What happens when you don’t stay quiet?

This is the part of Everleigh’s story that rarely makes it into court orders or case notes—the part that happened to me after I refused to stay silent. When I questioned decisions that didn’t make sense, I was told to stop asking. When I asked for documentation, I was treated as difficult. When I raised concerns about Everleigh’s placement and safety, the response was not investigation—it was pressure. Visits became limited instead of increased. Information stopped flowing. I was told to “wait” while my child became more inaccessible. The message was clear: compliance mattered more than clarity. As I continued to speak up, the narrative shifted away from Everleigh and onto me. My emotional responses to separation and fear were reframed as instability. My insistence on transparency was labeled conflict.

My advocacy for my child was treated as defiance.

Instead of addressing the concerns I raised, the system focused on containing me. I faced threats tied to legal consequences rather than answers. I was pushed toward isolation instead of support. At times, it felt like the options were simple: stay quiet, or be removed from the conversation entirely. This is how silence is enforced. Not with one dramatic act—but through accumulation:

• unanswered emails
• canceled or supervised interactions
• warnings instead of explanations
• character judgments replacing evidence

I was never asking for special treatment. I was asking for my child to be safe, seen, and accounted for. Everleigh did not become harder to reach because I disappeared. She became harder to reach because I didn’t.

This page exists because I refused to let my concern be rewritten as pathology.

A parent can be traumatized and still accurate. A mother can be emotional and still credible. And fear for your child does not equal mental illness. If telling the truth makes someone uncomfortable, that does not make it untrue. I am not silent because I don’t care. I am speaking because I do. And Everleigh deserves a record that reflects what actually happened—not just what was easiest to write down.

Author: Alexis Landrum