Living Unseen: My 15-Year-Old Self in Foster Care

At 15, I was in foster care, navigating the unfamiliar and unforgiving world of high school. Every day felt like stepping into a battlefield, where I was armed only with my silence and the hope that I could get through unnoticed.

Foster care wasn’t just a temporary living situation; it felt like a prison. The rigid schedules, the unfamiliar faces, and the lack of connection to my family created an invisible wall between me and the world outside. School, ironically, became my only escape. But even there, I wasn’t free. I carried the weight of my circumstances into every classroom, down every hallway, and through every interaction. I’d learned to keep my head down, to avoid drawing attention, to blend into the background.

High school is supposed to be a place of self-discovery, of finding your people and figuring out who you are. For me, it was a place to hide. I wasn’t interested in finding myself—I was too busy trying to disappear. The hallways were loud with chatter and laughter, but it all felt like static. My classmates seemed so carefree, so full of life, while I felt like a ghost passing through. They had families cheering them on, friends to confide in, and homes to go back to. I had none of that.

In the classroom, I’d take a seat in the back, hoping to become invisible. Group projects were a nightmare—not because I didn’t want to participate, but because I didn’t know how to connect. I’d perfected the art of simple disengagement: a quick smile, a nod, a few mumbled words that said, “I’m fine.” But inside, I was anything but fine.

The truth is, I was carrying scars that no one could see. The scars of being told to stay quiet, to not make waves, to not draw attention. I’d been taught that silence was safety, that invisibility was survival. So, I hid my pain behind a mask of indifference. Even when I wanted to scream, even when the loneliness was suffocating, I stayed silent.

Looking back, I wish I could tell that 15-year-old girl that it’s okay to be seen. That her voice matters. That being heard doesn’t make her weak—it makes her strong. But at the time, I couldn’t see that. At the time, speaking up felt like opening a door to a world of hurt I wasn’t ready to face.

To the kids out there who feel like I did—lost, unseen, and unheard—I see you. I know how heavy that burden is. I know what it’s like to carry pain that feels too big to share. But I also know that your story matters. Your voice matters.

Healing is a journey, and it’s not an easy one. But even in the darkest moments, know this: you are not alone. There is strength in your survival, and there is hope for your future.

Today, I’ve found my voice. I’m ready to be heard. I’m ready to scream to the world: Ready or not, here I come.