My story

Ever since I can remember, home has always been a foreign concept to me. Growing up in different homes, constantly being shuffled around from one family to the next, has left me feeling lost and disconnected. But the one thing that remains constant in my memories is the constant fighting and chaos that ensued in every household I was placed in.

I was only six years old when I was first placed in foster care. My parents’ drug addiction and abusive tendencies meant that my younger sister and I were taken away, deemed unfit to live in such a toxic environment. I remember the social worker telling me that this was for our own good, that the foster homes would take care of us and provide us with a loving and stable environment.

But as I was introduced to one family after the other, I quickly realized that things were not as they seemed. Some families were kind and welcoming, but others were strict and cold. And no matter where I went, the trauma from my past continued to haunt me. The night my parents were taken away by the police, the bruises on my body, the screaming and shouting, it was all still so fresh in my mind.

It wasn’t just the physical abuse that still caused me nightmares, but also the emotional turmoil I endured. I was just a child, forced to grow up too soon and take on the responsibilities of being a mother to my little sister. I had to make sure she was fed, clothed, and taken care of, while trying to shield her from the chaos around us.

I often wondered what it would be like to have a “normal” childhood, with parents who loved and cared for us. But those thoughts quickly dissipated as I was constantly reminded of the harsh reality of my situation. My sister and I were seen as a burden, an extra mouth to feed and a constant reminder of the mistakes our parents made.

As the years went by, I was placed in different homes, each one leaving its own scar on my already broken heart. I was a quiet and reserved child, often keeping to myself and trying to blend into the background. But no matter how hard I tried to hide my pain, it always resurfaced in one way or another.

Now, at thirteen years old, I have finally been placed in a stable and loving home with a foster family who genuinely cares for me. But even with their love and support, the memories of my past are still there, haunting my every move.