Thank you, Ashley. Good morning, ladies and gentlemen. Like Ashley, whom you know, and Kevin Browne and Caroline Richardson, whom you will hear from, I could also be considered to be a successful care leaver.
I am a development officer with Who Cares? Scotland. In 2014, I graduated as a qualified social work practitioner and was awarded the Amundsen trophy from the University of the West of Scotland.
During my time with Who Cares? Scotland, I have heard, while providing advocacy for individuals and groups, many young people share their experiences with others. In doing so, they have challenged oppression, inspired change and found their voice, which has led to the most important changes in the law for more than a generation. That is why being involved in decision making matters, and it is why, in turn, I am here to share my experiences, because throughout my time in care I was not included in decisions; rather, they were made about me.
For many young people, what happened in the committee was unique: it was the first time that they felt that they had been actively listened to. The committee legitimised the care identity. The experience was an empowering one, and not just for those who met the committee: I was empowered, too, and that is why I am here. I want you to know that your actions went much further than this room.
I was born into a large family and am part of a sibling group of seven. My family began to engage with social services six years prior to my birth. I was in and out of care, and my twin and I were always placed together, but we were never sure when we would see our siblings again. From birth, I was used to moving backwards and forwards, from a formal care placement to back home with my birth parents. I never questioned it because it was my reality.
My reality was also that of social workers coming in and out of the family home and my time with my parents abruptly coming to an end. Sometimes, that was because neighbours would hear my mum and dad trashing the place, sometimes it was because social workers would find us wearing carrier bags instead of nappies, and sometimes it was because my parents had taken to squatting in order to get us a house with a front and back door.
My life was full of change. I do not remember being asked what I wanted. Life was a mixture of new foster families, schools and cultures. Once accommodated, I would not see my parents for several months, I would not see my brothers and sisters and I would not know where I was going.
My longest foster placement lasted for around three years from the age of three until just before I was seven. Unfortunately, the placement was not good. In 2013, after I was required to give evidence in court for two full days, my foster mother was found guilty of abusing me and other young people. The experience was traumatic and I had to relive my childhood, with certain aspects being laboured during the trial. My life, my story, was lived out in court and none of it on my own terms.
After the trial, I was approached by various newspapers, journalists and lawyers. That almost broke me. People wanted to talk to me about the consequences of the decisions that had been made about me. If only they had shown such interest when the decisions were being made.
After the sheriff found my foster mother guilty, he stated that the conditions that I and the other young people described during evidence matched a Dickensian description of the life of deprived Victorian children. The care system and everyone involved in it told me that life with my birth parents was wrong, so I assumed that where I was being put would be right. Unfortunately, it was those Dickensian conditions that became my new reality.
At the age of seven, I was not able to articulate what was going on; indeed, at such a young age, I was not even able to identify that how I was being treated was unfair, never mind criminal. If I had had a relationship with someone whose only obligation was to me, perhaps matters would have turned out differently.
I was not a bad child. I did not ask for and did not deserve what happened. No one does. My belief at the time was that I was being treated in a particular way because of me—because of who I was and because of something that I was doing. The belief that I held was completely wrong. I was not a bad child and my social work records consistently describe me as being a young child who was eager to please everyone.
When I was around the age of six, my older sister told my twin and I that adoption plans were being put in place for us to be adopted alongside our younger sister; we were to be adopted together. I remember my twin and I running around the living room. I was ecstatic. I was going to get a real proper family, which was something I had never experienced. I was finally going to get things that I could say belonged to me: a home, a mum, a dad, a family. What I do not remember, however, is being asked whether I wanted to be adopted or being given any choice.
The day that I had to say goodbye to my biological mother was the saddest day of my life so far. I still feel that pain when I talk about it today. Imagine being told that you are never going to see your mother again. Now imagine having no one to talk to about it. Imagine being told that it is now time to move on, because the decision has been made and that is that.
Unfortunately, contact with my other siblings did not continue either, despite all of us being promised that we would always get to see each other. That happened abruptly and we did not get to say goodbye to each other. It just stopped. No one asked what I wanted. We just did not get to see the others for what we thought would be for ever. There was no one to make sure that I had a voice.
At times, life with my adoptive family was challenging and, unfortunately, I cannot offer the committee a happy ending. What we thought was going to be our forever family ended on the day of our 16th birthday when my twin and I woke up alone. The house might have been furnished, the water might have been hot and the cupboards might have been full, but we were still alone.
For my younger sister who was under the age of 16, another placement move was on the horizon. For my brother and I, our care journey ended with us sleeping by cycle paths and in railway stations. We were not entitled to support and we had no one to talk to about what was going to happen next. At that time, and more than ever, we could have used the person whom I spoke about earlier, whose only obligation would have been to me.
To this day, I struggle with trusting others and allowing others to be kind to me. I fear being let down, rejected and abandoned. I believe that that is because I have never had someone who has been continuously in my life, or who has shown me unconditional love, or even unconditional positive regard. Access to an advocate would have assisted me during my most challenging times, and it would have better placed me in my endeavour towards self-actualisation. For example, during my year at college and my four years at university, I had to work full-time to support myself. An advocate would have made me aware of the funding that I was entitled to. When I was anxious, worried and alone, an advocate would have been a confidential open ear, someone who I could trust, and whose only obligation would have been to me.
I thank you all for listening to me today. This is the first time I have ever spoken publicly about my care experience. Thank you. I feel very privileged and honoured. I pass you on to my colleague, Caroline Richardson.