Finding Home Within The Silence Of The System

When I sit with the stories Alicia Wilson shares, I am reminded that my pen is a witness to the things the system prefers to overlook. As a storyteller, the emotional labour is iin the processing of the “absences.” We see a mark on a gradebook, but Alicia sees the truth: families huddled in cars, or a child sleeping on the pavement outside a hospital because the proximity to a place of healing feels like the only shield they have.

There is a quiet, heavy power imbalance when a student’s future is held hostage by the lack of a front door. In my editorial work, I grapple with how to present this reality without stripping these young people of their dignity. We are advocating for souls who deserve to be seen. I recognize the systemic structures: the schools, the CAS care where African Caribbean youth are so often overrepresented, and I acknowledge their reach. Yet, I maintain my position: the “paper truth” of a system will never outweigh the human truth of a child in crisis. 

Alicia spoke of a top student whose world fractured when her home life broke, her grades falling as fast as her security. Within five days of a referral, the organization REST found her a key. Five days. In the world of bureaucracy, that is a miracle of coordination and compassion.

At her graduation, the student stood steady, but broke when she saw the empty seats where her parents should have been. My heart, like Alicia’s, aches for that isolation, but then, a caseworker walked down the aisle with a teddy bear. It was a small gesture that addressed a massive void, transforming a moment of grief into a grin of belonging. We must acknowledge the systems that fail these kids, but we must also stand resolute in our power to intervene.

Your support for REST, whether $25 or $100, is the collaborative work of moving heaven and earth so a young person can finally believe they deserve to be safe. Together we are restoring the right to hope