Fostered, failed and forgotten

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At 22, I was a young mother aging out of the foster care system — a place where I had already endured the trauma of being trafficked. Leaving foster care already felt like being cast into a void, armed with nothing but a black trash bag and unprepared for the world outside. The only way I knew how to survive was to remain in the environment that had entrapped me in the first place.

It wasn’t long before I was arrested for engaging in commercial sex. Even though it was my first offense, I was charged with leading a prostitution ring, a felony, before the charge was dropped to a petty misdemeanor. The eventual outcome left me with probation and fines I could not afford.

The criminal justice system, which is supposed to protect, instead became another barrier to my survival. My inability to pay the fines led to a court order requiring me to attend a community organization dedicated to helping survivors of trafficking. I complied with every requirement and left “the life” behind. Yet, instead of finding relief, my struggles multiplied.

Securing stable housing was impossible. I first sought refuge at shelters, but I was rejected and labeled as a “risk” due to my criminal record and past life. I then sought private housing, but many landlords refused to rent to me. Others preyed on my vulnerabilities by making unwanted sexual advances or inflating rent prices. These continued barriers compounded the trauma I had already endured, further revealing the systemic failures that women of color, especially those who have survived trafficking, face daily.

Employment opportunities were equally challenging. The stigma attached to my record made it difficult to secure work. I could only obtain short-term contract positions, which allowed me to avoid the pain of explaining my past. However, this work was insufficient to meet my basic needs, forcing me to live in a constant state of financial instability. The lack of stable employment hindered my ability to secure housing and perpetuated the cycle of poverty and underscored the broader systemic failures that trap so many survivors of trafficking and foster care.

The criminal justice system, far from being a source of support, became a tool of oppression. I was desperate for help but met with silence. The most harrowing experience was when I was sexually assaulted by a professional athlete. The investigator assigned to my case exploited my past, falsely correlating my previous involvement in commercial sex to the assault. My rape kit vanished, leaving a police report that distorts the truth and no trust in the justice system.

The constant criminalization we endure when we are victims of crime serves only to perpetuate the cycles of poverty, abuse and exploitation that we are trying so desperately to escape. It is long past time to end the legacy of criminalization that haunts us, and it is imperative that Minnesota’s lawmakers in Washington take action to guarantee true freedom for survivors.

I know this is something Minnesotans care about, as our state is actively pursuing numerous criminal justice reform measures, and last year Gov. Tim Walz signed a sweeping criminal justice reform package into state law.

Our representatives in Congress need to bring our Minnesota values to Washington. I urge them to support the trafficking survivors relief act. This legislation represents a crucial opportunity to break the chains of systemic injustice and offer survivors a genuine chance to rebuild, grow and thrive. It not only acknowledges the failures of the past, but would be a concrete step to create a future where women of color and survivors of trafficking and foster care are no longer fostered, failed and forgotten, but supported, uplifted and empowered to reclaim their lives and futures.

Yanelin Montalvo-Valdez (Yaneliyú — Bright Spirit in Arawak Taino) is a lifelong Minnesotan.