Reclaiming My Story: From Foster Child to Freedom

by Jamie Swann

Listen to Executive Director Gabriel Nathan read this post aloud:

When I was fifty, I discovered a staggering truth about myself: I had been a foster child. I was attending a training session about the impact of foster care on children—a topic that suddenly became incredibly personal.

The speaker listed common facts about females aging out of the foster care system. “They are very likely to get pregnant before twenty-one,” she said. I was pregnant by the time I was twenty.

“Many of those same young pregnant women end up living in poverty,” she continued. Having three children by age twenty-four placed me in a challenging financial situation. I often had utilities turned off and barely had enough money to purchase groceries. Even with help from the Special Supplemental Nutrition Program for Women, Infants, and Children (WIC), it was still challenging.

“Very few foster children go to college,” she continued. I went to college but didn’t even last a semester, I thought. Suddenly, my brain started swirling as though I was hearing what she had said for the first time. I led a team of two hundred and fifty people who served the sickest Medicaid members. My job was to listen, learn, and devise strategies to care for these underserved and under-resourced individuals. But now her words were hitting differently as I remembered what she had said. I wasn’t hearing in a detached, clinical way any longer. It was literally and figuratively like light bulbs turning on, or rather like stadium lights—flashes; bright and blinding.

FLASH!—”Kinship Care is the most favorable form of foster care. It occurs when family members take in children whose parents can’t or won’t care for them.

FLASH!—“Short-term placement, which can be in an institution or a foster home, is intended to be only a temporary measure to get the child back home as soon as possible.”

FLASH!—“Group homes are institutional congregate placements for children who can’t be placed in a foster home and usually have significant trauma.”

My mind was spinning, and my heart was beating hard in my chest. I felt that knot, the lump of anxiety in the middle of my chest. I messaged one of my colleagues, who was familiar with my childhood.

“Hey. I have a crazy question….” I started, feeling embarrassed and stupid, “was I a foster child?” I hesitantly asked, sure she was thinking I was being dramatic.

“WHAT?!?!?! Are you kidding? Of course you were! Didn’t you realize that? OMG, Jamie, I had no idea you didn’t know.”

I didn’t know. I never knew.

As I sat there, shocked, I started to recall my childhood. In my early years, I lived with various family members. The lengthiest period of stability was when I lived with my father and stepmother for about six years. The rest of my childhood involved moving between aunts, uncles, and grandparents and, occasionally, being left with strangers by my mother when I was an infant. By the age of thirteen, I had a brief stay in an institutional setting, and from the age of fifteen until I graduated high school, I lived in various institutional settings.

“How had I not seen this?” By the time this reality dawned on me, I had a master’s degree in nursing, worked with underprivileged populations, and worked as a healthcare executive. How could I have failed to identify the truth of my childhood? I knew my childhood was turbulent and painful, but I had never used the term “foster care” or “foster child” to self-identify. As I sat with this realization and talked to trusted family and friends, I began to understand that I had absorbed and accepted a narrative about my childhood that had been given to me.

As I began to use the term “foster care” to define my childhood, my perspective and sense of self shifted dramatically. The words “foster child” or “orphan” elicit thoughts of childhood trauma, negligence, and, most importantly, sympathy for the identified individual. I knew I had not had a good childhood, but the narrative told me I was “bad, incorrigible, and too smart for my own good.”

“Foster child” also implies victimhood. I didn’t talk about my childhood very often. Even though I never referred to myself as a foster child, when I told my story, people would frequently gasp and respond with comments like “That’s terrible!” or “I had no idea!” One of my favorites was, “How are you so normal?”

These statements made me feel vulnerable and exposed. I also felt uncomfortable because that type of sympathy didn’t fit with the narrative given to me. It was my fault. I’d been told a story about who I was and believed it.

Storytelling is a potent force. It educates, connects, and convinces us. Studies reveal that as listeners become more engrossed and comprehend a story, their brain waves mimic those of the storyteller. For millennia, storytelling has been used to preserve culture.

