For Black youth in foster care, storytelling can be survival—and resistance.

I remember I was 8 years old when I received my first diary as a Christmas present—a small 4×6 pink journal with a lock. I always kept the key with me, even at school. That diary became my space to express myself and understand the world. I’d begin most entries with “Dear God” and write about my day, my hopes, and ask all the questions I wanted without judgement. 

At that point, I had been in foster care for about three years. Nothing in my life felt certain—however, my diary remained a constant in my life. It gave me something I didn’t know I needed—my voice. I didn’t show my writing to anyone, but over time, I filled more and more journals. That’s how I started understanding the power of storytelling. Even then, I knew I was meant to be a communicator.

Learning to bear witness

May is National Foster Care Month—an observance created in 1988 to honor foster parents and the more than 600,000 young people served by foster care in the United States each year. 

I entered care at the age of 5 due to a family crisis and spent the next 13 years in a number of placements. One of the hardest parts of being in care was being separated from my siblings. Although I entered the system with a younger sibling, we were eventually placed in different homes. Being in care, away from my family, was one of the most difficult periods of my life. And yet, it lit a fire inside me. I became determined to create a life beyond what I was experiencing—one fueled by big dreams and a deep connection to my inner passions.

When a foster parent once asked what I wanted to be when I grew up, I said, “An actress.” She laughed and said, “Okay.” But I wasn’t joking. I didn’t know the word “communicator” yet, but I knew that actors told stories and made people feel something. That’s what I wanted to do—reach people.

Growing up on the Eastside of Tacoma, Washington, gave me a sense of security. It’s a working-class neighborhood with a diverse group of residents. Even when I went into foster care, I still felt like I belonged in my city. But everything changed when I moved to Poulsbo, Washington—a smaller town named after a Norwegian village, located on the land of the Suquamish Tribe. I went from a city with a significant Black population to a place where I was one of the few Black kids in my school—and sometimes in the entire town. I felt invisible.

I found comfort in forming friendships with my classmates, some of whom I remain close to today. I remember going to powwows and learning about Suquamish tribal life. It was comforting and eye-opening. It showed me how people survive systems and work hard to maintain connection, cultural tradition, and sovereignty.

Later, as a high school senior in Gridley, a small northern California city of 7,300, I remember riding the school bus past a neighborhood with a sign that read “Labor Camp.” At the time, I didn’t know what that meant. I later learned that some of my classmates lived there, and their parents worked in the nearby orchards. Before moving to Gridley, most of what I knew about agricultural labor came from textbooks or the news. Seeing that neighborhood daily, and understanding who lived there, helped me realize that policies and systems aren’t just ideas—they shape the everyday lives of real people with dreams, responsibilities, and families, just like mine.

How could I tell other people’s stories?

When I went to college, I already knew I wanted to be a journalist. I attended Washington State University and graduated from the Edward R. Murrow College of Communication. Putting myself through school was hard, but I did it. I was proud.

But something lingered. As I wrote other people’s stories, I kept asking myself: “How could I tell their stories when I didn’t fully know my own?”

I had spent so many years observing the world around me, trying to survive. But now I needed to understand why I had been placed in care. What happened to me? That question haunted me.

I started reaching out to family, friends, and even professionals from my past—social workers, mentors—anyone who might know something. Some were uncomfortable, while others were kind and helpful. And even when I didn’t get all the answers, I realized something big: I had the right to know my story. And in seeking it, I was reclaiming my power.

The power of sharing one’s story

What I found over time is that when others tell your story, they control how you’re seen—or if you’re seen at all. Too often, systems, schools, and the media talk about people instead of with them, especially for children and families who’ve been through the foster care system. And when that happens, people’s lives get reduced to statistics, stereotypes, or soundbites.

I’ve learned that people share their stories in many ways. Maybe it’s a single parent quietly getting their kids ready for school before a 12-hour shift. Maybe it’s a person deciding not to speak at all. But the story is still there. The question is, are we listening?

Especially for Black youth and families navigating foster care, storytelling becomes a way to push back against stigma and silence. We are more than a case file or comedic fodder. A crisis doesn’t mean the end—it’s a signal to your community that you need care. No one is successful on their own, alone. 

Writing as legacy and liberation

As a mother of a 2-year-old son, I think a lot about legacy. For me, that started with a diary in my childhood and has now turned into a calling.

In 2021, I won the title of USA Ambassador Ms., a recognition tied to the USA Ambassador Pageant that promotes women’s empowerment, and ran on a platform called “A Chance to Succeed: Empowering Youth in Foster Care.” I wanted people to understand that families can thrive when they have support. And more importantly, to show how storytelling could be the bridge between policy and people.

One of the most powerful things I learned is that when families are connected to community, they’re less likely to enter or re-enter foster care. Research from Casey Family Programs shows that strong community ties can serve as a protective factor against child welfare involvement. When people are seen and known, they’re less likely to fall through the cracks.

That’s why storytelling matters. Yes, it can lead to laws being passed or programs being funded. But sometimes, the biggest change is simple: a child feels seen. A family feels like they belong. Someone, somewhere, knows they are here—still.