The Stories That Shaped Me

How walking beside young adults who’ve aged out of foster care reminded me that storytelling is sacred — and a radical form of love.

Hi Slingshot Stories Community,

First and foremost, thank you — from the bottom of my heart — to everyone who read my first post and subscribed to this page. I can’t fully express how much it meant to see the outpouring of support for this platform. I’m truly honored and excited to continue building this community with all of you.

I also want to acknowledge that this week’s post is arriving a day later than planned. Moving forward, I intend to stick with my original rhythm — posting each Tuesday — but this week, life asked me to move a little slower. To listen a little longer. To write with both hands on the page, and my whole heart in the process.

So thank you for your grace — and for meeting me here on a Wednesday.

What I’m about to share wasn’t part of my original draft, but as the week unfolded, it became clear that this was the story that needed to be written. So I returned to the drawing board and followed where my soul felt called to go.

I hope what you read here resonates with your heart in some small way — and that it helps illustrate why Slingshot Stories, and the sacred work of storytelling, matters so deeply. What follows is a real-time example of what this platform exists to hold: the unexpected stories that rise up and ask to be witnessed.

A Story Too Sacred Not to Share: Where the Work Meets the Heart

If you’ve been following this journey, you already know that for me, Slingshot Stories is more than a platform — it’s truly a calling. Storytelling runs through every fiber of my being — and right now, it’s the thread connecting every line of work I’m pursuing. While this space is one expression of that devotion, it’s far from the only one.

After leaving my full-time job in nonpartisan election reform in September 2024, I took a sabbatical to walk the Camino de Santiago. That pilgrimage changed everything. When I returned, I made the slightly scary decision not to go back to the grind of a traditional W-2 job — and instead, I chose to follow the tug of my soul. It was a big leap, but I was ready to take it.

With the support of my incredible fiancé, I’ve stepped fully into this season of building: growing Slingshot Stories, taking on freelance work in storytelling-driven marketing and digital content strategy, and — perhaps most meaningfully — helping run a home for young adults who’ve aged out of the foster care system.

Right now, we have three incredible residents living at Polaris House in Boulder, CO — and I truly adore my role there as Program Director. Working with the residents brings me profound joy each and every day.

And though I always hoped to share more about this work someday, I didn’t expect that day to be today...

— A moment of transparency —

I’ll be honest: Yesterday, I had an entirely different post loaded and ready to send out. This is only my second post, so pivoting this early on was certainly not what I had planned.

But as I sat down to write content for National Foster Care Month, something shifted. The message came through clearly:

This is the story to tell.

Not the one I outlined. Not the one I mapped out weeks ago. But the one that arrived with a steady hand and a quiet sense of urgency — as if to say, now.

After some internal wrestling, by late Monday night, it became undeniably clear that National Foster Care Week — and the stories it holds — are deeply connected to the heart of what Slingshot Stories is here to honor: the power of narratives, especially the ones so often overlooked, unheard, or unspoken.

So, I pivoted. I wrote — and tweaked — for more hours than I’m willing to admit out loud. And finally, after a heartfelt labor of love, this is what came through.

I hope it meets you in a sacred place of stillness — the very one where your own story lives, waiting to be seen.

---

Until this week, I hadn’t quite found the words to express how deeply my work at Polaris House has shaped my story. I always hoped to bring it into the fold — but truthfully, I imagined an entry like this coming months from now, after I’d had more time to map out my thoughts in a way that felt fully formed and meaningful.

One thing I hold sacred in storytelling is that it can’t be forced. If a story is to be told, it has to come from the heart — with care, presence, and profound purpose.

And because this story is shaped by my proximity to others — young adults whose lives and voices I hold in the highest regard — I’ve been especially mindful of how and when to share my experience. While I’m not sharing their stories — only my own reflection as someone who walks beside them — I still believe that telling it requires reverence.

I’ve also been deeply mindful not to bring this work into the spotlight in a way that doesn’t honor the broader story with the thoughtfulness it deserves. Far too often, I see people post about complex, heavy topics without the care, presence, or pause they require.

These kinds of stories — the ones that hold a vulnerable population’s lived truth or reflect the realities of a marginalized group — are not content for clicks. They are sacred. And they must be handled with care, respect, and compassion.

This is something I think about every single day in my work. When I’m sitting with our residents—cooking, talking, laughing, listening—I’m always aware of the weight of their stories. I’ve made it clear from the beginning that their stories are sacred in my eyes. And I would never risk sharing something that felt extractive or unearned.

Some of the residents follow this platform. I’ve told them that if I ever spoke about this work, I’d do it with integrity — not in passing, not for performance, and never in a rush. I hope that if any of them are reading this now, they feel I’ve kept that promise.

