Disclaimer- Graphic imagery described throughout this article

When I was 12, I wanted to be a singer.

I was never very good. But I definitely thought I was. I dropped my band class at my junior high school for a year to pursue my singing career. At choir tryouts, I was devastatingly crushed upon finding I was an alto, and was unable to hold a note while under the spotlight. Slightly embarrassed of my performance, I held my head high, knowing that all talented artists must face hardship. My choir instructor found it difficult to hide his frustration with me that semester. I never really knew why, although in hindsight I'm sure it was due to my undeserved confidence and loud mouth. But it's the spirit that counts, right?

When I was 13, I found out that I was good at writing.

Opposite of my singing ambitions, I was entirely convinced I was a terrible writer. I spent my time in my Language Arts classes downtrodden by standardized measures of what it meant to be good at reading and writing. But in 8th grade, my teacher had noted a short story I had spent hours completing. She said it was phenomenal. She said that I may not even realize the talent that I have. I don't even remember what that story was about, but I remember my Dad saying he cried after reading it. That meant a lot. Maybe I'd become a writer. While my teen years were on the horizon, I carried quite a bit of a little girl's innocence: the sky was the limit. I really could do anything.

When I was 14 I started high school.

And high school is a slew of "woe is me" and anxiety anyway. Sometimes I'd like to forget these years ever happened. Self discovery really should be a beautiful thing, but really, it was pins and needles. It was that feeling where you step in a muddy puddle and your shoes squish for the rest of the day. My body was a shoe I so desperately wanted to remove. I attempted this in numerous ways, one of which including a bike ride to Walgreens to pick up a box of L'Oreal dark chocolate brown hair dye to cover up every single blond strand on my head. I was determined to figure out what it meant to be Allison by the time I was fifteen.

The average age a girl is forced into sex slavery is between the ages of 12 and 14.

When I was 12, I could've been trafficked.

I could have given up my child-like aspirations of becoming a singer. I would have traded my microphone, as undeserved as it might have been, for a broken down hotel room. I would be crushed. But it would be more than just my spirit. It would be my physical body as it was forced to embrace a man that was a stranger to me. I would know more than just the hardship of an aspiring musician, but the hardship of womanhood; the hardship of vulnerability; the hardship of innocence. I could've lost my voice. I could've been trafficked.

When I was 13, I could've been trafficked.

My pen would be hung. It's difficult to speak on behalf of another character when you cannot speak on behalf of your own. Besides, what is a dreamer to do when her body is brutalized and abused? Is there even time to expand her imagination? Or is it a time for drifting apart from herself? The sky is not the limit, but rather, it's the ceiling fan that rocks back and forth as I watch intently beneath. I could've been trafficked.

When I was 14, I could've been trafficked.

I would have started high school but probably wouldn't have made it to class. Self-discovery really is beautiful, but what kinds of discoveries would I be making? I would know that my worth was tied to a dollar amount. I would know that my most important features were physical. I would constantly be aware of the features that attracted male attention. I might not be sure of the L'Oreal hair dye. Do men really prefer blonds? I would need to know. It's a matter of life or death.

My body would still be a shoe I would so desperately wish to remove. I would look in the mirror and examine my newly obtained bruises. I would note the scars that I gained for not doing as I was told. Being in my skin would be like pins and needles. Absolutely unbearable. I could've been trafficked.

When I was 12, 13, and 14 years old I could have been just a number. I could have joined the group of people who have their bodily autonomy stolen from them everyday. These instances are not happening in some distant country. This isn't an issue that is overseas. This is happening in our cities and in our neighborhoods. It's in the hotels we've visited. It's in the rest stops we frequent. This is an industry that is seemingly hidden beneath the surface and needs to be seen.

As of 2015, Michigan was ranked number 2 in occurrences of human trafficking. Since the beginning of 2016, Michigan has seen a 16% increase in reported cases which goes to show that this is a bigger problem than we may have originally believed. As each year passes, it seems as though experts find larger numbers of cases. And these cases are embedded within our hometowns. We can no longer afford to be disconnected. This is a domestic issue.

This is a crime that is not just exclusive to teenagers and children. This is a crime that pulls from a wide range of varying backgrounds. This is a crime that is just as relevant in Kentucky or Washington as it is in California or Michigan.

But the average age a girl is forced into the sex slavery is between the ages of 12 and 14.

What were YOU doing when you were 12?