Like any other young child growing up, I was active and could not sit still. My grandparents doted on me and indulged in my creativity for as long as I can remember. I was cared for. Things continued to be good when our family migrated to London when I was eight years old, then one day in January 2007, I received news of a devastating house fire that happened at home. The news came during an art lesson and the next thing I know I was placed in the care system.
The more I speak with other care-experienced young people, the more I realised we share so much in common. I guess I’m luckier than most because my third and final foster home was the best thing that happened to me as a young teenager. I was cared for again after moving through different homes and experienced traumatic events during the second placement. I was not cared for then.
I’ve always wanted a safe place for young people like myself, at the time, to share our experiences and have someone who truly has our interests at heart around us.
My foster mum, who I lovingly call Jamum (short for Jamaican mum) is a wonderful mother. She never misses a parent evening and is my biggest supporter in everything I do, she attended all my graduations and is my rock. She cared for me.