And if you’re one of my residents, I want to break the fourth wall for just a moment and speak to you directly: Thank you — for your trust, your courage, and your presence. Thank you for allowing your perspectives to shape this space. You are a vital heartbeat behind this work. And your stories — they carry weight. They carry wisdom. They carry power. Please don’t ever forget that.

To everyone else reading — thank you for holding space for that moment. It felt important to name it out loud, from the heart.

Now, let’s widen the lens — and I’ll bring you more fully into this story.

---

Before I began my work at Polaris House, I’ll admit I didn’t know much about the foster care system. What little I did know came from a dear friend who, just last year, adopted a young woman who had previously been in the foster system. Their story moved me — and I was in awe of the love and commitment that went into changing that young woman’s life. But beyond that, I hadn’t personally encountered many other stories from kids who had experienced the system.

That changed quickly once I started at Polaris. At first, not everyone opened up — but within a few weeks, all of the residents began stopping by my office daily just to talk. As weeks turned into months, those conversations deepened. I started learning more about their stories — their childhoods, their fears, their dreams, the hard moments they had faced, and all that they had overcome.

To me, these young adults are superheroes. They’ve walked through fire and still show up with open hearts, willing to see the beauty in a world that hasn’t always been kind. Their stories move me — they still do.

Yet, what weighs heavily on my heart is knowing that so many young people in — or transitioning out of — foster care haven’t had the space, safety, or support to explore their stories, let alone share them. For some of the residents I work with, I may be the first person they’ve ever opened up to. That’s not something I take lightly. I carry their stories with reverence — and always will.

So, while I won’t be sharing any personal stories today, I am offering a soul-led reflection — one shaped by their collective voice and woven together with courage, resilience, and quiet grace.

---

Here’s something I didn’t know until I stepped into this work — and maybe you didn’t either: Each year, more than 20,000 young adults age out of the foster care system in the U.S., often with no safety net at all.

It’s a staggering truth. And yet, awareness of it remains painfully low. I say that with humility because I didn’t know either — not until I was here, listening, learning, and witnessing it firsthand.

Their stories — the collective story of these young adults — are so often drowned out by the louder noise of the world. Our TVs, our feeds, and our headlines prioritize other narratives: those of politicians, celebrities, and CEOs — lives that, on paper, are deemed worth telling.

But the stories I hear every day?

They are not only worth telling — they are vital.

They are stories of grit. Of grace. Of quiet, steady revolution.
And they carry more truth than most of what fills our feeds.

So while they may not make the front page, they deserve to be witnessed — deeply and fully. It is a privilege to be someone in their lives who gets to hold these stories. And today, it’s a privilege to crack open that door slightly for you, too.

Because bearing witness changes us.

It changed me.

This work has reoriented my understanding of adulthood, of resilience, of what it means to truly support someone. These young people have shaped the very soul of Slingshot Stories — long before I ever launched this platform.

One resident in particular has actively helped me refine the messaging and ideas I’ll soon be sharing with you all. And while one day they may be open to sharing their story for the world to hear, for now, they will remain in my heart — they are not mine to publicly tell. However, in the interim, I can honor their courage by saying this:

This work matters. It is life-changing. And it is deeply, deeply needed.

And now, in this moment, during National Foster Care Month, I felt called to finally share this part of my own story.

Because storytelling isn’t just about what’s been lived — it’s about what’s being lived now. And what better time to lift up these stories, the truths they hold, and the ways my own life has intersected with them — than in a month meant to honor them?

Every May, we take a collective pause to recognize the more than 400,000 children and young adults in the U.S. foster care system. We honor the stories they carry — even if we may never know the details.

This month isn’t about understanding every chapter of their journey — it’s about holding space for it, with reverence and respect.

It’s a time to ask how we can do better. To remember that while many of us begin writing the chapter of adulthood with celebration — a first apartment, a co-signed lease, a call home for advice — that isn’t the reality for everyone.

Not everyone’s book flips to that page so easily.
For some, the next chapter starts with survival.
With solitude.
With simply trying to make it to the next sentence.

The heartwrenching reality is that far too many kids in the foster care system, turning 18 or 21, aren’t synonymous with freedom. These birthdays equate to fear. Disconnection. And too often, the very real threat of homelessness.

Here in Colorado, nearly 36% of youth who age out of foster care experience housing instability by age 21. That’s not just a number — it’s a reality. A heartbreak. A call to pay attention.

I’ve spent countless hours journaling about the complexity of their reality—and how much of it I never had to face. So many nights, I’ve closed my journal, wishing I could turn it into a magic wand to erase their hardships. Sadly, I can’t, but I can hold their stories with reverence.

And in doing so, this work has become a mirror.

Working with my residents has asked me to confront the truth of my own story — and to reconcile my privilege through a new lens. I’ve been surrounded by love and stability my whole life. I come from a two-parent household. If I were ever in crisis, I had a home to return to. In 2021, when a relationship ended, I needed a major reset and a safe place to land. So, I did, in fact, move home. My parents welcomed me with open arms. My childhood bedroom was still there, waiting for me.

