Adopted Black Girl

You follow process?

But I have to ask again — who is caring for the Black girl in foster care?
The one who smiles in public but hides her wrists in private.
The one who shows up, does what’s expected, but is breaking inside.

You follow process?

Who is caring for the Black girl in foster care who’s aged out — now living in an unstable environment? The only difference now is that the instability is hers alone, not surrounded by adults who were supposed to protect her.

And you know what really makes me angry — and I have to ask this out loud — why are Black families so quickly torn apart, yet rarely reunited with the same urgency?

I can’t speak for any other race, but I can speak for us. And I wonder, where’s the outrage for her?

For the Black girl in foster care who’s forced to grow up too fast. Expected to get straight A’s, yet can’t afford the bus to school.

No, this isn’t every Black girl in foster care. But it’s someone’s story. And that’s enough to be angry about. That’s enough to make us do something.

So again — who is caring for her?
Besides the social worker who meets with her once a month?
Besides the foster parent who crosses boundaries, reading her journal instead of hearing her voice?
Besides her — the girl trying to be everything for everyone while still figuring out who she is.

Who is caring for her?

Because care isn’t a checkbox. It isn’t paperwork. It isn’t supervision notes.

So what does care actually look like? Let me tell you:

• Care looks like listening — even when it’s uncomfortable.
• Understanding — even when you don’t share her experience.
• Being a point of reference — someone she can trust and return to.
• Showing up consistently — not just when it’s convenient.
• Seeing through the barriers — and choosing not to look away.
• Not forgetting — even when the system has moved on.

Because adopted Black girls aren’t the only ones who need us. Every Black girl who has experienced foster care does. And if you’ve ever been in the middle of a storm, you know — you don’t step outside to investigate it. You hold on. You push through. You survive.

That’s what foster care feels like — a never-ending storm that no one should be forced to stay in.

So maybe the better question is:
Are we brave enough to stand in the storm with her, until she no longer has to weather it alone?

from my writing corner with love,

Teish

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