For just over the first two years of my life, my family felt picture-perfect. My mom, dad, little sister, and I were your typical happy family next door. Then, everything changed. My dad died suddenly in a car accident on his way home from a work event. I was only two years old, and my sister was just six months. Despite her own grief, my incredibly strong mother gave my sister and me the absolute best life she could, raising us with love and resilience that still amazes me today.
Growing up, we attended church regularly. I remember the warmth of the community, but also the sting of feeling different. Every time someone mentioned the Bible verse about “looking after orphans and widows,” my cheeks would flush, and I’d look down. I could feel their kindness, but it often felt like pity—and pity is never what a child needs. Yet that verse planted a seed in me. Even though I didn’t have direct experience with the foster or adoption system as a child, I knew early on that I wanted to be someone who could walk alongside a child when their family was torn apart.
Throughout high school, I would talk to my mom about fostering and adoption. I even tried to convince her that I should become a foster parent in college. Thankfully, I listened when she said I wasn’t ready. After college, I began working with families who had young children, and it was a wake-up call. I saw first-hand the heartbreak when children were removed from their homes. I heard the pain in parents’ voices and saw it in their eyes. Witnessing that struggle ignited a flame that had been quietly burning inside me for years.
In March 2017, I finally started classes to become a foster parent. I walked into the classroom nervous but confident, knowing this was something I had wanted my entire life. I had fears—so many fears—about becoming a foster parent as a single woman, but I was sure of my decision. I finished the classes and, that summer, moved on to the home study process. For those who know, the home study can be more invasive than you imagine, but I persevered. On November 30, 2017, I was officially approved as a foster parent for children ages 0–4, with a room ready and two cribs waiting. That night, I sat on the couch and promised myself that I would always walk alongside families and fight for the best interests of the children in my care.
For the next few months, I waited by my phone. Every ring made my heart race, and every time it was my mom or sister, I’d roll my eyes a little. In December, I received my first placement call—for a 13-year-old boy. I wanted to say yes desperately, but I had nothing ready for a child his age—not even a bed. I paused and reminded myself, “Foster parenting isn’t about me; it’s about the children and their families.” I called the placement worker back and explained that there was a family better equipped for him. Declining my first placement was harder than I imagined, but it strengthened my resolve to always be fully ready for the children I would welcome into my home.
Then, in January 2018, I received a call about a 7-week-old baby girl being discharged from the hospital the next day. I accepted immediately. I rushed home, my sister came over, and together we prepared everything—washing clothes and sheets, setting up the crib, installing the car seat. The next morning, I drove to the hospital, nerves and excitement swirling. At the NICU entrance, the kind nurses guided me on sanitation and safety before walking me to her room. There she was, swaddled tightly, asleep. When the nurse placed her in my arms, she snuggled in and went right back to sleep. That afternoon was filled with feedings, learning medications, and watching every car seat and safe sleep video imaginable.
By 7 p.m., we were ready to go home. I remember closing the car door and gripping the wheel, feeling the weight of responsibility. She was tiny, fragile, and I had to keep her safe. Every cautious turn, every careful mile, I thought of all the movies where parents drive home from the hospital, hearts full of hope and fear. Looking back, it’s a funny memory, but at that moment, I was filled with love and anxiety.
Settling into life at home, we quickly built a routine. I met her father soon after placement. He was incredible—never missing a visit or a doctor’s appointment. We communicated daily, sharing updates and photos. Just over two months later, his dream came true: I got to return her to him at home. I unloaded her things, from diapers to toys, and hugged her tightly one last time. Tears streamed down my face—joy and heartbreak entwined. That moment encapsulated the purpose of foster care: to reunite families safely.
After she went home, I grieved, cleaned, and prepared for the next child. But by the following Tuesday, a placement call came through for two brothers, ages one and two. I accepted without hesitation. I ran to the store to grab snacks, pajamas, and essentials before their arrival. That evening, we played together on the floor, slowly settling into a new rhythm. I remember lying down that night, thinking, “Oh my gosh, what have I done? Two toddlers!” Yet despite the chaos, we bonded quickly. Trauma, appointments, and social worker visits became part of our daily life, but my promise to fight for children and families never wavered.
Initially, their birth family was involved, but soon a relative stepped forward to take them. Plans changed suddenly, and that door closed. My heart ached for the boys, but we kept moving forward. Just shy of two years after their placement, I received the call I had hoped for: I was chosen to adopt them. The emotions were overwhelming—joy, heartbreak, pride, and sorrow all at once. Foster care is full of such contrasts: celebrations born from trauma, victories entwined with pain.
In May 2020, in the midst of a pandemic, I officially adopted the boys. We became a forever family. My promise remained the same: to fight for them, give them everything they need, and pour as much of myself into their lives as I could. A few months later, I closed my foster care license, confident that my focus would be solely on raising them. Together, we thrive, supported by a village of love and care.
Being a single foster and now adoptive mom has been one of the most eye-opening, exhausting, and rewarding experiences of my life. As a little girl, I never imagined parenting on my own, but I wouldn’t change a single moment. Our story is wild, beautiful, and unique. The hurt and pain are real, but so is the love and resilience. I continue learning, listening, and unlearning, striving every day to be the best parent I can be for my boys, honoring the journeys that brought us together.
