They believed we mattered

Justin Pasquariello
5 min readNov 17, 2023

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Even when we couldn’t believe it ourselves

Our case could have seemed hopeless.

When I was six years old and back living with my mother[1], I often told her I was trash. I was eager to hear her say God doesn’t make trash.

She believed I mattered.

Not long after, my mother took too much of her medication, but somehow realized in time and called an ambulance that brought us both to the hospital. (She believed I mattered — and somehow, even though she mostly couldn’t believe it, she believed that meant she mattered.)

I walked beside her stretcher to the big doors to the Emergency Room. The people wheeling her in said I couldn’t follow. I watched as the doors closed behind her. Then I curled up in a waiting room chair, trying to stay warm despite the icy drafts each time the front door opened.

My mother had been in and out of hospitals — sometimes by choice, and sometimes, when it was deemed she could harm herself or others, against her wishes. Doctors had adjusted her medication and treatment several times, and she was healthy for several longer spells, but they couldn’t get the treatment just right to address her full illness.[2]

I had spent a year with my older sister Venice’s family in England[3] before returning to my mother this time. Before I was adopted, I would spend time in at least ten homes, including at least three foster homes and homes of family members and family friends, interspersed with time with my mother.

With each move, the chance of moving quickly to permanency decreases — and the chance of poor life outcomes increases.[4] (My story and many others demonstrate that, despite this, we should never give up. It helped that along the way, so many people believed I mattered — and had resources to support me).

When I was with her, my mother had been loving and thoughtful — singing bedtime songs in what I thought was the world’s best voice (though she later guaranteed it was not), taking me to learn skiing with her friend, inviting my whole class to our townhouse for my birthday party, arranging counseling for me when I didn’t want it because of what I had experienced.

When she wasn’t well, she had also taken us on wandering multi-day drives and I, at four or five years old, had tried to take care of both of us.

There were other chaotic events and experiences along the way.

Fortunately, even when my mother and I didn’t believe it ourselves, family members, friends, and my social worker believed we mattered.

RoseAnn and Bob planned to adopt a foster child who was around four years old. Their social worker called to inquire if they might consider a seven-year-old.

When I moved into their house, I brought only a trash bag with underwear and a few He-Men (because what else did I really need? And also, I thought I was going home in a week). RoseAnn’s sister came to meet me that first day, and RoseAnn told her that trash bag was all I had (had I known, I would have corrected her). They stepped into the hall — so I wouldn’t see — and cried and planned for what they needed to buy me.

When Bob walked into the house the night I arrived, he could see how scared I was — and he realized he had to take this relationship-building slowly.

RoseAnn and Bob never knew if I would call them mom and dad — and they wanted to leave that decision to me (I didn’t call them Mom and Dad until their daughter Michele said, “It’s stupid when you call them RoseAnn and Bob in front of people. Just call them ‘Mom and Dad’.” Years later, she told me she was saying that because she wanted to be my sister.) They didn’t know when or how I would accept them as my family, but still they thought I mattered.

Venice and her family wanted me to return to live with them, but knew the American courts would resist moving a child back across the ocean (particularly since my birth mom wanted me closer) — so my brother-in-law traveled to meet this family and make sure this was a good home for me.

My birth mother’s father was too old to provide a permanent home, but he flew to Boston and came to the house to vet this family. He told my birth mother he would fight her to make sure I didn’t go back to her — but he also took care of her every way he could, just as he had taken care of both of us when we lived together.

Venice’s family, and my grandfather, and other members of my birth family all believed we mattered.

What happened for my birth mother and me from there? What does this mean for community joy? Stay tuned for next week’s post to learn more.

This is the 37th post about boosting joy the only way we can: in community. Please share, subscribe, and join our movement by emailing me or supporting East Boston Social Centers. Stay joyful, East Boston.

[1] Throughout this narrative, I call people by the names I called them at the time I am referring to. Eventually, RoseAnn and Bob became Mom and Dad and Michele became my sister. My sister in England, Venice, is always my sister. My mother became my birth mother when I needed to distinguish, but I still always called her Mom.

[2] (We later learned the reason: her illness was only partially diagnosed — sometimes as manic depression — as it was then called — and sometimes as schizophrenia. It was therefore only partially treated. It actually was schizoaffective disorder: a combination of the two, that is trickiest to treat).

[3] When I went to England, I was joining my sister and her husband, and my oldest niece and baby nephew. They and their two sisters who came after are all siblings to me.

[4] Three or more placements is seen as a threshold of particular harm; see https://www.casey.org/placement-stability-impacts/.

From left, Michele, Bob, RoseAnn (my future sister, dad and mom) and me at my first communion.

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Justin Pasquariello
Justin Pasquariello

Written by Justin Pasquariello

Justin is Executive Director at East Boston Social Centers, where we are leading an evidence-based movement to significantly increase community joy.

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