From trauma to prison, one signature at a time.
Write. Laugh. Hope.
They call it “the system.”
But systems are supposed to work.
This one eats children and calls it protection.
This one puts dollar signs on damaged lives.
This one starts with a knock on the door and ends with a booking number.
Foster care wasn’t built to heal.
It was built to shuffle.
To file.
To place.
To move along the “cases” like lost luggage—
until the bags unpack themselves in a courtroom.
They tell us it’s about safety.
But how do you define safe when a kid has been through four homes, six schools, three diagnoses, and zero hugs in twelve months?
When they can list social workers better than friends?
When every placement feels like proof they don’t belong anywhere?
They were taken “for their own good”—
then raised on supervision, suspicion, and silence.
So what happens when they age out?
The world hands them a backpack and a warning:
“Don’t f*ck up now.”
No home.
No job.
No therapy.
No safety net.
But they’re supposed to “make good choices”?
Hell—they never even had choices.
Some kids survive the system.
Others become the next system’s responsibility.
From foster care to jail cells in a straight damn line.
That’s not a coincidence.
That’s a design.
Because what no one wants to say is this:
Trauma pays.
Prison pays.
Broken kids turn into broken adults who keep the machine running.
So maybe it’s time we stop asking “what went wrong”—
and start asking who’s profiting from pretending they don’t know.
Write. Laugh. Hope.
Because what the hell else is there?
