Over two decades, I’ve fostered 75 children, each one leaving an indelible mark on my heart. There have been moments of triumph that stand out vividly. I think often of the mute young girl, silenced by fear in her birth mother’s chaotic home, who began to speak weeks after arriving in ours. With regular mealtimes, firm boundaries, and consistent kindness, her croaky voice emerged, startling her as much as it moved me to tears.
Sadly, I’ve also seen the care system’s dark underbelly — its chaos, its neglect
Then there was the “challenging” teen whose dramatic meltdowns terrified and horrified our neighbours in equal measure. He broke down in tears when we took him on his first ever trip to the beach and he felt sand between his toes. And the child who arrived at my door, eyes wide with fear, asking, “Will you be kind?” She soon learned that kindness could be a constant, not a rarity. Each breakthrough fuels my resolve to show these children that the chaos they’ve known isn’t all there is.
Sadly, I’ve also seen the care system’s dark underbelly — its chaos, its neglect, and occasionally, its deliberate deceit. It’s not unusual for cases to languish as children are shuffled between social workers, often agency staff with no ties to the local authority, leading to inconsistent care and lost progress. Interim hearings are routinely adjourned because of shoddy paperwork, delaying stability for vulnerable children. Worse, critical information about a child’s needs is sometimes withheld from foster carers to secure a placement, even when the match is clearly unsuitable. And then there are the heart-wrenching cases where a child, thriving in foster care, is returned to birth parents for yet another chance, only to re-enter the system months later, bouncing between any available vacancy.
I once believed adoption was a different story — a forever home with the power to erase a child’s past traumas. Adopting my daughter, Megan, at two years old, shattered that illusion, revealing a deeper betrayal within the system, one that no amount of love could fully mend.
Now a vibrant teen with Fetal Alcohol Spectrum Disorder (FASD), Megan battles impulsive outbursts and emotions that flare unpredictably. Her mind races yet falters on simple tasks. When frustration boils over, she attacks the only person she fully trusts — me. I’ve almost lost count of my broken windows, black eyes and bruised shins. I was promised support: specialist therapy, funded and ready, when I adopted her. Instead, I got a bureaucratic quagmire that has left us both fighting to survive.
The Adoption Support Fund (ASF), launched in 2015, was meant to be a lifeline for families like ours, covering costly trauma-focused therapy. Before 2015, support was automatic. Now, it’s a labyrinth of lost paperwork, endless assessments, and rejections on flimsy grounds. For four years, I battled to secure funding for Megan’s therapy. Social workers misplaced forms; councils demanded “more evidence” of her obvious needs. Her meltdowns worsened, school suspensions piled up, and self-harm incidents left me drowning in guilt. Only after I enlisted the help of my MP did the ASF relent. No parent should need a politician’s letterhead to access promised support.
Labour’s recent 40 per cent cut to the ASF is a catastrophic misstep
I’m not alone. In my adoption support group, parents — dedicated yet exhausted — share the same haunted look. Sarah’s son, crippled by developmental trauma, waits months for an ASF assessment as his anxiety spirals. Mark and Jane burned through their savings on private therapy after they blamed their daughter’s sensory issues on “inexperienced parenting”. The Adoption UK Barometer 2025 exposes the scale of this failure: 75 per cent of adoptive families can’t access the support their children need. A quarter of adopted children self-harm; 29 pere cent of young adult adoptees are NEETs (not in education, employment, or training) — over twice the national average. These are children, not statistics, abandoned by a system that peddles hope but delivers red tape.
Labour’s recent 40 per cent cut to the ASF is a catastrophic misstep — a penny-pinching move that could cost billions in failed adoptions and care breakdowns. The fund, already stretched by year-to-year renewals, was a fragile bridge for families. Reduce it, and you don’t save money, you shatter lives. Megan’s therapy, when we finally secured it, transformed her ability to manage her emotions. But what of the families who can’t wait, who lack the stamina to chase elusive social workers or beg MPs for help?
Adoption is sold as a fairy tale: a new home, a fresh start. That’s a delusion. Children like Megan, scarred by FASD or trauma, need more than love — they need therapy, respite, schools equipped for complex needs. Yet the state, bloated with bureaucracy, treats adoptive parents as nuisances, not allies. Social workers, overworked and under-resourced, barely return calls. The ASF, meant to bridge this gap, buckles under underfunding and mismanagement. My support group is full of parents blamed for their children’s struggles, as if we’re the failure, not the system.
This isn’t just about money, it’s about a society that promotes adoption while shirking its realities. Adoption rates have crashed 45 per cent since 2015, from 5,340 to 2,930, despite 84,000 children in care. Why? Could it be because prospective parents fear being left to sink under broken promises and withheld support? Who can blame them for hesitating?
The state’s retreat from responsibility reflects a deeper moral failing. We champion “family values” but abandon the families who take on society’s most vulnerable. The ASF surely needs to be properly funded, not with half-measures or annual uncertainty, but with the commitment these children deserve. Stop scapegoating parents and start listening. Megan is worth fighting for, as are thousands of others teetering on the edge. I’ve spent four years battling for her, and I’ll keep going. But no parent should have to wage war to give their child a chance.
