Content Warning:
This entry discusses childhood trauma, foster care, and situations involving unsafe or uncomfortable interactions as a child. Reader discretion is advised.
This reflects real-life experiences and is not related to consensual BDSM, roleplay, or any form of age-play.
I remember Aunt Rebecca was sad and telling us she had to do what she was doing.
She was crying in the car, trying to explain in her own way why this was happening.
We went to a McDonald’s parking lot and met mine and Rose's new foster parents—the Whites. There were two sets of foster parents, and we are being split up again. Ethan and Lily went to a different foster home that day. I remember seeing Thomas and Margaret, and Jordan was in the back seat of the SUV. Rebecca handed over our duffel bags, gave them our stuff, and they put them into their vehicle.
We hugged Rebecca goodbye, and then we left.
The world changed again, leaving us helpless…
We sat in silence during the car ride.
I felt out of place—back in foster care again, next to my sister Rose. They tried making small talk on the way to their house, and I remember calling them “Mom” and “Dad” because I didn’t know their names yet, and it was easier—I was used to it.
When we arrived in their neighborhood, we stopped at a neighbor’s house. They spoke to a boy around Jordan's age. I looked at him and realized he was an old friend from elementary school—someone who had never bullied me. Someone I have never forgotten. We had even made our own handshake back then. Seeing him smile again brought me a strange comfort. I was surprised to learn that he and Jordan knew each other. It was great to see my friend Noah again.
Once we got inside, they showed us where we’d be sleeping, explained the house rules, and tried to make us feel comfortable. Rose and I tried our best. I was checking out the house and trying to get a feel for it. I noticed baby monitors placed around—in our room, the game room, and the living room.
A lot of what we did was monitored—it felt like we were always being watched. It felt off being watched like that, but we weren’t the only foster kids there. There were baby Autumn and toddler Harper, too. My foster siblings...
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Month Later…
(Had to reflect with my sister Rose about that day, about what we remember to have more of the truth.)
I believe it was after about a month of being there—or maybe sooner—on what had been an otherwise normal day, when something unsettling happened.
The parents knew Rose and I had gone to the game room. Jordan was there.
You could tell when the baby monitor was on and working—I remember noticing how they worked. There were times they were active and times they weren’t.
I don’t remember every exact detail, but I know he had just gotten off being grounded. He was playing on his Xbox, and we were watching while I sat in a chair.
I remember the baby monitor turning on, the foster mom speaking through it—and then it went quiet again.
While I stayed in the chair watching him play, Rose was behind the couch playing with Legos. After a while, Rose went to sit next to him on the couch.
His behavior shifted in a way that felt inappropriate and made her uncomfortable.
Not long after, something in the room changed.
I saw it in her body. She pulled away and curled into herself. Even if I didn’t fully understand it at the time, I knew something wasn’t right.
So I moved and sat between them, keeping an eye on both of them.
I didn’t fully understand everything then, but I knew enough to pay attention.
So I stayed close to her. I stayed near her. I watched.
That was the day I realized that even in places that were supposed to feel safe, you still had to be on guard.
That you could be surrounded by rules and cameras and baby monitors—and still, no one could see what really mattered in the moment.
I didn’t say anything then. But I never forgot.
Because what I witnessed was real—and silence didn’t make it disappear.
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Reflection
I may not have understood it then, but my instincts did. My body knew before I had the words.
Looking back, I can see how much of my life I’ve spent trying to explain everything.
Trying to make sense of what happened.
Trying to justify what I felt.
Trying to explain things that never started in words.
But I’m learning something new now.
Not everything begins in understanding.
Some things begin in feeling.
In instinct.
In that quiet knowing that something isn’t right—even if I can’t explain why.
And I’m still learning how to trust that.
To trust that my body can recognize things before my mind can explain them.
To trust that I don’t need perfect words to validate what I felt.
To trust that just because I didn’t understand it then… doesn’t mean I didn’t know.
I’m growing into that.
Learning how to pause instead of over-explaining.
Learning how to listen instead of second-guessing.
Learning how to exist in what I feel—without needing to prove it.
Because maybe the truth is…
I was never as unaware as I thought.
I just didn’t have the language yet.
And now, I’m giving myself permission to trust what I feel—
even while I’m still learning how to understand it. I’m still learning—but I’m learning to trust myself.