Stigmas: The Weight of Being a Foster Child

Despite years of getting beaten down by the stigma attached to being a foster child, in August of 2000, shortly after my twenty-seventh birthday, my mother reappeared after a fifteen-year absence.

I allowed myself half a second to believe that after years of feeling lost in society, I would finally be found.

The experience of interacting with her as an adult did not prove any more comforting than it had been as a child. It seems the child in me was paying attention, and the woman I had become was hiding for fear of further damage.

When you grow up displaced in society, you can't help but harbor fantasies of finding a place to fit into. No matter how many successes you manage—be it education or finally a family of your own—you continue to carry those broken pieces that still equal you.

I had to finally leave my mother to die in the fog of my memory.

What This Teaches You About Writing Stigma and Belonging

If you're writing memoir about displacement, foster care, or the longing to belong, you know this truth: the stigma of your childhood doesn't disappear when you achieve adult success.

The Fantasy of Being Found

"I allowed myself half a second to believe that after years of feeling lost in society, I would finally be found."

Maybe you've felt this too—that moment when you think someone or something will finally prove you belong. That you're not fundamentally broken or unlovable. When you're writing about this longing, don't hide the hope. Show us that half-second before reality crashes back in.

The Child vs. The Adult You've Become

"The child in me was paying attention, and the woman I had become was hiding for fear of further damage."

This split happens when you grow up in survival mode. The child part of you remembers everything—every abandonment, every broken promise. The adult part tries to protect you by staying guarded. Neither can fully trust.

When you write your memoir, honor both versions of yourself. The child who survived and the adult who built a life are often at odds. Show us both.

Success Doesn't Erase the Broken Pieces

"No matter how many successes you manage—be it education or finally a family of your own—you continue to carry those broken pieces that still equal you."

This is one of the hardest truths to write: achievement doesn't heal childhood trauma. You can build a beautiful life, earn degrees, create a family, and still feel like that displaced child inside.

If this is your story, tell the truth about it. Your readers need to know that success and brokenness can coexist.

The Fog of Memory

"I had left my mother to die in the fog of my memory."

Sometimes forgetting is the only way to survive. You don't actively choose to forget—you let the memory fade into fog because carrying it clearly would destroy you.

When you're writing about what you've tried to forget, use metaphor.

"The fog of memory" says more than pages of explanation ever could.

How to Write About Stigma in Your Memoir

If you're writing about foster care, poverty, abuse, or any childhood displacement, here's what you need to do:

Name the stigma directly.

Don't dance around it. Write:

"Despite years of getting beaten down by the stigma attached to being a foster child..."

Tell us what you carried.

Show us the fantasy of belonging.

You harbored fantasies of finding your place. Write about what you hoped for, even if it never came true.

Acknowledge the split between child and adult.

The child who survived and the adult who built a life are often at odds. Show us both perspectives in your story.

Tell the truth about success.

If achievement didn't heal the wound, say so. Don't tie your memoir up with a neat bow if that's not the truth.

Use metaphor for what's unspeakable.

Some truths are too raw for direct language. Find the images that carry the weight.

The Stigma That Stays

Foster children carry a particular kind of stigma—the sense that you're fundamentally unwanted, that something about you made even your own mother unable to love you.

That stigma doesn't lift when she reappears. If anything, it deepens when the reunion fails to heal what was broken.

You can build a life. You can succeed. You can even forgive.

But those broken pieces? They stay. They become part of your story. And sometimes, writing about them is the only way to make peace with carrying them.

The Courage to Remember

I didn't leave my mother in the fog of memory forever. I brought her back into focus—not to resurrect the relationship, but to write the truth of what happened.

If you're doing the same—bringing what you've buried back into the light so you can write it—that takes immense courage. I see you. Keep writing.

My memoir, Running Into the Night (2nd edition), is coming soon.