It was that wet and grey time at the start of spring and I was sitting at the back of a crowded bus in a white coat and blue scarf, watching the rain drops trickle down the window.

As the bus approached a local high school, a boy in a bright red jacket caught my eye. The bus stopped to let a few teenagers off and I had a good look at him.

He was taller than he had been the last time I saw him. He looked well-groomed and happy. It was a sharp contrast to the boy he had been just a few years ago when I first met him.

Some of them turned out well, I thought to myself happily.

When I first met that boy, I was a senior in high school and volunteering at a youth shelter to complete the community service hours required for graduation.

A teacher suggested the place to me. “Most people have no idea what goes on in these shelters,” she said.

I certainly didn’t know what to expect.

Initially, I felt intimidated, but I tried to be open-minded. It was a new place that was out of my comfort zone and I soon realized that many of the young residents were those who people refer to as “bad kids.”

They were the ones you saw skipping school and smoking on the sidewalk. The kids who get into trouble with the police.

“All of them are here because they have no place to go,” the supervisor told me. “Some of these kids ran away from home; others have to stay here because Family and Children’s Services thinks their home is no good for them.”

He told me sometimes only a handful of teenagers stayed at the shelter and, at other times, a dozen or more.

The shelter looked like a house. There was an area filled with computers and couches, a dining room and kitchen in the basement and the bedrooms upstairs. The bedrooms had bunk beds in them so more kids could stay there.

The first time I met some of the residents, I was apprehensive. What if they didn’t like me? Would I unintentionally say something offensive? It turned out they were actually a bit afraid of me.

The first time I sat down for dinner with them, they were all silent. I was a stranger and I could feel some of their eyes on me while I ate, examining my clothes and face.

After a few more days of awkwardness, the kids began to open up to me. I played video games with them on the computers and we set the table together for dinner. A few of the boys would even ask me for tips to try on girls in teen chat rooms. None of them ever mentioned where they stayed.

“I can’t say I live in a shelter. How attractive is that?” one boy said.

Soon, I realized they didn’t want to be judged and most of them were, in fact, good kids who were struggling with incredibly difficult family and mental health problems.

Staff members, who were mostly 20-something grad students working for low pay, told me the residents’ stories.

One, a quiet girl, had run away from home after being sexually abused by her father.

A bright and lively boy whom I enjoyed talking to had a mother with a drug problem.

One resident had been diagnosed with bipolar disorder. Another was depressed and threatened to commit suicide.

When I met the boy in the red jacket, he was small, skinny and angry. He would throw tantrums and was one of the few kids I couldn’t have a conversation with. I never knew the details about his situation.

The residents were always interested in why I wanted to spend time at the shelter.

I explained to them that I was considering social work as a career and also needed to complete my volunteer hours. So, I stopped volunteering at the shelter when I finished high school. The experience was eye opening and has had a lasting impact on me.

I donate food and clothing whenever I can because a lot of the food at the shelter was donated from people in the community, and some of the kids arrived at the shelter with only the clothes on their back. I’m also a lot less judgmental. It’s a good idea to know someone’s story before you make up your mind about them.