We don't know what we don't know, and we can't protect children unless people come forward.
Across Massachusetts, a troubling silence has settled over the systems designed to protect children: as schools close and routines dissolve under pandemic lockdowns, reports of child abuse have fallen by half — not because children are safer, but because the adults trained to notice suffering can no longer see them. The drop from two thousand weekly reports to nine hundred is less a sign of relief than a measure of blindness, a reminder that protection depends not only on harm occurring but on someone being present to witness it. In moments of collective crisis, the most vulnerable often vanish from view precisely when the pressures bearing down on them are greatest.
- Child abuse reports in Massachusetts have plummeted 50% since lockdowns began, but officials fear the silence signals hidden danger, not safety.
- The mandatory reporters who generate 80% of abuse referrals — teachers, doctors, daycare workers — have been cut off from the children they are trained to protect.
- Cases that do reach the system are arriving in worse condition: children hospitalized, parents overdosed, crises that could have been caught earlier now erupting into emergencies.
- Social workers are attempting video home visits and proactive outreach to at-risk families, but screens cannot replicate the intimacy of in-person observation.
- Officials are especially worried about communities — families of color, undocumented households — who may fear that calling for help invites consequences more frightening than the harm they are enduring.
Cokiena Fuller watches the weekly numbers fall and feels no relief. Before schools closed in early March, Massachusetts DCF received around two thousand abuse and neglect reports each week. By mid-April, that figure had dropped to roughly nine hundred. The agency isn't celebrating — it's alarmed.
The decline reflects not a reduction in harm but a collapse in visibility. Eighty percent of abuse reports come from teachers, daycare workers, and doctors — the adults who see children regularly, notice unexplained bruises, and hear disclosures that would never reach a parent's ears. With schools shuttered and routine appointments replaced by telemedicine, those eyes and ears have gone dark. The protective infrastructure has been blindfolded at the moment families face their greatest stress: job loss, financial fear, domestic tension, and for the most fragile households, the compounding weight of addiction and violence.
What does reach DCF now tends to be severe. Rather than early intervention, caseworkers are responding to overdoses and hospitalizations — crises that might have been caught weeks earlier under normal circumstances. Child advocate Maria Mossaides, who operates independently as a watchdog, notes that social workers are adapting as best they can, conducting video visits and reaching out to families already known to the system. But she is most worried about those no one is checking on at all — communities hesitant to engage with government, families who fear that asking for help may bring consequences worse than the harm they are trying to survive.
"We don't know what we don't know," Mossaides said. Officials are urging anyone with a concern to call the state's 211 hotline or contact DCF directly. The question, in a season defined by fear and isolation, is whether anyone will.
Cokiena Fuller sits in her office at the Massachusetts Department of Children and Families, watching the numbers drop week after week, and the worry doesn't leave her. As families shelter in place during the coronavirus pandemic, the calls that used to come in steadily have slowed to a trickle. In early March, before schools shuttered, the agency fielded around two thousand reports of suspected abuse and neglect each week. By mid-April, that number had collapsed to roughly nine hundred—a fifty percent decline in just six weeks.
But Fuller and her colleagues aren't celebrating. They're afraid they're watching a crisis disappear from view rather than disappear altogether. The stresses on families have only intensified: parents juggling remote work, homeschooling, financial uncertainty, and the ambient terror of a pandemic. For families already fragile—those wrestling with substance abuse, domestic violence, poverty—the pressure cooker has only tightened. And now, the people who would normally spot the signs of abuse are locked out.
Eighty percent of abuse and neglect reports come from teachers, daycare workers, and doctors. These are the mandatory reporters, the adults who see children regularly, who notice bruises that don't match explanations, who hear disclosures whispered in hallways or during one-on-one conversations. A child might tell a teacher something they'd never tell a parent. A doctor might catch what a parent tries to hide. But schools are closed. Daycare centers are shuttered. Routine medical appointments have evaporated into telemedicine calls. The eyes and ears of the protective system have been blindfolded.
When cases do come through now, they tend to be worse. Fuller describes a shift in the character of the abuse DCF encounters: instead of early intervention, the agency is called after a parent has overdosed, or a child arrives at the hospital with injuries that demand explanation. The system is no longer catching problems in their infancy. It's responding to crises.
Maria Mossaides, the state's child advocate, operates independently from DCF as a watchdog. She acknowledges that social workers are adapting as best they can, conducting home visits by video when possible, asking questions in new ways, trying to read between the lines of what they can see on a screen. But it's not the same. In-person visits still happen for the most serious cases, and the state is attempting to reach out to families already known to the system, trying to identify needs before they spiral. Yet Mossaides worries about the families no one is checking on at all—communities hesitant to contact government agencies, communities of color, undocumented families who fear that a call for help might bring consequences far worse than the crisis they're trying to escape.
The math is grim. If eighty percent of reports came from teachers and doctors, and those reporters are now absent, then eighty percent of the abuse happening right now is invisible. Fuller thinks about it every day: whether children are eating, whether they're safe, whether the parents with histories of addiction are holding on or unraveling. Mossaides has a simple message for anyone with a concern: call the state's 211 hotline or contact DCF directly. "We don't know what we don't know," she said, "and we can't protect children unless people come forward." The question is whether, in a time of fear and isolation, anyone will.
Notable Quotes
You worry about if they're eating. You worry about if they're in school. The parents who have a significant history of substance abuse, the domestic violence cases. You worry daily about it.— Cokiena Fuller, DCF supervisor
I'm concerned about communities who hesitate to reach out to commonwealth agencies—communities of color, communities that may be undocumented.— Maria Mossaides, state child advocate
The Hearth Conversation Another angle on the story
Why would abuse reports actually drop if abuse itself hasn't decreased? That seems counterintuitive.
Because the people who report abuse can't see it anymore. A teacher notices a pattern of injuries, or a child discloses something in private. A doctor spots signs during a checkup. But if schools are closed and kids aren't seeing doctors in person, those observations never happen. The abuse is still there—it's just hidden.
So the pandemic didn't reduce abuse. It reduced visibility.
Exactly. And it may have made things worse. Families are under enormous stress—job loss, isolation, financial panic. For families already struggling with addiction or domestic violence, that pressure intensifies. The safety valve of school, of time away from home, is gone.
The article mentions that cases that do get reported are more severe. Why would that be?
Because the system isn't catching problems early anymore. It's only seeing the cases that become emergencies—a parent overdoses, a child ends up in the hospital. By then, the damage is already done. Early intervention is impossible if no one's watching.
Who's most at risk of falling through the cracks?
The families already marginalized. Communities of color, undocumented families, people who distrust government agencies. They're less likely to call for help anyway, and now there's no one checking on them either. They're doubly invisible.
What would it take to fix this?
People have to report what they see or suspect. The state is asking anyone with concerns to call. But that requires trust, and it requires people to be willing to get involved. In a time of fear, that's a lot to ask.