05/31/2026
People have a right to CAS file disclosure.
In my first year in child welfare, an Adoption Manager attended our training before retiring. She told us, carefully and clearly:
“If you remember nothing else, remember this — the children you are writing about may one day come back to read what was written.”
Then she said something else that stayed with me for the next 23 years.
She reminded us that while children were in care, we were acting in the role of the parent.
And she told us she wished it had not taken until retirement for her to feel brave enough to say that out loud.
That honesty mattered to me.
It shaped how I approached documentation, family finding, relationships, decision-making, and the responsibility attached to every interaction and every word written about a child or family.
Because years later, I have sat with youth and adults formerly in care as they read through thousands of pages of records and ask:
Why was my family never called?
What does “not approved” mean?
Why was I called “AWOL”?
Why did they say my parent was “non-compliant” or “uncooperative”?
Why couldn’t my grandma just be my grandma?
Why couldn’t a birthday party just be a birthday party?
What we write matters.
The words we choose can either preserve dignity, context, connection, and truth — or flatten entire families into labels, assumptions, and administrative shorthand.
But we should not be motivated only by compliance. Or only by the possibility that someone may someday read the file.
We should be motivated by our responsibility to do right by people while they are living through these moments in real time.
Children, youth, parents, grandparents, kin, and families deserve to be seen fully and written about with care, accuracy, humanity, and accountability now — not simply because records may later be disclosed, but because dignity should never depend on hindsight.
Over time, what my instincts told me became increasingly supported by what the field now calls evidence-based research:
children need connection, belonging, identity, family, culture, continuity, and truth.
People are not files.
Documentation is not neutral.
Neither is practice.
One day, someone may come back looking for themselves in those pages.
We owe them more than “unknown.”