We all engage in negative narratives about ourselves. I realized this wasn’t a negative narrative I’d created but one I’d abosrbed, told to me for years, and ingrained in our family culture. I would say to myself and others that I never would have done the things to my children that my father did to me, but even in that retelling, I still somehow believed that it was “my fault.”

I believe that the narrative, stating that I was so terrible that my family had to abandon me, lured me into evangelicalism as an adult. I thought that I was defective, doubted my own moral compass, and that I needed a “family” to help me raise my young daughters. The echo chamber of religion and the desire for a safe and stable world, built on “forgiveness,” certainty, bunker mentality, and transactional truth, can seem like a safe place for young parents who have experienced childhood trauma, which is true of both my husband and me.

Leaving the Church: I finally left the Church, taking steps to write my narrative. It was one of the most isolating experiences of my life. However, the relief and freedom that came from leaving a toxic environment were palpable. I had to decode, decipher, and make sense of the ‘old’ narrative and my ‘new’ narrative as an agnostic. During my ‘recovery’ from evangelicalism, I wrote. As I said, storytelling is a potent force.

I began an anonymous blog because I was still fearful about putting this information out into the world and being discovered or experiencing backlash. The blog started very tentatively, as I felt out these new thoughts and let go of the fear of asking questions. I began interacting with other bloggers who were questioning religiosity, and my blog became popular with folks from all over the world who were reading it and interacting with my material. I was rewriting my narrative, though I’m not sure I knew it then.

After transforming my life by leaving conservative Christianity, redefining my childhood experiences, immersing myself in higher education, and advancing my career, I thought I had completed the intricate work of shaping my narrative. I was wrong. I’ve discovered that someone is always willing to tell you your story.

I often think of the terms “power over,” “power under,” “power with,” and “power to.” There will always be people who try to use their power over another, putting the other in the “power under” position. That could be a medical professional using their power to “tell” a patient what to do. It can be a church’s power to make one behave, to believe a particular thing, or vote a certain way. Or it could be someone dictating someone else’s narrative.

“Power with” is the equal sharing of power. It’s collaborative, inviting, equitable, and based on mutual respect and support. Parenting should and can be done in a “power with” framework.

“Power to” is the idea that we each have unique strengths. Our strengths can be used to support, love, or create something new. I’m learning that I have the “power to.” I have the power to create a new narrative, the “power to” tell someone that I’m uncomfortable with their power-over mentality, and the power to tell my own story.

This realization and the resilience and strength I found within myself to overcome my trauma are empowering. They’re a testament to the human spirit’s ability to endure and thrive, even in adversity. My experiences have enabled me to recognize and identify when others attempt to impose a false narrative on me. I know that people and institutions will use the power of narrative to gain power, shift cultural norms, and control the story.

I’ve read that Taylor Swift’s song “Who’s Afraid of Little Old Me” is about the media and their treatment of her. It makes sense. Who owns Taylor’s narrative? Her or the press?

In “Who’s Afraid of Little Old Me,” Taylor Swift channels defiance and a sharp awareness of how narratives are manipulated. The song taps into feelings of betrayal and the frustration of having your life, choices, and emotions twisted by external forces. Swift, like many people who experience public scrutiny, confronts the idea that others—whether individuals, the media, or institutions—think they can control her story.

But the song is not about surrender; it’s about reclaiming power. By expressing her pain and rage through the song’s rebellious tone, Taylor sends a clear message: despite the attempts to tame or silence her, she remains a force to be reckoned with. It’s a metaphorical leap from the gallows—a place of judgment—down the streets where her story was hijacked, crashing the party and demanding her narrative back.

I deeply connect with this concept. When others or institutions seek to shape your experiences for their gain, there is a decisive moment of awakening: your story is yours. No matter how they may try to manipulate it, the truth and the narrative you reclaim will always belong to you.

​EXECUTIVE DIRECTOR / EDITOR: Gabriel Nathan | DESIGN: Leah Alexandra Goldstein | SITE ORIGINATOR: Bud Clayman