My Care Story: ‘Social workers witnessed my isolation, documented it and did nothing’

by Anastasia Tempest

‘My Care Story’ is a new series dedicated to amplifying the stories of care experienced people and providing social workers with vital insights to improve the support they offer.

I was born with cerebral palsy. But before I was ever held, I was handled. Before I was named, I was noted. My diagnosis became my identity, and the system that was meant to care for me saw only a problem to be managed - not a child to be loved.

From the beginning, I was medicalised. My body was assessed, charted and controlled. But my spirit? My laughter? My longing for connection? Those were never part of any care plan.

Social workers and professionals spoke about me, for me, but rarely to me. I became a file, a risk, not a person to be nurtured.

‘I did not get the simple joys of childhood’

My foster carers treated me like a cash cow. They claimed as much as they could from the National Children’s Home (now Action for Children), the organisation that then looked after me, but never for me.

I don’t recall any of that money being spent on me. Not on trips out or on holidays with the foster family, not on anything that might have brought joy or dignity.

I had very limited experiences outside of school. I was not allowed to join school clubs or go out to meet other children. While little girls were making friends and building memories, I was being reminded again and again that I did not belong. I was not worth the investment; I was just passing through.

I did not get the simple joys of childhood, because no one believed I deserved them. Instead, I was forced to spend most of my time on the sofa - so much so that they asked the organisation to pay for a new one.

While social workers questioned whether the money was being used on me, they took no further action.

‘They witnessed my isolation and did nothing’

One entry in my care notes described how my chair was placed outside the family circle during gatherings. That was my designated spot, not in the warmth of togetherness, but on the edge - visible, yet excluded.

And the social workers knew. They witnessed my isolation, documented it and did nothing.

I constantly lived under a serious and constant threat. “When we get a better job, we will put you back in care,” was a constant phrase I heard thrown around. I was temporary, conditional, expendable. That looming instability shaped my self-image.

‘Receiving my care notes broke me further’

I left care in a zombified state. I had no life skills, no emotional literacy, no sense of worth. I had survived, yes, but I had not been shown how to live. I was alive, but hollow. I had been kept, not cared for.

Trauma taught me to scan every room for danger, to expect rejection, to brace for abandonment. And even now, when I want to trust, my body remembers.

Years later, I received my care notes, thinking they might help me understand why I felt so broken. They did, but they also broke me further.

The notes confirmed what I had always suspected: no one had loved me - not as a baby, not as a child and not as a young person in care. There was no warmth between those pages; they were riddled with procedures, problems and technical language.

Reading them was like attending the funeral of a childhood I never had. Every line was a confirmation that I had been mis-seen, mis-held, and mis-written. My pain had been archived, but never addressed.

‘Every child deserves more than management’

I wish someone had asked me what I loved, what made me laugh, what scared me. I wish someone had held me, not just physically, but emotionally. I wish I had been celebrated, not tolerated. I wish I had been loved.

But I speak now not to indict, but to bring awareness to looked-after children’s need for true care. Every child deserves more than management, and I will keep speaking out for them until none is left to wonder if they mattered.

My story is not an anomaly. It is a mirror that social care needs to look into, to witness the consequences of care without connection or meaning.

‘Being cared for is not the same as being cared about’

The first lesson is this: being cared for is not the same as being cared about. I was housed, supervised and documented. But I was not loved.

The system met its procedural obligations, but it failed the human ones. Social workers must move beyond compliance and toward compassion. Every child deserves to be seen as a person - not a diagnosis, not a placement, not a budget line.

Due to the level of harm I experienced, I would not have had the capacity to let the social workers know what I would’ve liked.

All I can say is they should not have turned a blind eye to the harm I was being subjected to, including being hit and being allowed very limited independence.

'Respond to harm - don't just record it'

Second, the system must be vigilant about how money allocated to fostering families is spent. The money given to my foster parents did not translate into lived experiences of joy, safety or growth.

If a child generates income for a foster placement or institution, there must be consistent checking and transparent accountability for how that money is used. It should never be possible for a child to feel like a transaction.

Third, witnessing harm should be followed by immediate actions to safeguard. My care notes revealed that social workers knew I was being excluded. They wrote it down, but they did not intervene.

Observing harm without acting is complicity. The system must train and empower professionals to respond, not just record.

Fourth, emotional literacy must be part of care planning. I left care with no life skills, no emotional scaffolding and no sense of self-worth. The focus was on my physical needs, not my psychological ones.

Children in care need more than housing; they need help to heal and relationships that model safety, communication and trust. They need social workers to ask them how they feel, not just what they need.

'Care experienced voices should shape practice'

Care experienced individuals should also be central to reforms.

We are experts of care, and so our stories should shape policy, training and practice. If the care system wants to evolve, it must listen to those it has failed, and those still trying to rebuild their lives from its aftermath.

At the same time, I see ‘success’ stories of children in care highlighted and given a stage. But we must not celebrate resilience while ignoring the conditions that make it necessary. Prevention, not praise, should be the goal.

‘I am still here’

My story is not just a warning, but an invitation to do better. I still want to create the life I was never allowed to have; the life no one showed me how to build.

I want joy that is not conditional, relationships that aren’t transactional and spaces where I am seen as whole

I am learning, slowly, to give myself what the system withheld: dignity, softness and the right to dream. The care system may have denied me love, but I am still here. And I am still becoming.