The recent Philadelphia Inquirer article detailing the heartbreaking death of 2-year-old Su’Layah Williams in a foster home approved by the Philadelphia Department of Human Services (DHS) has stirred a familiar ache in those of us who’ve worked within child protection systems. It’s not just a tragic headline. It’s a devastating failure—one that should never happen.
As someone who has worked inside DHS and later prosecuted some of the most difficult child abuse and sexual assault cases in Philadelphia’s Family Violence and Sexual Assault Unit, I know firsthand how fragile the system can be. I’ve seen it bend under pressure. I’ve seen it break. And I’ve seen the harm that results when children are treated like files instead of human beings.
No child should ever lose their life—or their safety, dignity, or future—because the very system designed to protect them looked the other way.
During my time as a prosecutor, I sat with families after unthinkable loss. I prepared children to testify against the people who hurt them. I saw how trauma lives in the body, in the voice, in the silence. And I saw how institutions—often cautious, slow-moving, or afraid to confront their own failures—can fall short of what survivors need and deserve.
The system’s limitations are no secret. As Councilmember Nina Ahmad recently said during the City Council’s call for hearings on DHS, “Caseworkers are severely overburdened, oversight is inconsistent, and the system has allowed dangerous conditions to persist for far too long.” Her words reflect what so many of us have witnessed firsthand: the cracks that form when frontline workers are unsupported, when oversight fails, and when children fall through the gaps.
That’s why I made the decision to leave public service—not because I stopped believing in the mission, but because I wanted to show up for survivors in a different way. I wanted to create more space to build trust, to offer support beyond the courtroom, and to pursue justice on terms that centered the person, not just the process.
The time I spent as a prosecutor shaped everything about how I practice law today. But stepping into this new role gave me the freedom to focus entirely on the people I serve—to be more present, more flexible, and more intentional in the fight for accountability and healing.
Now, at Anapol Weiss, I represent survivors of child abuse, sexual assault, and institutional negligence —including those harmed in foster care, residential treatment centers, and youth-serving organizations across the country. Our clients come to us at some of the most difficult moments in their lives. Many are unsure if what happened to them counts. Many don’t even know if they’re allowed to speak up. My job is to make sure they know they are not alone, they are not to blame, and they do have legal options.
We bring a trauma-informed approach to every case. That means we listen. We believe. We protect. And we fight.
Whether we’re litigating against a negligent foster agency, holding a residential program accountable for abuse, or confronting a public institution that failed to protect a child—we do so with deep respect for what our clients have endured. Their pain is real. So is their power.
If you or someone you love has been harmed in foster care or by any institution that was supposed to protect you and didn’t—please know this:
You are not alone.
There is a path forward.
And we’re here to walk that journey with you.