Can you imagine, packing your entire life into a bin liner. Clothes, treasured memories, and all your belongings stuffed into a disposable bag meant for rubbish. For many children in care, this is their reality, a physical reminder of displacement, impermanence, and a system that often feels impersonal. For me, it was more than just a bag. It was a loud, silent declaration that my life was temporary, disposable, and insignificant.
Moving from place to place, with no permanent home, leaves more than just logistical challenges, it leaves scars on identity, fosters feelings of shame, and deepens the sense of abandonment.
My Story- A Life in Transition
I entered the care system when I was 11 months old. This was supposed to be a place that was safe and yet for many of us, it felt more like a maze. Each placement was a new chapter filled with uncertainty. I changed homes, schools, and friendships as often as some change clothes. With each transition, I carried not just my belongings in black bags but also the weight of anxiety, fear, and the haunting question: "Will I ever belong?"
I was a child searching for a sense of identity in a world that labelled me as "foster child," or "LAC" These labels, while meant to categorise, often stripped away my individuality. I was not just a number or a case file, I was a person with dreams, fears, and aspirations.
I want to take you back over 44 years ago to a moment I remember so clearly. And I say that as my childhood was spent in care moving from place to place. So most of my history is lost and forgotten and what memories I have, some are distorted as there is no one to verify things and timelines. All I know is I was very young when a foster carer first came to me with black bin liners, telling me to pack my things because I was going to the children's home. I was not actually going; it was a threat, a punishment for my so-called bad behaviour. Can you imagine being told you're being sent away from the only place you have known as home. Even at such a young age, I felt the sting of fear, rejection, and the unspoken message, I don’t belong here
The first time I did move, the experience was no less heartbreaking. I didn’t know where I was going or why. A social worker handed me a black bin liner and told me to pack my things. I remember staring at it, confused and overwhelmed. Back then, the bin men would come into the garden and take those same black bags out of the bin. All I could think about initially was my things being taken away by the bin men, and I would never see them again. Then I realised they were coming with me and then couldn’t shake the thought, Am I rubbish now too?
I packed my favorite teddy bear, a few clothes, and what little I had. As I clutched that bag, it wasn’t just my belongings inside, it was me. I felt like I was being thrown away, like I didn’t matter. Was that what I was to them? Something to discard, something that no one wanted? The bin bag wasn’t just a bag, it was a symbol of how the system saw me and my belongings: as something temporary, something to be thrown away.
The Loneliness of Moving
Every move was the same. A new place, a new family, new rules to follow. But no one asked me how I felt, what I wanted, or what I needed. It was as though my voice didn’t exist.
I remember sitting alone in my new room after a move, clutching that same teddy bear. I could hear other children laughing somewhere else in the house, but it felt like their world wasn’t mine. I was on the outside, looking in, always the stranger, always the intruder.
The bin liner was there, too, a constant reminder that wherever I went this wasn’t home. It wasn’t safe and it wasn’t forever. I felt like I was carrying my whole life in a bag that could split open at any moment, spilling everything I was trying to hold together.
When the Moves Became Routine
After a while, I stopped packing my own bag. There came a time when I would be picked up from school by a social worker, and my bags would already be packed, waiting in the car. Except they weren’t really my bags, they were someone else’s version of what was important.
My favourite jumper would be missing, or my diary left behind. Little pieces of me were lost with every move. It wasn’t just the belongings that stayed behind, it was the sense of connection, the memories tied to those things. The system decided what came with me and what didn’t, and I learned quickly that what mattered to me didn’t seem to matter to anyone else.
It hurt in ways I couldn’t put into words. How do you explain what it feels like to lose parts of yourself every time you’re uprooted? To have no say, no control, over what stays and what goes? Each move chipped away at my identity until I wasn’t sure who I was anymore.
Losing Pieces of Myself
With every move, I lost more than just belongings. I lost school friends, teachers who believed in me, and any sense of stability. But worse than that, I lost pieces of myself. The girl who loved to draw stopped picking up a pencil and by the time I was 10, I didn’t know who I was anymore. I had become someone who didn’t dare to hope, because hope hurt too much. I didn’t let myself trust anyone, because trust always led to goodbye. And I didn’t bother holding onto things, because I knew they’d just get left behind.
The Emotional Scars
The bin liner wasn’t just a practical tool for moving my things. It carried messages I couldn’t escape: You’re not important. You’re not worth more than this and you don’t belong anywhere.
I often felt invisible. The system wasn’t designed to see me, it was designed to move me, place me, and tick a box that said I was “safe.” But I didn’t feel safe and a lot of the time I wasn't. I felt abandoned, unloved, and utterly alone.
Loneliness became my constant companion. It wrapped around me tighter with each move, filling the spaces where relationships should have been. Even when I was surrounded by people, I felt the emptiness inside. I was just a kid, desperate for someone to notice the pain I was carrying, to tell me that I mattered, and to help me believe it.
Why This Must End
No child should ever feel like I did. No child should ever have to pack their world into a bin liner, wondering if they’re worth more than what they carry.
It’s not just about replacing bin liners with appropriate bags or suitcases. It's about treating children with the respect, dignity, and care they deserve. It’s about stability, understanding, and creating a system that sees them as individuals, not just cases to be managed.
The bin liner doesn’t just carry belongings, it carries a message. You’re not worth the effort of something better and your life is disposable.
These messages can stay with children for a lifetime, shaping how they see themselves and the world around them. The image of a child moving their world in a bin liner should make us all stop and reflect. It’s not just a practical issue, it’s a deep failure of care, dignity, and humanity.
No young person should ever have to experience that feeling of being disposable. Our belongings matter because We matter.
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