Content Warning
This entry contains childhood trauma, foster care abuse, emotional neglect, sexual abuse, surveillance, and survival responses.
This post reflects real-life experiences and is written from a place of healing and reflection.
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Trying to find my footing on where to start—my mind keeps coming back here. It’s layered, and hard to put into words. Sometimes it feels like more than words can hold.
The Whites were originally foster parents licensed through Johnston County DSS. My previous foster homes weren’t bad, but each one had its own structure, and I learned to adapt. This was my first time in a home this large, in Angier, NC, in an HOA neighborhood.
At one point, after things shifted, it was just me and two younger girls—Autumn and Harper. Other children came and went over time.
It was cold that night—the kind that bites your skin. We went on a Christmas hay ride with lights and decorations. I remember sitting next to Jordan, and later cutting him out of the photo. We waited in the cold for pictures with Santa. I tucked my hands into my sleeves to stay warm.
At the time, I didn’t fully understand what I was seeing—but I felt it. Some children were treated with more warmth, more care. Others weren’t. Over time, I began to recognize the pattern. Love in that home felt uneven—given freely to some, and withheld from others.
I learned the difference between being part of a family… and simply being there.
There was an unspoken hierarchy in that house. The parents’ authority came first. Then the children they favored. And then… there was me.
I didn’t fit what they wanted. I remembered too much—my past, my family, my reality. I couldn’t be shaped into something easier or quieter. And because of that, I was treated differently.
I was often corrected, isolated, or blamed. I learned quickly that being observant or protective could make me a target. Still, I tried to care for the younger ones when I could. That instinct—to protect—came from love, even when it cost me.
That instinct never left me.
Back then it was survival. Now it’s part of how I move through the world. I notice things others don’t. I step in when something feels off. Sometimes that means I carry more than I should—but it also means I never overlook someone who needs to be seen.
I didn’t become what hurt me.
I became someone who sees.
There was a time when two foster children, Sarah and Joseph, stayed with us. I remember defending Joseph when he was teased for playing with his sister’s toys. Even then, I knew people should be allowed to be themselves.
One night, I couldn’t sleep. I got up and started dancing quietly—just trying to release some energy. I didn’t think about the baby monitor.
Then Margaret’s voice came through it:
“Hannah! Go to bed!”
I froze. Dove under the covers. Embarrassed. Silent again.
Another child, Mia, stayed in the home. She required medical care and had nurses rotating throughout the day. She couldn’t speak, but she communicated in other ways—through expressions and sounds.
I sat with her often. Held her hand. Talked to her. That room became a place where I could breathe for a moment—where my care wasn’t punished.
Being near her gave me a sense of safety.
There were also parts of that home where my sense of safety was taken away.
There was someone in the home who crossed boundaries with me and made me feel unsafe. I didn’t fully understand it at the time, but I knew it wasn’t right. I learned to stay in spaces where others were around, or where I felt more protected.
That’s one reason I stayed close to Mia—because in that space, I could breathe.
Pieces of my childhood were taken from me.
But I was not.
I survived.
And even then, I still found ways to care for others.
That’s how I know who I am.
