Every child entrenched in the system deserves at least one zealous advocate to look after them. Harmony Montgomery didn’t have one.

I entered the child welfare system in 1975 shortly after my 14-year-old mother, Dee, gave birth to me. She was poor and struggled with substance abuse and mental illness, like all the adults in her family. As a child, I bounced from foster home to foster home. I don’t recall much of my early childhood but there’s one memory that’s fixed in my mind. It’s me at 4, waking up in the morning, wet, frightened, and waiting for my foster mother to enter the room and beat me for wetting the bed.

My entire childhood was tainted by abuse and neglect. But there were caring adults who stepped up for me during important points in my life. They gave me hope, and because of their belief in me, I became a college graduate, therapist, professor, child welfare leader, and adoptive parent to my nephew. None of these accomplishments, though, erase the memories of childhood abuse, which has had a lasting legacy.

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