The corner.
As a former Crown ward who grew up in foster care, I know firsthand that every child deserves someone strong in their corner — especially when systems fail to protect them. I'm proud to be part of DCI Canada, a national organization advancing and protecting children's rights across the country.
My time in care wasn't easy. But it also wasn't defining in the way people often assume. That's not because the system was perfect. It's because, even then, I always knew where I was headed. Care was a stepping stone. It was something I moved through — not something I allowed to tell me who I was.
Irwin once asked me a question that stayed with me. He asked: What's the formula? What made your experience different — and how do we replicate that for other children?
And I told him the truth.
The formula.
The difference was this: I always knew I was going to be great.
Hear me clearly when I say that. I always knew what I wanted out of life, and nothing — no placement, no instability, no limitation — was going to stop it. I learned how to navigate the system in a way that aligned with my goals. I learned how to adapt. I learned how to advocate for myself.
But that's where policy has to step in.
The system.
Because believing in your own potential is not a prerequisite for safety or dignity. What about the children who can't do that yet? Does it mean they don't deserve more than what the system has statistically shown them?
Of course not.
The real question isn't why some children succeed despite care. The question is why believing you are capable of greatness isn't systematically supported. Children shouldn't have to arrive with confidence, language, or self-advocacy skills in order to receive care that protects them.
The system must hold belief before a child can.
It must advocate before a child has language. And it must protect possibility — not just manage risk.
The hesitation.
I remember a moment that tested that belief.
In 2019, my son was just over a year old. I had just had surgery. I was far from family. It was just me and this toddler — staring at me, needing things from me that I couldn't even provide for myself at the time.
And I remember the feeling. Frustration. Defeat. Anger. And the thought that scared me because of how honest it was:
I can't do this. There's nothing I can give him right now.
I'm saying that out loud because we're talking about realities — not fantasies. And because that feeling isn't rare. It's just rarely admitted.
I needed support. And as a former Crown ward, immediate family support is limited. In moments like that, a difficult question surfaces — one I think many parents quietly wrestle with but rarely say out loud:
Can I trust the system that was once appointed to protect me, to now protect my child?
For me, the answer wasn't automatic. And that hesitation matters.
The trust.
And now, as an adult, people sometimes ask me — are you who you thought you'd be?
My answer is simple: the story isn't done.
We often talk about child welfare through the lens of intervention — what happens when things go wrong. But we talk far less about trust. About what it actually takes for a parent to feel safe asking for help. Especially a parent who knows, firsthand, what happens when systems step in without care, without consistency, without accountability.
When we talk about unrealized rights, we need to ask ourselves: What does it take to rebuild trust — not just for children currently in the system, but for the adults those children become?