The Years They Called Safe

Some people talk about childhood like it was all sunshine and scraped knees.

Mine feels more like a blur of doorways —

places I passed through,

trying to figure out which one meant “home.”

They told me I was safe now.

New house, new rules.

Foster care.

On paper, it sounded like rescue.

In my chest, it felt like waiting.

Waiting to see if this was another place I’d have to survive.

I still remember the way I watched other kids play —

really play —

like the world didn’t have teeth.

I wanted to join them,

but part of me stayed standing at the edge,

one foot in the game,

one foot still in the past.

Those were the years I almost learned how to be a child.

Almost.

Before responsibility came knocking again.

Before “can you help with them?”

turned into “they need you more than you need yourself.”

💌 To the girl who never got to finish being little:

You didn’t imagine the weight you carried.

You didn’t exaggerate the fear.

You were not overreacting —

you were adapting.

And none of it was your fault.

You deserved to stay small a little longer.

I’m so sorry no one let you.