We all meet people who unknowingly change our lives. Sometimes it’s a teacher, a coach or a neighbour. It’s someone who says or does something small that leaves a huge mark. For me, that person showed up 18 years ago.
I didn’t know it at the time, but my very first Child Safety Officer would end up shaping the course of my life. I’m calling him Woody. It’s not his real name, but it stuck because of the day we met.
He looked exactly like Woody from Toy Story. Tall, lanky, white and baby blue collared shirt, dark jeans and brown shoes. I remember looking at him with my little Toy Story doll in my hands and blurting out, “You look like Woody!” Instead of brushing it off or correcting me, he laughed.
Then he bent down, took the tiny cowboy hat from my toy, and plopped it on his head. “Well, howdy partner,” he said, and just like that, we were in Toy Story world. We spent the afternoon playing, pretending, and for a moment, all the heavy stuff disappeared. I wasn’t a scared kid navigating the confusing world of care, I was just me, and Woody was just my mate. That was the beginning. What followed were weeks, months, and eventually years of consistent care. Woody never missed a visit. Never forgot to ask how I was. Never minded when I didn’t feel like talking. If I wanted to just sit and play, that’s what we did.
If I needed a hug, he gave me one without hesitation. He didn’t rush me or push for answers. He met me where I was at.
It was all the little things he did that built the trust. Things like remembering what I was learning at school. Or making time to meet me at the park, instead of the Child Safety office. Or learning the names of my toys and playing with them like they actually mattered. But more than anything, Woody listened. Not the kind of listening where someone is just waiting for their turn to speak, he really listened. He made space for me. He made me feel like my thoughts and feelings mattered, even when I didn’t know how to say them out loud.
Looking back now, I know just how rare that kind of connection can be. I know how lucky I was to have had someone like Woody during such a confusing, unstable time in my life. Someone who didn’t just do their job but showed up. He showed up emotionally, consistently, and with so much heart. And now, all these years later, I’ve found myself on the other side of that story. I’ve become a Child and Youth Advocate. Because of Woody. Because of everything he taught me, not through lectures or lessons, but through the way he treated me. I want to be someone’s Woody. I want to be that person who sees beyond the behaviour, who understands that sometimes silence means more than words.
I want to be the one who listens, who shows up, who builds trust, and who never underestimates the power of play, patience and presence. I want to meet kids where they’re at, not where I want them to be. To hear them, not just speak for them. To notice their little quirks and personalities. To support their individual needs, not just tick boxes.
And maybe, hopefully, one day, someone will think back and remember me the way I remember Woody.
Not as someone who fixed everything, but as someone who stood beside them when things were messy. Someone who believed in them, even when they didn’t believe in themselves. Everyone deserves a Woody. And I’ll keep showing up, day after day, doing my best to be that person for someone else. Because I know just how much of a difference it can make.
