In my junior year of high school, I was woken up in the middle of the night at about four in the morning by two strangers who escorted me to the airport. From there, I was flown from Houston, Texas, to La Verkin, Utah, to a place called Cross Creek Programs, also known as Cross Creek Manor. I was 17 years old at the time and found out that I could legally leave when I was 18, but my birthday felt so far away. I would go on to spend nine months at this behavior modification program, which was a very traumatizing time in my life. My sense of safety and autonomy were ripped away. While I personally didn’t experience any physical restraint or solitary confinement, I saw it happen to others.

What I did have to endure were moments, hours, and days of being put in silence—my words taken away from me. Having my ability to speak stripped away caused more damage than I ever could have imagined. Many of the behavioral modifications, therapies, policies, and rules in the program robbed us of control and autonomy. This loss impacted me long after I left, and it still affects me today. Even as an adult in my 30s, I struggle with the fear of consequences for even the smallest decisions. Of course, there are consequences for certain actions, but I shouldn’t have to live in a constant state of fear—even when making harmless choices.

The long-term effects of the program on my mental health, relationships, and sense of self have been profound.

The program damaged my self-worth and my autonomy and left me with codependent tendencies, always seeking external validation. I fear making decisions, afraid they will disappoint someone, break a rule, or lead to punishment. That ever-present fear has made me hyper-aware as if someone is always watching and judging me, ready to enforce a consequence. It has left me wary of manipulative gaslighting, especially from loved ones, because that’s what I experienced in the program—not only from staff but also from peers who were supposed to guide me.

The program instilled a constant pressure to “make the right choice” or risk being deemed a failure. That belief still lingers within me, and I’m always working to move past it, to silence that voice.

I see an alignment between my experience in the troubled teen industry and the work of the Alliance Against Seclusion and Restraint (AASR). The use of seclusion and restraint in these programs, as well as in schools, contradicts the well-being of the very children they claim to help. Instead of providing support, they inflict trauma—sometimes even leading to deaths. I believe there are compassionate, effective alternatives to these outdated behavioral management approaches. Safer schools and healthier students, teachers, and staff should be the priority, and AASR’s mission reflects that.

The troubled teen industry is riddled with seclusion, restraint, solitary confinement, and physical and sexual abuse.

Desperate parents often send their children to these programs without knowing the horrors that happen behind closed doors. Many teens leave with PTSD and lasting trauma, and in some cases, they never leave at all. Parents often don’t believe their children’s accounts of abuse because the program has already stripped them of their voices.

Looking back at my own teenage years—the summer before my junior year of High School—I can recognize that I was making poor choices. My behavior terrified my mother. When I consider what could have actually helped me back then, I realize how different a compassionate, trauma-informed approach would have been compared to the punitive, restrictive methods I endured. I was raised by a single mother who had her own difficult upbringing, while my father, a drug addict, was in and out of jail for my entire life. My mother feared I was heading down a similar path because of the boys I was dating, the drugs I was using, and my habit of sneaking out.

Of course, I was an angry teenager. I suppressed my feelings. I fell into the wrong crowd. I gave in to peer pressure and became addicted to the drugs that provided an escape. Talking to me at that time wasn’t easy. But I wonder—what if things had been handled differently?

What if there had been conversations rather than coercion? I don’t know the answer, but I think it’s a discussion worth having.

That’s why parents, caregivers, educators, and policymakers need to do their research before considering sending a teen to a behavior modification program. Don’t just trust a glossy website or word-of-mouth recommendations. Look deeper. Investigate lawsuits, abuse claims, and survivor testimonies. Organizations like AASR, We Are Unsilenced, and advocates like Paris Hilton—who is fighting for the Stop Institutional Child Abuse Act (SICAA)—are shining a light on the dark side of these programs. Their work is crucial.

Healing from my experience at Cross Creek has been a long journey. I left in 2007, but it took nearly a decade before I even considered writing about it. As an artist—a writer and actress—I struggled with how to share my story. Choosing to start CBT Therapy has been a godsend. It has helped me recognize the PTSD and trauma that I didn’t even realize were shaping my relationships and decisions. Finding my voice, reclaiming my power, and knowing my worth have been an ongoing process, but I am dedicated to shining a light on these programs. I refuse to let my past weigh me down anymore.

To any survivor reading this, it does get better. You are worthy of love. You are not to blame for what happened to you. No matter who wronged you, it was not your fault.

Public awareness of the troubled teen industry has grown in recent years, thanks in part to celebrities like Paris Hilton speaking out. Her documentary This Is Paris shed light on the abuse she endured at Provo Canyon School, sparking more documentaries like The Program. The more people who share their stories, the harder it becomes for these industries to hide.

The lack of oversight in the troubled teen industry is alarming. There are no unbiased third parties regularly checking in on these children. No one to pull them aside and ask, “Are you okay?” Many children are abused, drugged, and locked away with no way to tell their parents. Calls home are monitored, and any complaints are dismissed as “attempts to manipulate.”

Even parents are left in the dark. They invest thousands of dollars based on deceptive marketing. They aren’t informed of abuse claims or deaths at these facilities. There is little transparency, and that allows these programs to continue thriving. They prey on desperate parents and vulnerable teens, turning them into a lucrative industry.

If there’s one thing I hope to accomplish by sharing my story, it’s to encourage awareness and accountability. We must do better for the next generation. We must ensure that parents have the resources to make informed decisions and that teens receive the support they truly need—without fear, without coercion, and without abuse.