Disclaimer:
This blog is based on my lived experience. All statements reflect documented events, personal records, professional communications, and my own interpretation of what has taken place. Where possible, I have retained evidence to support my account. This post is not intended to name individuals or violate court orders, but to raise awareness of the human cost behind family court and social care decisions.
All accounts shared relate to Cornwall Council’s social care services, based on documented personal experience.
They say children must be believed. And I agree — they should be.
But what if the voice of a child is shaped by fear? Or trauma? Or pressure they don’t even understand?
What if the words are real to them… but not the full truth?
And what if, while their voices are amplified — mine is silenced?
I’ve done the work. I’ve changed. I’ve healed in ways I never thought I could.
And still, I’ve had to stay quiet. Until now.
This is my truth — not polished, not perfect. Just honest.
And it’s time I told it.
In December 2022, we were told — not gently — that if we wanted our children back, we had to “do the work.”
Therapy. Parenting courses. Couples counselling.
No room for discussion. Just conditions.
We didn’t fight it.
We just… got on with it.
And we didn’t tick boxes.
We threw ourselves into it. Found our own professionals, read the books, cut people off who dragged us down.
We did the work when no one was watching.
My husband gave up drinking — completely.
He hasn’t touched a drop since.
And he’s never looked back.
As for me — I found something else.
I found a church.
And for the first time in my life, I felt like I belonged.
I found my home.
My family.
My faith.
On the 13th of November 2023, we got a call from social services.
They said they needed to talk — urgently — about our eldest daughter.
By the next day… she was home.
No court order.
No warning.
No transition plan.
Just home. Dropped into our lives like it was normal.
Except it wasn’t.
There was a list of rules. Not written down. Just said — and expected to be followed.
No visitors unless they were DBS checked.
She couldn’t be left alone. Couldn’t go out alone.
Only YouTube and TikTok were “allowed.” Even WhatsApp was an issue.
We weren’t allowed pets. Except the hamsters.
It was control. Not care.
But we said yes — to all of it.
Because we loved her.
And we wanted it to work.
We tried to build something real.
Movie nights.
Silly car rides just to hear her sing along to the music.
Swimming trips.
Makeup all over the table.
Late-night chats when she couldn’t sleep.
Shopping trips when we couldn’t really afford it, but it made her smile.
It wasn’t perfect.
We were tired — exhausted, actually.
But we showed up. Every single day.
Because that’s what parenting looks like when you’re doing it under a microscope.
Real. Raw. And completely on edge.
Then in April 2024, we were hit with a report we didn’t even know existed —
a Placement with Parents report.
No heads-up. No conversation.
Just suddenly: here’s everything we think you’ve done wrong.
Reading it didn’t feel like reading about my life.
It felt like someone else — someone broken. Someone from the past.
They said I wouldn’t open the door to people. That I refused to speak to men.
Yes, those things were once true — when I was at rock bottom.
But I wasn’t that woman anymore.
And yet to social services, once it’s in your history, it’s tattooed on your parenting forever.
They threw in that I’d let my daughter use Snapchat — which wasn’t even true.
She didn’t have it.
But they latched onto it anyway, like it was gospel.
At the same time, we tried to hold a Family Group Conference.
It was supposed to be a chance to bring people together.
To get actual support in place.
But no one followed through.
My daughter asked us to cancel it.
So we did.
And guess who got blamed?
Apparently, I was “disengaging.”
Apparently, I “didn’t support the plan.”
Except — there was no plan.
Just us. Winging it. Fighting for air.
By August 2024, the six-week summer holiday had arrived.
It should’ve been a break — for all of us.
At the very start, we put in a simple request:
Could our daughter help out at a local horse place?
She loved it there. It grounded her. It gave her a reason to get out of bed.
And honestly, it would’ve given me a breather too.
Just a few hours a week — that’s all we asked.
And then?
Silence.
We chased. We asked again. Nothing.
They just… didn’t reply.
So we spent six weeks stuck to each other.
No space. No support.
Just pressure building with every day that passed.
By the time they finally approved it — the holidays were over.
It was too late.
Another missed chance. Another avoidable failure.
This is how their “support” works.
Tick-boxes over timing.
Control over care.
In September 2024, she had her routine child-in-care health check.
That’s when it all shifted.
Her weight was low. Too low.
It didn’t surprise us — we’d been gently watching it — but seeing it on paper? It hit hard.
She’d already come home with a rash on her face, an ingrown toenail, and teeth that clearly hadn’t been treated.
We sorted all that within months.
No drama. No delay.
But now suddenly, this?
This was pinned on us.
It became our battle. Our responsibility.
Even though we were doing everything we could — and then some.
We followed every bit of advice we were given.
Weekly weigh-ins. GP appointments. CAMHS got involved.
We chased referrals, chased professionals — but the dietitian never came.
It was like screaming into a void.
