Foster kids, when did the other kids save your life?

Justice and Advocacy

These changes wouldn’t bring back what we lost, but maybe they’d stop the next Wong from nearly killing a kid for bonus money.

A month later, Wong’s lawyer sent a cease and desist letter claiming I was harassing his client through my advocacy work. Even though I’d never contacted her directly or mentioned her current location.

Amina handled it with a sharp response about First Amendment rights and the difference between harassment and lawful speech about matters of public concern. Wong was still trying to paint herself as the real victim while we lived with the damage she caused every single day.

During a planning meeting for a conference presentation, my glucose dropped to 62, which wasn’t dangerous, but still made my hands shake and vision blur at the edges.

Diego noticed first and grabbed juice from his bag. While Shakira checked my monitor, and Bradley called out numbers to keep me focused on the present, not the past.

Their calm response reminded me I wasn’t alone anymore. I didn’t have to hide or fight through lows by myself.

After I stabilized, we went back to work, planning our presentation about medication access in foster care, like it was just another normal day. Because in a way, it was.

The next week, I had to drive past the old group home for a meeting and saw it had been turned into a daycare called Sunshine Days. It had bright yellow paint and cartoon animals on the windows.

Kids played on swings where we used to stand for morning count, and parents picked up toddlers from the same door we couldn’t leave without permission.

The building looked happy now with safety posters about food allergies and emergency contacts visible through the windows. There were no locks on the kitchen or medicine cabinets.

Life had moved forward in that space, even while some of us stayed stuck in what happened there before.

Terrell called me that afternoon asking if we could meet at the coffee shop near his new job at the youth center. I drove over with my glucose kit in my pocket, a habit I couldn’t break even after all these years.

He was already there in his work polo shirt with the center’s logo, stirring sugar into his coffee when I walked in. We sat across from each other for a minute without talking, both knowing what needed to be said.

He told me straight up that he couldn’t do the public testimony thing. But he was teaching kids every day about standing up for each other.

I watched him pull out his phone and show me pictures of the teens he worked with. Kids who looked just like we used to.

He said every week he tells them about that night, about carrying me out while Wong screamed. He also told them how saving someone changes you forever.

I reached across the table and we shook hands. No more words needed between us.

2 days later, Shakira called with news that made my hands shake. The state had bought the rights to her iPod footage for their new training program on medical neglect and care facilities.

Every new employee at every group home would have to watch our worst night and learn what not to do. She was getting paid enough to cover her therapy for the next 5 years, and they were naming the training module after all of us who survived.

The local news ran a segment about it. But by the next week, nobody was talking about it anymore. A new scandal at the mayor’s office took over the headlines, and our story became yesterday’s news.

The changes we forced stayed in place, though, with new policies and monitoring systems that would outlive any news cycle.

I signed up to volunteer with a youth advocacy group that focused on medication rights for foster kids. Every Thursday night, I sat in their cramped office helping kids fill out complaint forms and navigate the system.

One boy reminded me of myself at 14, checking his insulin pump nervously while his foster mom insisted he was faking. I helped him file the paperwork and connected him with Amina, who took his case for free.

More kids came each week, some with diabetes, others with seizures or anxiety, all of them fighting for basic medical care.

I spent a whole weekend updating my victim impact statement for Wong’s parole file. My laptop screen blurred as I typed out the ongoing effects, the therapy bills, the nights I still wake up tasting metal in my mouth.

Every detail went into that document because if she ever tried for early release, they needed to know the truth. I printed three copies and had them notarized, then mailed them to different offices to make sure nothing got lost.

The call came on a Tuesday morning while I was testing my blood sugar before breakfast. Wong had contacted three former colleagues at the agency, violating her parole terms about no contact with anyone from the foster system.

The parole officer wanted to know if I’d attend the violation hearing, but I said no. Other people could handle this one while I focused on moving forward instead of backward.

Our survivor group started meeting monthly at Shakira’s apartment since she had the biggest living room. We’d order pizza and sit around talking about regular stuff like jobs and relationships, only sometimes mentioning the past.

Bradley brought his baby once and we all took turns holding her. This tiny perfect person who would never know what group homes were like.

Jordan was taking night classes to become a social worker and Kiara had started dating someone who understood her anxiety. We weren’t trying to forget what happened, but we weren’t letting it define every moment either.

That night before bed, I checked my glucose like always, watching the number come up steady at 95. I grabbed my phone and typed into our group chat that I was good for the night.

Within minutes, everyone responded with their own check-ins. Some about medication, others just saying they were okay.

Bradley sent a thumbs up emoji and Shakira shared a funny video she found online.

Terrell wrote that the youth center kids had asked about us again and he’d told them we were all doing fine. Jordan mentioned her test was tomorrow and Kiara said she’d finally made it through a week without a panic attack.

My phone buzzed with their messages as I got ready for bed in my own apartment where nobody controlled the medicine cabinet. I set my glucose monitor on the nightstand next to a fresh pack of glucose tabs and my emergency kit.

Everything I needed was within reach. Nobody could take it away and tomorrow I’d wake up and help more kids fight for the same basic right.

The phone kept lighting up with messages from the others. Our broken little family still looking out for each other across the miles and years.

Thanks for hanging out and wondering about all this with me today. It’s been really interesting sharing these thoughts together. Take care and if you made it to the end, drop a comment. I love reading all your.