When There Are No Easy Answers: The Gaps in Protecting Children
Published on April 21, 2025
Austin helped me with a protection
spell. He didn't even ask why just helped.
Elmo is symbolizing Aurora
Some days, it feels like we’re all just trying to patch holes in a sinking ship—with duct tape, bare hands, and whispered prayers. I’m writing this not just as a caregiver or advocate, but as someone who is deeply tired of watching kids fall through the cracks. Of watching systems meant to protect them crumble under red tape and hesitation.
Because what happens when the abuse isn’t bruises and broken bones? What happens when the trauma is emotional, subtle, manipulative? What happens when a child speaks—and nothing changes?
Today I got one of those calls.
Nick texted me first. Aurora had a really bad weekend. I asked if Aurora wanted to talk to me or if there's anything I could do to help. The answer was “yes”—without hesitation. And I heard her voice for the first time in weeks. That alone shattered me. Because even after everything, when she’s scared, she comes to me. That means something. That means everything.
She told me about the fire—how her mom, angry again, burned her art supplies, her stuffed animals (Even the ones from her grandfather who has passed), even her bedding, and her pillow so she has no pillows. She had to watch. She had no choice. Watching someone destroy the things you love, the pieces of comfort and safety you hold onto as a child... it’s a violence that leaves no visible scars, but carves deep ones inside. And the fact that she has to go back tomorrow, like nothing happened, makes me feel so helpless.
Children deserve better than this. They deserve safety that isn’t conditional. They deserve protection that doesn’t come with disclaimers. They deserve to be heard, believed, and cared for by every adult in their life—including the systems that claim to exist for them.
But right now, those systems? They’re full of holes. DCF is stretched thin. Workers are burnt out. Services are inconsistent. Accountability is rare. And trauma-informed, consistent care is often just a buzzword, not a reality.
We need more. We need better.
We need crisis-level responses that don’t just remove kids from danger but support families before it escalates that far. We need intensive home-based therapies that step in when the warning signs show up, not just when the damage is already done. And we need community-centered models that actually listen to kids—especially the quiet ones. Especially the ones already losing hope.
If it weren’t for Nick… if she didn’t have a safe dad to turn to… if she didn’t have someone she trusted enough to reach out to… what would happen to her?
There’s no hotline for emotional abuse. No emergency shelter for kids who are being manipulated and broken down with words. No backup plan for when “just get through it” becomes the only option a child has.
It’s not okay. And it never was.
We need to change the way we respond to pain that doesn’t leave bruises. We need to believe children. We need to stop asking them to be the ones to hold all this alone. Because they’re not okay. And pretending otherwise is only making it worse.
And tonight, as I try to sleep, all I can think is this: she has to go back tomorrow. And I can’t stop it. All I can do is be here. Keep listening. Keep fighting. Keep hoping the next time she reaches out, it’s because someone finally listened.

