Fostered to Flourish

I honestly cannot believe I am typing these words. I guess there is a possibility nobody reads them, but the reality is they are words I have been wanting to share for far too long.

For as far back as I can remember, I have always been a journalist–not the mass media type, but the one whose wrist hurt from squeezing a pen too hard while writing down their feelings. I still remember when I bought my first “big girl” journal from Barnes & Noble my sophomore year of college. It was made in Italy and has a beautiful, hand-crafted cover with purple watercolored flowers. I winced a little when I swiped my debit card for $40 worth of blank pages, but in the end it was the cheapest form of therapy and a personal artifact I’ll treasure forever.

Now, many years and tears later, that journal sits on my nightstand, awaiting its next entry. My goal was to write in it every few months with a life update, documenting both the good times and most certainly the bad. Sometimes I look back on entries from college me and I don’t even recognize the author. “Did I really do that?” I find myself asking this question more often than not, but each time I am also overcome with a sense of gratitude for how much I’ve grown. That’s why I do it, that’s why I love journaling.

Owning a journal during some of the most formative years of my life is what helped me find my voice.

Growing up in foster care it was court-mandated that I attended therapy once a week, which felt like an actual chore considering I did not want to go and somehow my appointments always coincided with my assigned laundry day at the group home. For some comical reason the universe decided I would air some dirty laundry in the afternoons, and spend the evening cleaning my literal dirty laundry. How I never began associating laundry with trauma still baffles me.

It was in one of these sessions that my therapist recommended I write down the emotions I experienced throughout the week so I could remember them during our sessions…probably because I normally sat in silence and refused to talk, hoping she would end the session early. Even though I had no intention of liking therapy, school was my happy place, so if you were going to give me an assignment, I was going to ace it.

I walked into her office a week later and presented my materials. At 12 years old, I was told I had “the emotional intelligence of someone in their 20’s” and then she diagnosed me with PTSD and anxiety. I didn’t do laundry that evening. Instead I Googled everything I needed to know about emotional intelligence to determine if it was good or bad. I decided it was not only good, but I was proudly ahead of the curve, so in my next court appointment, I requested I stop going to therapy. In my mind, I was healed. Nothing was wrong and I never stepped foot into a therapists office again until I was in my mid-20’s.

So, why now, at almost 30 years old, am I craving this very public outlet when I could hardly bear sharing my traumas to a clinical confidant behind closed doors?

The truth is I need this. Or more specifically, I needed this. When I was 12, 16 or 22 years old, I needed someone who shed light on the challenges and triumphs of navigating foster care and more importantly life beyond it. There is no doubt in my mind that life is hard for everyone for unique reasons, especially this past year, but in this era of Reels and TikToks, I feel it’s more important than ever to see former foster youth on social media sharing how they are navigating the ups and downs, or taking care of themselves through it all. That is what I want to bring to the table. I want to create a space for those who need someone to relate to on this uniquely emotional level. And whether you grew up in foster care, you were raised by a family member, or maybe you raised yourself, all are welcome in this space and all can relate to the challenge of adulthood and becoming who you want to be.

If that sounds like you, or maybe it’s someone you know and you want to learn how to support them, then welcome to Fostered to Flourish. I’m happy to have you here with me on this journey and I cannot wait to share more!

Your ally in life,

ME