In 2012, the United Nations declared June 1st as the Global Day of Parents – a day “to recognise and honour parents for their selfless commitment and lifelong sacrifice.”

For many, it’s a day to celebrate love and connection. But for those of us with care experience, days like this – alongside Mother’s Day and Father’s Day – can bring up a mix of emotions, reminding us of what we didn’t have or what is missing in our lives.

I lived with my parents (my mother and her husband) for most of my early life and didn’t enter care until my mid-teens, so for a while, I believed my childhood was similar to others. I believed it was normal for parents to use fear and violence to raise me and I assumed if I behaved better, I’d be loved more. I often dreamed of being rescued – sometimes by my biological Dad, sometimes by kind teachers, sometimes by imaginary families I saw in movies. Looking back now, I knew, deep down, that things at home weren’t okay.

When I did enter care, it was a safer environment for me, and I held onto the hope that I’d find the kind of family I had always longed for. I clung to the words my foster carers said, things like “you’re part of the family”,  and believed them. It felt real to me until, suddenly, it wasn’t. A holiday I wasn’t invited to, a room that used to be mine, now needed for someone else or going out for a family dinner while I stayed at home with leftovers. That sense of being part of something permanent disappeared, and it hurt.

At 17, I flew to the UK to live with my biological father, hopeful for a fresh start. It didn’t last. A few months later, I was sent back to New Zealand with less than 24 hours’ notice – I didn’t even know who was picking me up from the airport, or if my friend who said I could crash at her house, had even cleared it with her parents. I landed at Auckland Airport alone, trying to spot a familiar face among the crowd of families waiting to greet their loved ones. I found it in Mark – a kind man I used to babysit for. I’ll never forget that moment – the fear almost overwhelming me, until I saw Mark and I knew I could reprise my role of the brave, independent teenager no-one needed to worry about. 

Looking back, I can see that every foster parent I had brought some hope – and some heartbreak. They all tried in their own way, with the tools they had, and I did too. I was that kid who insisted I was okay, who smiled through everything, who said I didn’t need therapy (I think I may have even threatened to run away if they tried to force me to go). I know now that it made it harder for people to really know what I needed, and without knowing my needs, they couldn’t provide for them. This was made even more complicated by the fact that due to my type of care (in the care of my church), I didn’t even have a social worker who would have been trained to advocate for me.

Rebuilding relationships with my biological family as an adult is messy and confusing. I’ve struggled to balance the societal expectation of “but that’s your parent” with my lived experience. It’s hard when your memories are dismissed or when your pain is denied by the very people who caused it.

One of the things that’s been hardest to watch as I’ve grown up is how many adults around me still lean on their parents – for advice, support, or simply to feel loved. I often wonder: if adults still need their parents, why do young people in care have such a short window of support from their “state parent”? Once you leave care, it can feel like you’re just expected to figure life out alone, and that’s exactly what I had to do.

Thankfully, I haven’t been truly alone, there’s someone in my life called Kate. She’s not my foster parent or biological family – she’s just Kate. But Kate has shown me what unconditional care looks like. She shows up, she gives me a “mum hug” when I need to feel like I have a loving mum. She’s been there through hospital stays, big moments, and everyday life. She was there to encourage and support me through my degree, and she was there to cheer me on when i graduated. Kate may not be my mum, but she’s shown me the kind of love a mum can give and she’s never let me push her away, even when I’ve tried. 

So, on this Global Day of Parents, I’m not here to celebrate the idea of perfect parents. I’m here to honour the people – whether they have the title or not – who show up, who love without time limits, and who prove that being a parent is more about presence than DNA. Family isn’t always biological, and it isn’t always official, it’s about who shows up and who stays. It’s who loves you, consistently.

To those in the care community who tackle the rebuilding of parental and whānau relationships head on, I admire you. I know from my attempts in my early 20’s that this can be a really long and painful journey. I want to finish with a quote from one of my favourite movies from childhood, that has stayed with me, and gave me hope on days that I truly felt like I wouldn’t make it out. 

“You were born into a family that doesn’t always appreciate you, but one day things are going to be very different.” – Miss Honey, Matilda (Movie, 1996)