At one point, the school rang me. They’d called an ambulance.
That’s how bad it had got.
We were told she wasn’t to exercise unless she was eating.
But I was the one with her 24/7 — and I saw the truth:
when she was allowed out, when she felt some freedom, she actually ate.
So I let her go horse riding. Once.
And I got told off.
Again.
By December, I was desperate.
She was wasting away in front of me and no one was doing anything fast enough.
I spoke to everyone I could. I asked for help.
And one phrase stuck with me:
“No food, no life.”
It sounded brutal. But it was real.
So I used it. Gently. Lovingly. Trying to help her understand.
And of course… they took that and twisted it.
Used it against me.
Said it was proof I was neglecting her.
As if trying to save your child is a crime.
We were doing everything we could.
I was with her pretty much 24/7 while my husband worked two jobs.
It was exhausting — mentally and emotionally — but we kept going.
I need to say this, too:
My daughter isn’t my only child.
There are four of them.
One of my sons is in long-term foster care under a Section 20.
And I’ll say it plainly — I couldn’t meet his needs at the time.
His additional needs were more than I knew how to handle safely, and agreeing to that placement was heartbreaking… but necessary.
In October 2024, when we applied to discharge our daughter’s order, we also asked for more contact with our other two children.
But that was pushed aside.
Her words — her pain — changed everything.
Again.
That part of the story… will come.
But for now, this is about her — and how a child’s voice, used to cry for help, became a weapon in the hands of a system that never stopped to listen.
By October 2024, we thought — maybe, finally — we had a shot.
So we applied to discharge the care order.
We’d done the work. We’d proved ourselves.
Our daughter deserved a life without constant restrictions.
And we deserved to parent — not just be supervised.
But even though we had shared parental responsibility, it meant nothing.
We couldn’t even approve a haircut without chasing permission.
We’d wait weeks for answers. Sometimes? We heard nothing at all.
Still, we kept going.
At the hearing, the court ordered an updated parenting assessment.
We didn’t argue.
We just nodded — again — and waited.
It began in December. A few sessions, spread out.
We answered everything. Sat through it all. Gave them what they wanted.
And we were hopeful.
Exhausted — but hopeful.
A couple of days before court, we had another GP appointment.
Nothing out of the ordinary — or so we thought.
Midway through, our daughter kicked off.
She stormed out, phone in hand, wouldn’t look at us, wouldn’t speak.
She walked ahead.
And we let her.
She needed space — and we were trying to give her that.
But looking back… that moment changed everything.
We believe that’s when she spoke to someone.
That’s when she told them what I’d said — the phrase I’d clung to when I was desperate:
“No food, no life.”
I hadn’t screamed it. I hadn’t used it cruelly.
It came from advice — real advice from people who knew what we were facing.
I’d used it gently. Carefully. Trying to get through to her.
But that didn’t matter.
They twisted it.
Pulled it out of context.
Turned it into a weapon.
Court day. January 2025.
We walked in thinking we were nearly there.
Hopeful. Nervous. Ready.
Five minutes before stepping into the courtroom —
they told us:
She’s being removed.
No warning.
No explanation.
No goodbye.
I had to call my own daughter to inform her what was happening.
And still… it took over a week before we were given any answers.
They said she’d made allegations.
That I played video games.
That her dad took naps after 5am shifts.
That I wasn’t emotionally there for her.
That she didn’t like the Bibles in our home.
That we went to church.
The list went on.
Some of it wasn’t true.
Some of it was so painfully minor it was almost laughable — if it hadn’t cost us everything.
And some of it? I couldn’t even understand.
How do you prove presence?
How do you prove the late-night talks, the makeup sessions, the laughter, the effort?
I wasn’t allowed to speak to her.
Wasn’t allowed to defend myself.
Wasn’t allowed to explain.
Just silence.
And a system that never once looked back.
Back in August 2023, I made the request.
I needed answers.
Not because I was angry — but because I was lost.
I wanted to understand her.
Why she was acting the way she was.
Why decisions felt one-sided.
Why everything we did seemed to be ignored.
So I asked for her records.
And what I found…
It floored me.
They’d labelled me as mentally unstable in Sept/Oct 2023
Not based on assessments. Not based on interviews.
Not even based on updated facts.
Just old history. Assumptions.
Their version of me — frozen in time.
They hadn’t even spoken to me properly.
No check-ins. No real conversations.
And yet somehow, those unchecked notes were enough to say:
She’s unfit.
And the most twisted part?
Despite all those claims — when they couldn’t find a foster placement…
they sent her home to me anyway.
So which is it?
Too unstable to parent — or the backup plan when no one else says yes?
So now, with therapy behind me, my mental health managed, and support wrapped around us —
they’re saying I’m unfit again?
Even my solicitor has said over and over:
our daughter likely needs a psychological assessment.
But has it happened?
