By Kerri Moore

I have lived with mental health challenges from my early teenage years into adulthood. These challenges have ranged in severity and complexity, shaped in part by Adverse Childhood Experiences (ACEs), my time in the care system, and a late-in-life neurodivergent diagnosis that finally gave context to my decades-long search for understanding.

At 12, I was placed in residential care — a setting that, rather than providing stability, added trauma to an already fractured life. Upon leaving care, unsupported and isolated, I entered into an abusive relationship with a man 21 years older than me. Like many care leavers, I was vulnerable, navigating adult life with no emotional roadmap or secure base.

Throughout my teens and twenties, I was labelled with diagnoses including depression, anxiety, and Emotionally Unstable Personality Disorder (EUPD). I accessed a wide range of therapies — psychotherapy, group therapy, and eventually Dialectical Behaviour Therapy (DBT), which became a turning point. DBT’s blend of skills-building and validation helped me begin to manage my emotional dysregulation in a way other interventions hadn’t. For those unfamiliar, DBT builds upon Cognitive Behavioural Therapy (CBT) and is particularly effective for those who experience intense emotions or live with personality disorders. More information can be found here.

What I didn’t know at the time was that I am neurodivergent. I was diagnosed with ADHD at 45 and Autism at 46. The realisation brought clarity and grief in equal measure. So many services I accessed weren’t designed for neurodivergent minds. Traditional talking therapies often felt inaccessible or ineffective — I needed visual tools, sensory regulation, and environments that honoured difference.

I reached crisis point on more than one occasion. I have experienced hospital stays — all voluntary — which became vital rest points in my journey. All of this unfolded while I was a parent carer for neurodivergent children, fighting against multiple complex systems: education, social care, private law proceedings, and the hidden reality of child-on-parent abuse.

One of the hardest truths I’ve had to carry is that, despite my best efforts, my children became part of the 40% of care leavers whose own children are taken into care. That statistic isn’t just a number — it’s my lived reality. It reflects the compounded generational impact of trauma when systems continue to fail.

I also developed unhealthy coping mechanisms. Undiagnosed ADHD meant I gravitated toward anything that offered a dopamine boost. Shopping, for example, became a way to self-soothe. But underneath it all was a deep-rooted feeling of disconnection and socio-economic exclusion. My diagnoses gave me permission to stop masking. I now use sensory tools openly — noise-cancelling headphones, fidget rings, and visual prompts. These aren’t indulgences; they’re access tools that help me navigate the world more safely.

I’ve since developed a programme called Petals of Me — a visual healing process where each falling petal symbolises letting go of negative beliefs and trauma. It’s become a central part of my restoration journey.

Alongside therapy and diagnosis, faith has played an enormous part in my healing. My hope is anchored in the promises I find in scripture. I believe in divine timing and that nothing from my past is wasted. God encourages us to share our testimony at every opportunity, and I’ve chosen to speak openly — even about the darkest moments — because I believe it can light the way for someone else.

I’ve also learned that not everyone will like or accept you, and that’s okay. In the past, my rejection-sensitive dysphoria would spiral at even the smallest signs of disapproval. Now, I’m learning to accept that my worth isn’t dependent on others’ validation. I surround myself with positive affirmations — often visual, always intentional — to keep imposter syndrome at bay.

I am now stepping into new territory, building a business rooted in lived experience. It’s daunting, but I’m being bold. I’m speaking with directors, academies, professionals — not because I have it all figured out, but because I believe in the vision of Be Seen. It’s a peer-led wellbeing initiative designed to support care leavers, carers, and adults with ADHD and Autism. We focus on connection, creative expression, and visibility. Because when people are seen, they begin to heal.

It’s encouraging to see national momentum building around valuing lived experience and centering the voices of those who have felt unseen for too long. Care leavers, in particular, are starting to be recognised as a group requiring extended support beyond age 25, and I hope my contribution helps further that dialogue. As Johan Hari said, “The opposite of addiction isn’t sobriety, it’s connection.” I’ve found connection through faith, community, advocacy, and purpose. And I’m only just getting started.

I’ve also embraced who I am — and that includes being a hugger. In a world of formal handshakes and distant professionalism, I’m someone who will gently ask, “Is it okay to hug you?” before offering a moment of warmth. I know it breaks the norm, especially in business settings, but I also know the science: hugs can reduce stress, lower cortisol levels, regulate heart rate, and increase oxytocin – the bonding hormone. For someone who has often felt disconnected, touch (when consensual and welcomed) has helped me and others feel safe, grounded, and human. It’s a simple way I bring authenticity and care into every room I walk into.