June 12, 2025

To whom it may concern,

My name is Anna, and I am a first-time mom to the sweetest little girl you could ever imagine. I’m writing this letter not just as a mother, but as a survivor—of the system, of abandonment, of trauma—and as someone who has found something I never thought I’d have: support. And I found that through the Nurse-Family Partnership, through my nurse, Hannah.

I grew up in foster care. From a little girl to a 17-year-old teenager, I moved from place to place, from person to person. I learned early on that people don’t stay. They leave. They find better jobs. They move. Or worse, they just stop caring. So I stopped expecting anyone to show up for me. And when I became a single mother with drug-addicted parents and absolutely no support system, I thought I had to face it all alone—until Hannah.

Hannah has been more than just a nurse. She’s been the only consistent person in my life. When I expected her to give up on me, like everyone else has, she didn’t. When I pushed her away because I was scared she’d leave, she stayed. When I cried, she didn’t look away. She sat with me. She heard me. She cared. She never once made me feel like a burden. She reminded me I was human. That I was worthy of help. That I wasn’t alone.

When I found out my daughter has a genetic condition, my world fell apart—and Hannah was the only one who helped me hold it together. She let me break. She didn’t rush me to be strong. When I had rough days at work and felt like I couldn’t go on, she became my therapist. When postpartum depression swallowed me, she made sure I wasn’t swallowed whole. On the nights I couldn’t sleep—night after night—Hannah was the only one who checked in. The only one who saw me.

She gave me peace when my life was chaos. She gave me a sense of safety when I had never known what that felt like. She became the village I thought I’d never have.

Now I’m hearing that this program—this lifeline—might be taken away. And it feels like someone is about to pull the ground out from under me.

Yes, there may be other programs. But are there other Hannahs? Are there people who will understand what it means to be abandoned over and over again and still show up with compassion? Will they sit with a mother through her darkest moments, not out of obligation, but out of genuine care? Or will they leave, too?

Please, please reconsider any decision to take this program away. Because this isn’t just about funding. It’s about lives. About first-time moms like me, who have no one else. About our mental health, our healing, our children’s futures. Taking this program away isn’t just a cut—it’s a wound. A wound that will reopen for every mother who finally felt seen, only to be reminded that people—and systems—still walk away.

I am begging you: don’t let us fall through the cracks again. Don’t take away the one steady light some of us have ever known. Think of the other Annas out there. Think of their babies. Think of what a difference just one person can make in a life that has known nothing but instability.

We need this program. I need this program. And we need our Hannahs.

With all my heart,

Anna