I knew I was lucky. But now, it lands differently. Everything does.

It’s not lost on me — even now — how sacred it is to know I have someone to call. There’s a newfound appreciation within me, as I recognize that if I needed help paying a bill or simply needed to hear a voice of calm on the other end of the line, I’d have it.

And the older I get, the more I realize what a profound gift that truly is.

So often, we take for granted what it means to be witnessed in the day-to-day — to have someone waiting on the other end of the line who knows our voice, our story, our heart. Someone who remembers the moments we’ve lived through — not because we wrote them down, but because we spoke them aloud. And they listened.

For me, that’s a daily rhythm. My mom listens to me process life almost every day. My sister, too. And my fiancé — he hears the same stories retold in new ways as I work to make sense of what I’m living. I speak my way into understanding. I narrate my life to the people I love.

But what I see now — more clearly than ever — is that not everyone has that. Not everyone has someone who will pick up the phone and say, Tell me everything. Not everyone gets the gift of being mirrored back through love.

But it’s in that contrast — between what I’ve always known and what so many never had — that my heart breaks open.

Because for too many young adults aging out of the foster care system, there is no fallback.
No number to dial.
No room to return to.
No voice on the other end reminding them they’re not alone.

And still — they keep going.
They try.
They show up.
They carry hope.
And within them, they possess a story that’s powerful beyond measure — even if the world hasn’t paused long enough to hear it.

That’s why places like Polaris House matter.
Because when the world doesn’t pause, I do.
When the systems fall short, I step in.
I meet them in that liminal space — the in-between of what’s been and what’s possible — and I say: Your story is still unfolding. You are not alone in telling it.

And thankfully, I’m not the only one. There are other wonderful people in this quiet village of care — colleagues, board members, mentors, caseworkers, community members — who show up too, saying in their own way: I’m here. I’m listening.

Because at the heart of it, that’s what this work — and this post — is about: noticing. remembering. honoring.

It’s about holding space for the stories that too often go unheard, and recognizing that healing doesn’t happen in isolation. It happens in community — in the presence of those willing to sit with the truth, even when it’s heavy.

And when we choose to sit with that truth — to really hold it — we create space for something new to begin.

A shift.
A breath.
A new sentence on the page.

When a new resident arrives at our doorstep, we’re not just offering a roof over their head — we’re metaphorically handing them a pen.

A chance to write the next chapter of their story — not from a place of fear, but from a place of safety. A space to imagine not just surviving, but becoming.

Because the truth is: you can’t write your next chapter while stuck in survival mode. When your nervous system is overwhelmed, it’s nearly impossible to dream past the end of the day — let alone into a future that feels safe and yours.

I haven’t lived what they’ve lived. I haven’t aged out of a system that promised protection, only to be left to navigate the world alone after turning 18. I can’t speak from that lived experience and will never try to do so. But I do know what it’s like to be their age and carrying a weight that no one could see — to walk through hallways and milestones while feeling completely detached from the life unfolding around me.

During the years my peers were focused on prom and college applications, I was living in the long, quiet aftermath of trauma. Even with support, I didn’t know how to share what I was going through. I didn’t have the language. And I didn’t want anyone to see how lost I really felt.

Hardly anyone knew my story back then, and many don’t even today. And maybe that’s why this work lives so deeply in me now.

Because I know what it feels like to sit in silence. To carry something heavy and not have the space — or the safety — to speak it aloud. And I never want the young adults I work with to feel that same aloneness.

It’s why I try so hard to create spaces of gentleness and trust. Not to push them to tell their stories — but to let them know that when and if they’re ever ready to share, they won’t have to carry them alone. With me, there is always someone willing to listen and share the weight of the load, no matter how heavy it might be.

Which is why, for me, this work is about more than housing. It’s about healing. It’s about offering back what I once needed — and making sure they know, even in the quiet, that their story is already sacred.

It’s about giving young adults the space and support to settle their nervous systems, reconnect to their own wisdom, and remember that they are the authors of their lives — even if the beginning chapters were heavy.

And maybe that’s why I show up with the fire I do. They may not know the whole story of what I’ve been through. But I hope, in some quiet way, they can feel that I see them — not just with my eyes, but with my heart.

Each day, I have the privilege of standing with them through life's simple yet meaningful moments — whether cooking dinner, working on taxes, or just talking. We laugh together. Sometimes we cry. We show up. And we keep going — together.

They may not all have parents to call or people who will pick up the phone when needed — but they have me. And I hold that role with deep care.

Because for me, this work isn’t just about meals and milestones, lease renewals, or life skills. It’s about story — the ones we’ve lived, the ones we’re still writing, and the ones no one else has paused long enough to listen to.

