Hi. My name is Alex Wiseman. I’m 19 years old, and what I carry with me every day isn’t just trauma and bruises—it’s a story of survival, heartbreak, and unshakable faith. To understand who I am, you have to go back to the beginning—back to a world I didn’t choose, a life that began in darkness. I was conceived as part of a drug deal, a child born into chaos, carrying six different abnormalities at birth. But the greatest battle wasn’t with my body—it was with the wounds you can’t see. My dad was my first glimpse of love, a kind soul slowly swallowed by addiction. When he took his own life, he left behind silence—and a mother who turned pain into violence. Her cruelty wasn’t always visible, but it was constant. And after my little sister Brooke was born, things spiraled further until rock bottom wasn’t a moment—it was a memory burned into our skin.

When I was four, our bodies gave out before our hope did. Starved and forgotten, my sister and I spent four days in a hospital bed, hooked up to IVs just to look alive again. That’s when the system stepped in, pulling us into a new kind of uncertainty: foster homes. Six different houses, six different beds. Some cold, some cruel, none ever felt like home. But even when I felt invisible, I never felt alone. There was a presence in my life that no one could take from me—God. In every lonely night, every breakdown, every unanswered question, I found answers not in silence, but in prayer. I never asked for much—just enough. And somehow, even in the emptiest places, He gave me what I needed to keep going. Not comfort, not ease—but strength. The strength to bend, never break. To pray when I was hungry, to worship when I was lost. That kind of faith doesn’t grow in perfect soil—it’s born in the cracks of broken places.

Now I stand here, a young man shaped by trauma but rooted in purpose. I carry diagnoses like PTSD not as a label, but as proof that I’ve survived what others wouldn’t have. I was homeless, relying on friends, hotels, and the kindness of those willing to care. But I’m not hopeless. I believe with every part of me that God is still writing my story—and the stories of countless other foster children. However, so many foster kids, like myself, have been neglected, abandoned, and forgotten by the very system supposed to protect us. In light of this, I decided I wasn’t just going to sit back. I have decided to dedicate my life to advocating for opportunity, support, and advocacy for those who have experienced foster care. I created The Open Door Project to accomplish just this. I believe every child’s voice deserves to be heard. With The Open Door Project, we will constantly push for urgent policy reform within the foster care system.