When someone goes missing—especially a teen or young adult—the assumption that they chose to leave becomes an easy way to quiet urgency. It softens the response. It delays action. It allows people to believe the story will resolve itself without intervention.
But here’s the truth: people rarely disappear without reason, and almost never without risk.
Running from something is not the same as running to freedom.
In my work, I’ve seen what sits beneath that label. Fear. Coercion. Abuse. Mental health crises. Grooming. Addiction. Exploitation. Sometimes a single bad decision. Sometimes a lifetime of them piling up until escape feels like the only option.
Calling someone “just a runaway” ignores context—and context is everything.
It ignores the last text that didn’t sound right.
The abandoned backpack.
The sudden silence on social media.
The friend who knows more than they’re saying.
The pattern that doesn’t quite fit.
Most importantly, it ignores the reality that the first hours matter—no matter how old the missing person is, and no matter how independent they’re assumed to be.
I’ve watched cases stall because no one pushed back on that label. I’ve also watched cases move—fast—when someone refused to accept it.
A runaway can still be in danger.
A runaway can still be a victim.
A runaway can still need to be found.
So when someone disappears, I don’t minimize. I don’t speculate. I don’t assign blame or assumptions.
I ask better questions.
I document everything.
I act with urgency.
I treat absence as a warning sign, not an inconvenience.
Because behind every missing person is a family holding their breath, a story still unfolding, and a life that matters—whether they left willingly or not.
Every missing person matters to me. I will look for them and not just label them. I
way.