No.
Because it’s easier to accept a list of confused, out-of-context teenage statements than to actually look at the full picture.
She said parents shouldn’t argue.
Why?
Because someone at school told her it wasn’t normal.
So she believed it.
And she used it.
Not with harm — just with confusion.
Because the truth is, everyone argues.
Everyone snaps.
What matters is what comes next — the repair, the growth, the love that stays.
She wasn’t lying.
She wasn’t trying to destroy us.
She’s a child.
A child speaking into a world she doesn’t fully understand — and being heard louder than the adults who’ve lived it.
At one point, a social worker looked me in the eye and said:
“Are you saying your daughter lied?”
No.
That’s not what I’m saying at all.
She didn’t lie.
Some of what she said was true.
Some of it wasn’t.
And a lot of it? It was just emotion. Confusion. Half-thoughts spoken by a teenager trying to make sense of a mess she never asked for.
She’s not the problem.
The problem is how her voice was handled.
Twisted. Pulled apart. Taken as fact when it was really just feeling.
Used to justify decisions that were already made — long before she even opened her mouth.
They didn’t protect her.
They used her.
They took her pain and turned it into paperwork.
Then — just over a week ago — she came back.
No announcement. No drama.
She just… showed up at our door.
Not with rage.
Not with rebellion.
Just a quiet, heavy sadness sitting in her eyes.
She looked exhausted.
Not just physically — soul-tired.
And in that moment, I knew:
She’d seen it.
She’d felt it.
The system she once thought would save her — didn’t.
No one had to tell her.
She figured it out herself.
She came home — not with her words this time…
but with her feet.
Sitting with it all, I couldn’t stop my mind from going back.
This wasn’t the first time her voice had changed everything.
Back in June 2022, she’d seen her brother in foster care.
Everything he was given, a life no normal family has,
And so she spoke out.
She said things — some true, some twisted, some pulled from memories and pain and other people’s words.
She later told me she just wanted a break.
But it didn’t lead to a break.
It led to removal.
It led to all of them — gone.
At that time, it had been nearly two years since my last mental health episode.
I was healing. Slowly. Genuinely.
But healing wasn’t enough for them.
It never has been.
And then, reading her records months later, I found something that nearly broke me.
She’d kicked off in foster care in Oct 2023 — because she wanted to come home.
And it worked.
Fast forward to January 2025 — it happened again.
She said she needed space.
She opened her mouth.
And bam — just like before — she was taken.
But this time?
She didn’t wait.
She didn’t ask.
She didn’t speak.
She walked.
She used her feet, not her voice.
Because deep down… she knew.
She knew where home was.
And this time, she came to it on her own.
I want to be absolutely clear about something:
I do not blame my daughter.
Not then.
Not now.
Not ever.
Yes, her words triggered things.
Yes, they were used to make decisions.
But she is a child.
A child trying to survive in a system that taught her one dangerous lesson:
Say something negative — and you’ll be heard.
She once told us that being in care was “better” because everything she wanted was thrown at her.
Money. Clothes. Trips.
It made home feel like a downgrade.
But she knows now.
She’s seen that lifestyle isn’t sustainable — that it’s conditional, shallow, and often comes at the cost of real connection.
She’s learning — slowly — that what matters more than stuff is security.
A family.
People who stay when things get hard.
People who don’t need a paycheck to care.
I don’t blame her for choosing what looked easier.
I don’t blame her for speaking in pain.
I don’t even blame her for the silence that followed.
Because I know what it’s like to be unheard.
I also know what it means to take ownership.
I had a breakdown.
I made mistakes.
And I will never pretend that didn’t happen.
But I also got up.
I changed.
I healed.
I built a new version of myself — one I wish she could’ve known from the start.
She is simply a child —
a child who learned that her voice would be heard most when it carried pain or accusation.
And like any child would, she used that voice to meet her needs.
Not with malice, but with instinct.
Whether through social services or another path, she did what she thought would help.
And if her voice was the trigger — it was only because no one stopped to listen before.
One day, I’ll tell that part of the story too — from the breakdown to the removal.
Not to shift blame.
But to show the cost of being unheard for too long.
“She broke my heart with her words.
But I’ll never hold it against her.
She’s still my daughter.
Still the child I will fight for — even when she can’t see the fight.”
~ The Girl Speaks
And now, I speak.
Because silence?
It only ever protected them.
Not her.
Not me.
Not the truth.
More to come…
This is only part of the story.
There are still things I haven’t shared.
Still truths I’m holding — not because I’m hiding them, but because they deserve space.
In the next few days, I’ll be going live to speak more about this post, answer your questions, and continue the conversation.
And when the time is right, I’ll tell the next chapter:
From the breakdown…
to the silence…
to the moment they were all taken.
That story is coming.
But for now — this one needed to be heard first.
thegirlspeaks.uk 