Just as Slingshot Stories isn’t simply a chronicle of my life that I post online. It goes much deeper than that. The through line — whether I’m sitting with my residents or holding space for readers like you — is this: the work is sacred.

It’s an active way of life. It’s a daily practice of presence — a commitment to consistently and authentically create a space where stories that often go unheard are honored. And it is where healing begins, the moment we feel seen.

All of this — from my work at Polaris House to the words I write here — is about the power of story.

The ones we’ve lived.
The ones we’re still writing.
The ones no one else has paused long enough to listen to.

Understanding my own story — truly sitting with it, reshaping it, reclaiming it — is what helped me to see the universal thread that runs through us all.

It’s what allows me to see each resident not as a case or a statistic but as a soul. This soul-level knowing radiates into every corner of my life — extending to every person I meet, whether I know them or not. No matter who you are, I see a whole, dynamic being with an intricate story still unfolding. A living, breathing narrative shaped by moments we may never witness — but that still deserve to be honored.

Because of my own journey, I never judge a book by its cover. I know what it’s like to carry chapters no one else can see — and how life-changing it can be when someone shows up and says, "I see you anyway."

In my 28 years on this earth, I've learned that the most healing thing we can offer isn’t advice — it’s presence. It isn’t answers — it’s space. Because when someone sees your soul — not just your circumstances — something shifts.

I know this because it happened to me.

And it’s why I try so hard to show up that way for my residents — and for you, the reader, too.

Truly, it’s not an exaggeration to say that one of the greatest honors of my life is walking alongside others as they begin to rewrite their stories — with confidence, courage, and clarity.

There is nothing that lights me up more than seeing someone pick up the pen and begin writing a new chapter of their life — one that’s finally ready to unfold. Nothing more powerful at a soul level than witnessing the spark return to someone’s eyes as they start to honor and appreciate their own story. It’s like watching magic unfold here on earth, in real time.

When I’m doing this work with my residents, watching them step into that next chapter can sometimes feel bittersweet, as it does now, with some preparing to transition into their own apartments. There’s a quiet ache that comes with letting go. But even more than that, there is awe. My heart overflows with joy watching them soar.

Because this — witnessing someone reclaim their power and write their next chapter on their own terms — is what this work is all about.

It might sound cliché to say, but as much as I may have impacted the lives of my residents, they’ve impacted mine just as deeply — if not more.

So, while I may not know every story of every young person in the foster care system, I can proudly say I know a few incredible ones. And those few have woven themselves into my story — quietly, permanently, and with love.

---

To close out this week's storytelling feature, I’ll leave you with this:

May we all learn to listen more deeply to the stories that don’t often make the front page — because sometimes, those are the ones that carry the most light.

The stories I have the honor of witnessing at Polaris House don’t just stay with me — they shape me. They echo in my heart long after the conversations end. They remind me why storytelling is sacred. Why remembering matters.

Their stories fan the flame that already burns in me — the one that calls me to gently guide others to reclaim their voices, make meaning from what they’ve lived through, and see that their stories have always been worthy of being told.

Their stories have reminded me just how much power lives in the narratives we carry— and how sacred it is to have space to share them.

This is why I wrote this post. This is why I created Slingshot Stories.

Because Slingshot Stories isn’t just a platform — it’s a practice. A way of honoring the stories we’ve lived, the ones we’re still living, and the ones that have been silenced for far too long.

The young adults I walk beside daily have reminded me why this work matters. They constantly illuminate the reality that storytelling isn’t a luxury—it’s a lifeline. It’s a roadmap for transformation that can, quite literally, change the trajectory of someone’s life.

And sometimes, all it takes to begin that shift is showing up — with presence, with care, and with the simple words: I’m here. Your story matters.

So, whether you’ve experienced foster care or not, if even one person reads this and begins to see their own story as sacred, this message found its way exactly where it needed to go.

Because, like my residents — your story matters.
And if you’ve ever felt unseen, please know this: I see you and you are not alone.

From My Heart to Yours

If today’s post touched something in you — if it offered insight, softened something heavy, or simply made you feel seen — I’d love to hear from you. Leave a comment, send a message, or share it with someone who might need the reminder that their story matters too.

And if you're feeling called, maybe pull out a blue shirt sometime this month. Wearing blue during the month of May is one small, beautiful way to stand in quiet solidarity with those who have experienced the foster care system. To honor stories that deserve to be seen. And to say, in your own way: I’m listening.

With love and deep gratitude,

Alana

P.S. I’ve received some beautiful and thoughtful questions over the past week, and while I’ve tried to respond individually when I can, I’ve realized that it may be helpful to share some of the most common ones more broadly. So — stay tuned for a little off-schedule post this weekend. It’ll be a companion to this one, with space to answer a few of those questions with the same heart I bring to everything here. xxx