Cumbrian teenager finds her voice in writing competition

One of our incredibly talented care experienced teenagers Siân, has been shortlisted as one of the winners in a national creative writing competition for children and young people in care. The 16-year-old is in the top 6 for her age category (Upper Secondary) in this year’s Coram Voice ‘Voices 2025’ competition, after judges agreed her piece ‘stood out’ amongst scores of other entries. In her story, Anchored in My Truth, Siân writes in an incredibly moving and insightful way about ‘finding her voice’ after moving in with her foster carers three years ago.

Read the full story below:
 

Anchored in My Truth 

Before being in foster care, my voice was a whisper lost in the storm—a flicker swallowed by the dark. By thirteen, I’d learned to shrink, to fold myself into the corners of rooms where neglect made a home. Words piled up inside me like unread letters, sealed with the fear that no one would care to open them.

Then came the anchor: foster care. Not a fairy tale rescue, but a slow unfurl. My new family didn’t just hear me; they cared, eyes bright with “Talk to us, we are here for you, always”. For the first time, someone noticed how I lit up talking about the sea - its vastness, its rhythm - and signed me up for Sea Cadets. 

The Cadets became my compass. On my first tall ships voyage, the deck swayed beneath me, salt spray stinging my cheeks as we hauled ropes in unison. “Eyes on the horizon!” our instructor barked. I gripped the helm during my watch, heart drumming as the crew trusted my commands. Here, I wasn’t the kid from the system; I was a leader. The sea didn’t care about my past, it demanded my presence, my voice. 

Back on land, I became part of the Children in Care Council. In meetings, I’d clutch my notes, breath shallow, until a social worker said, “We need your input, what’s your solution?” My ideas on training programmes spilled out, nervously at first, then firmer as heads nodded. They used my suggestions—real change, translated into policy. I wasn’t just speaking; I was steering. 

Last month, I stood at a Council Conference, microphone in hand, sharing how foster experienced young people thrive when given the wheel. My Cadet uniform hugging my shoulders like armour. “We don’t need saviours,” I said, voice steady as the tide. “We need believers.” Afterward, a girl tugged my sleeve: “Your speech - it’s like you said what I’ve been scared to.” Her words live in my heart, proof that my voice could be a lighthouse. 

Now, at sixteen, I trace how far I’ve sailed. Foster Care taught me to trust my worth. The Cadets taught me to navigate storms. The Children’s Council taught me to amplify not just my voice, but others too. I’m no longer a whisper - I’m a chorus. 

Some days, I still feel the ghost of that silent, scared kid, but whilst I know she’s not gone. She’s the compass that keeps me true. When I speak now, it’s with the grit of saltwater and the certainty of constellations. My voice? It’s alive - in the creak of ship decks, in Children’s Council meetings, in the girl who heard me and found her own words. The girl who has found her true home and has aspirations I never dared to hope for in my life.

This life is different but it’s mine. And I’ll keep sailing, loud and unafraid, because I’ve finally found where I belong: in a world that listens.