It’s crazy to think about how I started navigating relationships as an adult. When I think about the way I viewed relationships then, it’s so different from the way I understand how to maintain healthy relationships today. I carried so much of my past with me daily and felt that if I didn’t share hard details with people, especially my most deep, dark struggles and mistakes, I was somehow not being authentic. One thing I did have, and believed I never had to question, was my sibling relationships. That was what grounded me, even when everything else felt chaotic. But foster care didn’t just take me from my home; it tore me away from the people who made me feel safe. And the truth is, I’m still grieving what was lost. I’m hoping one day we can heal what was severed.
Before foster care, our sibling bond wasn’t just close; it was intimate, unshakable, and deeply rooted in survival and love. We had already been through so much together before the system ever stepped in, and that pain somehow pulled us closer instead of apart. We weren’t just brothers and sisters. We were each other’s closest friends, protectors, and safe places. The age gaps between us didn’t matter. I was four years apart from one, three from another, five from another, and even eleven from my youngest brother. Still, it felt like we were on the same wavelength. Social workers and foster parents would often comment on how rare our connection was. But they didn’t understand that trauma had tied us together like thread through a needle. We stitched each other whole.
We laughed until our stomachs hurt. We made up games to distract ourselves from the chaos, and those moments of joy were sacred. We were a unit. When the world didn’t make sense, we made sense or at least made each other laugh. That bond gave me a sense of identity. I was a big sister, a nurturer, and a fighter for my siblings. It gave me safety, knowing I wasn’t alone in what we were living through. Losing that wasn’t just hard; it was soul-breaking. Because who was I without them?
The first real fracture happened when I was 16. I had been placed in kinship care with my siblings, living with our uncle and aunt on our dad’s side. For a moment, it seemed like we might be okay and that we’d still have each other. But things didn’t go well. Because of the actions of our caregivers at the time, we could no longer stay. That decision led to the first time we were truly separated for a long period. I was placed with my sister, but our brothers were sent elsewhere, and we weren’t told where. We just knew we were no longer together. It was heartbreaking. I wasn’t even sure, when the decision to move us was being made, if we would be separated or not. And then, just like that, we were separated by gender, by paperwork, and by people who didn’t understand how much we needed each other.
Once we were in separate foster homes, it became nearly impossible to stay connected. Some homes didn’t allow phone calls. Some didn’t have transportation. “Sibling visits” were supposed to happen, but they were often canceled at the last minute. If a foster parent or social worker didn’t want to make it happen, it just wouldn’t. Our bond was even used against us as a reward for “good behavior” or a punishment when someone slipped up. I remember trying so hard to stay in contact, calling caseworkers, and asking for updates. But I was just a teenager. And they had already decided what kind of girl they thought I was. Holidays and birthdays passed, and we weren’t there for each other. I cried a lot, and I know now that my sister did too. The grief of being pulled apart like that doesn’t just fade. It carves something into you that you carry for years.
Aging out without a foundation felt like free-falling with no landing. It wasn’t a clean exit; it was messy, confusing, and had unfortunate moments of betrayal. I was still in foster care when I confided in a child welfare worker about things happening in my foster home that made me feel unsafe. I trusted her. I believed that speaking up would lead to support. Instead, she shared my concerns directly with the foster parent. The fallout was immediate and terrifying. My foster parent became enraged, slamming doors and threatening me, telling me I would regret ever speaking up. Then she twisted the narrative, telling social workers that I was throwing parties, drinking, and disrespecting her boundaries. None of that was true. But the lie didn’t need to be proven to stick. Within three days, I had to leave – no placement, no plan, and no safe adult. The irony was brutal. It wasn’t the system that helped me; it was the system that hurt me again. At that time in North Carolina, we were under the CARS Agreement. It meant that if a foster parent and young person had conflict, no matter the reason, your placement could be terminated. There is no mediation or consideration of truth or trauma — just another door closed, quietly, permanently, and without explanation.
I was aged out to no one and nowhere. I found a room on Craigslist for $400 a month. A blood relative sent me some money, and my dad drove me there. I also had some savings from tutoring online. It was just enough to survive. I was in college, trying to keep up with summer classes while managing deep emotional turmoil. The pain of being pushed out and being misunderstood and discarded yet again added to the grief I already carried for my siblings. They were each in different homes or facilities, and our bond had already been stretched thin. I tried to stay connected by showing up at graduations, texting, and calling, but it never felt like enough. We have a group chat now, but rarely are we all in it at the same time. Our connection feels fractured, like we’re speaking different languages and in different worlds.
I once held so much honor in being a big sister. But what does any of that matter when you can’t be there? Foster care didn’t just strip me of stability; it robbed me of identity too. There have been moments, short bursts of light, where connection with my family feels possible. A phone call. A group text. A quick exchange on social media. There have even been times when we’ve managed to be in the same space, share a laugh, or say “I love you.” But it’s rare. And it’s never consistent.
Aging out of foster care didn’t just mark a transition into adulthood. It marked the unraveling of everything I thought made me who I was — my role as a big sister, my connection to family, and my sense of home. The system separated us physically, but the long-term impact was emotional, spiritual, and generational. I still carry that ache. I still grieve relationships that have never been the same. Some days, it still feels like I’m grieving people who are alive. But I’ve done the work, and I continue to do the work. I’ve sat in therapy. I’ve had the hard conversations. I have cried until there were no more tears, and then cried again. I’ve opened myself up to healing deeply — not just for the girl I was, but for the woman I am becoming. I do it for the family I am creating now.
And in doing so, I found something I didn’t have before: safety, wholeness, and love. Now, I am the nurturer and the mother I once wished for, the steady presence I needed. I’m learning what it means to create the kind of home I never had — a home that is rooted in Christ, filled with grace, truth, and deep connection. My husband and my baby have become my new ground and my new garden. They are where I’ve planted new roots of joy, belonging, and a home blooming from their love. I don’t take that lightly. The love I carry now is deeper and fuller because of what I had to heal to hold it. Day by day, I’m growing, healing and loving deeper. And maybe, unrooting was the first step to healing so that we can rediscover who we were always meant to be.
