Editor’s note: Youth Voices Rising, along with the writer of this piece, do not support Harry Potter author J.K. Rowling’s crusade against trans folks.
This piece is published in partnership with Foster Advocates.
We all know the story of a 15-month-old boy named Harry Potter. He was forced to live with his aunt and uncle after his parents were brutally murdered. The world remembers the lightning bolt scar, but that mark on his forehead was only the surface of his pain. Few acknowledge that what happened to him was a form of kinship foster care — living with relatives “for his safety” — only to face neglect and cruelty. At the age of 11, he was sent away to a boarding school every year, escaping that environment for months at a time.
This isn’t how every foster story goes, but it’s how Harry’s story went. And in some ways, it’s how mine went, too.
The Dursleys may be fictional, but their actions mirrored real-life abuse. They made Harry feel like a burden, called him names, rationed his food, forced him to live in a cupboard under the stairs, gave him ill-fitting clothes, and handed him humiliating presents meant to remind him of his supposed worthlessness. These were not just unkind acts — they were abuse.
Not every child welfare or foster care case involves multiple forms of harm, but mine involved its own kind. My abuse was mental, emotional, and verbal. At 15, my relationship with my father had deteriorated to the point where his constant mental abuse left me feeling small, unworthy, and powerless. His words became weapons, carving scars far deeper than anything physical. Like Harry living under the Dursleys’ roof, I knew what it felt like to be in a place where I was not valued, where my needs were ignored, and where my voice was silenced. That environment took a toll on my mental health, leading to situational depression.
When things reached a breaking point, I was removed from my home — first to a group home, then into foster care. Those early years in the system were confusing and scary. Being placed in a group home was like stepping into the unknown, surrounded by other kids carrying their own stories of pain, all of us searching for a place to belong. Foster care, while meant to be a solution, often felt like another form of instability. Homes changed, rules shifted, and every move reminded me that I was not truly “home” anywhere.
One of the few bright spots during that time was the one true friend who stood by me. They were my Ron — the person who refused to leave my side, even when it meant breaking the rules. Like Ron Weasley standing up to injustice, my friend risked consequences to protect me. And just like in Harry’s world, instead of gratitude, we were met with punishment. Loyalty wasn’t rewarded; it was treated like a threat. That experience highlighted a cruel truth about the systems meant to protect vulnerable youth: sometimes, they punish courage and loyalty rather than nurture it.
Those years forced me to grow strong in ways I never imagined. I learned resilience not because someone handed it to me, but because I had no other choice. I became fiercely independent, developing a determination to survive and to find meaning beyond my circumstances. Over time, I began to build my own chosen family, much like Harry found his in Ron, Hermione, Hagrid, and the Weasleys. My fiancé, my friends, and my advocacy community have become my safe place — the people who see me, believe in me, and remind me I am worthy.
But surviving wasn’t enough for me.
Like Harry stepping into battles bigger than himself, I chose to fight back. My “Voldemort” isn’t a dark wizard, but it is just as dangerous: the broken foster care system, the lack of support for youth, and the injustices faced by people with disabilities. These systemic problems continue to hurt thousands of children and adults like me every day. My advocacy, nonprofit work, and political engagement are my weapons in this fight.
The foster care system is riddled with challenges. High rates of placement instability, lack of trauma-informed care, and insufficient support for youth aging out of care leave many vulnerable to homelessness, unemployment, and poor health outcomes. Society often misunderstands foster youth, casting us as “at risk” without recognizing the strength and resilience required to navigate such adversity. Like Harry, who was seen as “the Boy Who Lived” but endured neglect and emotional hardship, many foster youth survive but are rarely given the tools or opportunities to thrive.
Harry had to balance “normal” life — school, Quidditch, and friendships — with saving the wizarding world. I balance college coursework, my job, my writing, and work with multiple nonprofits, all while trying to create real change. The pressure to maintain “normalcy” while carrying the weight of trauma is immense. Like Harry, I learned to compartmentalize pain and focus on what I could control. Yet, the desire to create a better future for myself and others fuels my perseverance.
Harry’s wand was his tool.
My tool is my lived experience, my voice, and my relentless determination to make the world better. I use my story to educate others, to break down stigma, and to advocate for reforms that improve foster care and disability services. Every conversation I have, every meeting I attend, and every piece I write is a part of my magic — the force that transforms pain into purpose.
Both of us came from abuse and hardship. Both of us were uprooted from everything familiar. Both of us learned that true power is not about where you come from. It’s about what you choose to fight for when the world tells you to sit down and stay quiet.
Sometimes, the greatest magic isn’t found in wands or spells.
It’s found in the unshakable courage to stand up, speak out, and turn your scars into a story that can’t be silenced.
