Kai’s Speech at the Children’s Rights Alliance event – ‘A New Vision for a Reformed Child Protection and Alternative Care System‘

“Hello, my name is Kai and I wanted to say thank you for having me here today.

My story is very much a tale of two sides of a system that when it works, it works well, but when it fails, it – best case scenario leaves you feeling defeated. My first residential placement, I hated it. I was much more of a case file or a problem to be solved than I was a child. I had experienced significant trauma, and it left me with the unlucky consequences of having to manage severe mental health difficulties. In that placement, I was a teenager with no real sense of being a teenager.

The whole placement was the perfect picture of ‘Children should be seen, not heard’. I was given no privacy, no autonomy and no real voice in my care, decisions about my life were never mine to be involved in. I didn’t have access to any real meaningful mental health support. To me, my mental health was never seen as important until I hit crisis, and even then, I was made to feel ashamed and at fault for ending up in hospital.

I remember when they were told that the only way to stop my panic attacks was to ignore me. No one stood up and said “that doesn’t sound quite right”, instead if I dared to have a panic attack, staff were instructed to completely ignore me for an hour. Over 10 years later; I still suffer from panic attacks. Being ignored and having everyone around me pretend they didn’t exist somehow never magically cured me, the same way you can’t ignore a broken leg away.

Fast forward to my last home. My worst memory of this home was when a staff member cleaned my room ahead of an inspection when I said that I’d do it. I remember feeling so angry, I left the home in a huff. Now looking back, if that’s the worst thing I can remember about the place, I had it pretty good there.

From as soon as I stepped into that home, I was seen as a person. The manager met with me and my social worker in the sitting room, and spoke kindly and reassuringly as I prayed the ground would open up and swallow me. When I was shown to my room, I opened the door to art supplies, horse teddies, and books. When they read my file, they didn’t just look at my trauma or try to understand the hard things. They paid attention to things that made life worth living for me and made sure these things were represented in my room. My new keyworker sat with me for a while, talking endlessly about horses – a conversation that always, without fail has me talking for Ireland.

From there on out, my autonomy over my own life only grew. Every decision about my life, I was not just included in, I was central. My mental health treatment became more personalised, and I was finally given permission to talk about the hard things. When I had a bad day, I was no longer made to face it on my own. Staff would sit with me, talk it out, bring me for a spin in the car, or just have a quiet cup of tea with me. They made sure that I always knew I could go to them. My life became less institutionalised. It was still far from normal, but I started to act my age and go through the normal uncomfortable experiences that are almost a rite of passage of being a teenager. I dated, got my heart broken, cried and swore off women for the rest of my life, and not long after tried again. I stumbled, I fell, but there were always several hands waiting to help me back up. I finally felt safe, heard, and seen.

The people, the management, and the whole culture of the organisation made the difference. It didn’t matter what staff were on, I knew I would be treated with the same level of respect and care. I knew I could depend on them, and I knew that my care would be consistent day in and day out. I was never made to feel as if I was seen as a case file. I was seen as Kai, whatever that looked like. Everyone of us in that home were treated fairly, but differently – recognising that we were all individuals and needed different things. Staff got good support from the wider team and management. Every complaint was listened to – I’m pretty sure I could have told the manager I had a complaint about the colour of someone’s t-shirt and she would have made the time to meet with me. Obviously – I’d be told as kindly as possible that I’m being ridiculous, but I would have been given the time, and the space to be ridiculous. We were never treated as a task that needed to be ticked off. But instead, always given the time and space to use our voice.
I have been let down a lot, but I’ve also been uplifted by so many individuals.

After becoming an early school leaver, I didn’t ever think I’d amount to anything – and certainly never see the walls of a college. Last week, I received a First Class Honours in my social care degree and I can honestly say without the professionals that stood by me, believed me, and supported me, I never would have believed in myself to even apply.

I could end on a long detailed list of the ways the system failed me, like when I, like many of us, became homeless, or the instability and uncertainty I faced throughout my journey, or the fact that at times, my mental health had to be in crisis before anyone listened or acted, a failure that not only nearly cost me my life on occasion, but also took my best friend from me at aged 16 – a loss and pain too well known within the care experienced community. But instead, let me finish on three things I believe are essential for true reform and change. These 3 thoughts alone won’t solve the crisis, but I believe they are foundational steps that could transform the system from one that fails so many into one that truly supports, protects, and empowers every young person who needs it.

Care-experienced people must be meaningfully involved in the conversations shaping reform. Not after the decisions have been made. Not just as a tick-box. But right from the start – at the centre and throughout. Because a top-down approach alone won’t build the kind of change that lasts. It might build something that looks right from a distance, but the real test is how it feels to the people living within it.

No one is better placed to identify the small, often invisible cracks than the people who’ve experienced the system first-hand. We don’t just bring insight; we bring truth that can’t be found in reports or strategy documents.
So if we’re serious about reform, we need to move beyond consultation and into collaboration. Because no one knows where the system rubs, pinches, or breaks down – like the person who’s had to walk in it.

Alongside system reform, we must also invest meaningfully in the wellbeing and support of those working in it – residential staff, foster carers, aftercare workers, and social workers. These people are the backbone of the entire care system. When the system was failing me, it was those who stood in the gap and offered protection. In college, we’re taught about the realities of high rates of burnout, vicarious trauma, and the emotional toll that comes with the role. And yet, despite knowing the risks, we still choose this path – driven by purpose and passion. To ensure a reformed system succeeds, the mental health and wellbeing of professionals must be a top priority. Their ability to continue delivering compassionate, high-quality care depends on it. If the system were to collapse tomorrow, it would be these dedicated individuals who remain – holding it together, as they always have.

And finally, if we truly believe in equality of opportunity, then we must stop treating 18 as a finish line. It should be a milestone in a longer, supported journey. We need flexible, personalised care that evolves with our lives, including more thought and innovative thinking about the transitional period of support as children legally become adults.

Very few, if any, 18-year-olds I know are ready for true independence with little to no safety network. While our peers experience extended adolescence, many of us care leavers experienced accelerated adulthood. We became adults overnight, with responsibilities piled higher than we could see, all while trying to process the aftermath of trauma and the overrepresentation in homelessness, addiction, and mental health services.

Expecting care leavers to match the same milestones as their peers – without the same resources – is not just unfair; it’s structurally oppressive. We need a system that recognises this and actively works to rebalance the scales.
We need services that see us, that understand the different paths we face, and that stay with us beyond our 18th birthday. This includes joined-up inter-service thinking that works with us, not just on us. We need systems that reflect reality, policies grounded in lived experience, and support that doesn’t vanish the moment we turn 18. The transition to adulthood should not feel like a cliff edge – especially for those of us who’ve already had to grow up too fast.