Love Luggage Project

My name is Kristina Wozniak, and I am a former foster youth, a mother, and a proud advocate working alongside CASA (Court Appointed Special Advocates) to bring dignity and hope to children in the foster care system. At just eight years old, I entered foster care with nothing but a black trash bag to carry my belongings. Over the course of thirteen different placements, that trash bag became an unwanted symbol of my life in transition—temporary, disposable, and uncertain. It wasn’t until I received my first suitcase from my adoptive parents that I felt something shift. That small act, that simple object, told me I mattered. That suitcase became a turning point, one I still carry with me today—both literally and emotionally. With the support of CASA, I’m now working to ensure that no child in foster care has to feel what I felt. We are launching an initiative to provide children in care with real suitcases, giving them not just a place to pack their belongings—but a sense of ownership, respect, and hope. Enclosed is my personal story. It’s raw, real, and written with the intention of opening hearts to the experiences of foster youth. I share it because I believe stories move people to action—and this mission can only be achieved with a community of supporters who care deeply about the future of these children. Thank you for your time, compassion, and consideration. Together, through CASA and the strength of community partners like you, we can help children carry their stories with dignity—not in trash bags, but in hope.

With heartfelt gratitude,

Kristina Wozniak.

The night I was taken into foster care, I was given fifteen minutes and a black trash bag to gather my things. That was my “luggage.” No suitcase. No dignity. Just the sound of plastic crinkling as I was removed from my home, clutching a brown teddy bear an officer gave me to quiet my cries.

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I was eight years old. My brother and I were separated after that night—two scared kids torn apart, each sent in different directions, each with a trash bag. It was the beginning of a long journey through thirteen different foster homes.

I entered the system due to ongoing abuse and neglect. Like many children in care, I came from a home shaped by addiction, trauma, and instability. The night I was removed, I didn’t fully understand what was happening—but I knew nothing would ever be the same.

But even in the chaos, there were flickers of hope. For me, those lights were my DCFS caseworker, Trudy; a CASA volunteer who listened when no one else did; a kind foster mom named Mrs. Ann; and eventually, my adoptive parents. Each one helped me believe I was more than my circumstances. I was worth more than the black trash bag.

At twelve, I was placed with the family who would later adopt me. Their house sat on a quiet cul-de-sac—a two-story home surrounded by a fence, where the air always smelled of lavender and fresh laundry. My adoptive father was calm and soft-spoken—his presence made me feel safe. My adoptive mother created a room just for me. My room. My bed. My own closet, clothes, toothbrush.

I didn’t know how to receive that kind of care. For months, I kept all my belongings in the same trash bag I’d arrived with. I didn’t unpack because I didn’t believe I’d stay. I was sure they would send me back like all the rest.

Then, they gave me my first suitcase. It wasn’t expensive or flashy, but it was mine. A vintage, light teal-blue case with silver latches, a handle, and a key lock for security. I remember placing my trash bag inside it, still unsure if I’d be allowed to keep it. But that suitcase wasn’t just for storage—it was a symbol. It told me I belonged. It told me I mattered. It told me I had ownership of one thing in my life.

I still have that suitcase. Today, it holds my high school memories—school dance pictures, art projects, yearbooks, letters from friends, and family photos.

The foster care system is deeply fragmented. You see it in the little things—like children forced to carry their lives in trash bags. But the cracks run deeper: overburdened caseworkers, a lack of consistent foster homes, a legal system focused more on protecting parental rights than preserving a child’s actual childhood. Even the way a child’s life is broken into sections in a case file—pieces of a story told through paperwork.

I became one of those files. One blue folder, passed from desk to desk, lost in the shuffle of a system stretched too thin to even provide a suitcase.

Fixing foster care doesn’t rest on the shoulders of agencies alone. It requires all of us. It takes communities willing to invest in the dignity of these kids. It takes volunteers, donors, caseworkers, and foster parents willing to go beyond the bare minimum. Because what’s broken can only be rebuilt with collective compassion—and action.

What I know now is this: children in foster care don’t just need food, shelter, or therapy. They need dignity. They need to know they’re seen, heard, and valued. Something as simple as a suitcase—something most people take for granted—can mean everything to a child who’s only ever known instability. It says, “You are not trash. You are worth it.”

People like Trudy (my DCFS worker), Mrs. Ann (one of my foster mothers), and that officer with the teddy bear may never know the impact they had on me. But their kindness helped shape my future. Because of them, I found my way into a career that lets me give back.

This is why I share my story. Not for sympathy. Not for attention. But because I believe we can—and must—do better for kids in foster care. If we can give a child something as small as a suitcase—a simple symbol of stability and worth—we’re not just changing how they carry their belongings. We’re changing how they carry themselves.