The System That Was Supposed to Protect Us
You came to my door when I was 19, living with Wyman’s family. After everything, you told me that you believed me now.
You said the detective believed me, too. He could have helped sooner, but he didn’t know what you knew. The detectives can’t do their jobs unless you point them in the direction to investigate the truth. But where were you when I was a child, begging for someone to listen? Where was that belief when I needed saving, not just acknowledgment?
I know we need a system to protect children. I know there are good people who try. I know this work is hard.
But knowing that doesn’t mean I excuse what happened to my siblings or me.
Because while the Whites hurt me and my siblings, so did you.
You were supposed to be the safety net. The ones who ask questions before signing adoption papers. The ones who follow up when a child changes. The ones who notice when a girl grows too quiet, too thin, too obedient. You were supposed to listen when bruises showed up, when kids flinched at discipline, and when I lived in fear. You were supposed to watch the homes you licensed. But instead, you handed us over and didn’t look back. You overlooked what was right in front of you for years.
You let the Whites adopt us when they had already been foster parents in your care. You ignored red flags. You missed the signs. You brushed off the pain. And even when things started to surface, you stayed silent.
You were late. You were dismissive. You were supposed to be the ones who listen when someone finally finds the courage to speak.
There’s no reason it should’ve taken that long. There’s no reason our abuse should have been allowed to happen under your watch. But it did.
And yes, I blame the Whites. But I also blame you.
You didn’t protect us. You didn’t follow up. You didn’t fight for us.
And it cost us everything.
You need to do better. For the next kid like me. For the next sister who’s scared to speak. For the next child who’s placed in the wrong home.
Because your failure isn’t just paperwork. It’s pain. It’s scars. It’s trauma that takes years to untangle.
And no child deserves that.
“Rescue the weak and the needy;
deliver them from the hand of the wicked.”
—Psalm 82:4
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Part 1 – The Truth I Carried for Years
There are pieces of my past that shaped me long before I had the words to explain them.
I grew up in an environment where fear, pressure, and control were normal, and survival was something I learned early.
Those experiences didn’t start on the day I turned 18 — they simply followed me into adulthood with a different name.
What I’m writing about now isn’t the events themselves.
It’s the woman they created.
I was raised around people who used silence, power, and image to keep others small.
People who could play the role of “family” in public while using fear and manipulation behind closed doors.
People who taught me to doubt my worth, question my voice, and survive by shrinking myself.
For years, I carried the impact of those relationships — the mistrust, the guilt, the survival habits, the way I braced for anger, the way I took blame that was never mine, the way I confused control for love.
None of that disappears when you grow up.
It lives in your body.
It lives in your reactions.
It lives in the decisions you make to protect yourself.
But the truth I see now is this:
They shaped me — but they did not define me.
My journey now is about healing the parts of myself that were built under pressure.
It’s about learning softness again.
It’s about unlearning the lies that were spoken over me.
It’s about reclaiming my body, my faith, my voice, my desire, my identity, and my freedom.
I am not writing this to expose anyone.
I am writing it because I am no longer afraid of the shadows they left behind.
I survived what tried to make me disappear.
I rose out of what tried to silence me.
And today, piece by piece, I am becoming the woman I was always meant to be.