All three are legitimate, but they lead to very different paths.” I told him I had once seen Saturn through a small white telescope at a library star party. It was the only moment in high school I remember feeling like the rest of the world wasn’t moving past me. I was a sophomore standing on the sidewalk next to a retired electrician who had set up his eight-inch scope. He showed me the rings, and for a few minutes I forgot what was waiting at home.
“So that’s your astronomy,” Luis said. “Plan to get through college algebra and physics one first. Transfer to a university later. Meanwhile, join the local astronomy club—they host a free public view night on campus the first Friday of every month.”
Practical direction, not a speech.
What I want parents and teachers to understand: many adults told me to “follow my dreams.” Luis printed out the club’s meeting schedule. Elena put a class schedule in a binder sleeve. Mr. Ortiz spent an hour showing me how to divide by fractions. I wasn’t fragile because of what I’d been through—I just didn’t know where the rungs were. The kids who leave neglectful homes often don’t need big inspiration; they need someone to label the nearest step.
If a young person you know is in that position and mentions a goal that feels enormous, ask them for the smallest related action. That’s what worked for me. “I want to study astronomy” became “I will attend the free star party on Friday” which became “I will take the math placement test on Tuesday.” The GED was the step that let me walk into the building. The placement test was the step that opened the door to a real class.
Now I’m in my second semester. I passed developmental math—the class that doesn’t count toward a degree but gets you to the starting line. I’m taking an introduction to planetary science this term. Most days I still don’t feel like someone on a career path. Astronomy is still mostly me knowing a handful of constellations and a stubborn desire to look through another telescope. I have a notebook Elena gave me, with the word “Math” underlined and a small Saturn sticker in the corner. I bought a planetarium membership with a gift card from the diner’s retirement fund collection. And I started volunteering at the Wednesday night library star parties, the same ones I first walked into alone at sixteen. I bring paper cups for hot chocolate.
None of this guarantees a career in astronomy. The path is long, the competition is real, and a GED is just a piece of paper. But I’ve learned that most of getting anywhere is just knowing the next concrete step. Right now, my next step is finishing the semester. After that, it’s physics. Somewhere in between, there’s a star party on Friday, and I’ll be there with the cups.
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