Five years ago today, it was finalized.

After five relentless years of courtroom proceedings,

of counselors digging through trauma,

of social workers changing like the seasons,

of lawyers speaking on behalf of children too young to speak for themselves.

Five years of being in the courthouse more than I was in my own home.

And on this day, five years ago—I finally walked into court not with fear, but with fire.

I didn’t know what peace would feel like. But I was ready to find out.

Fostering isn’t for the faint of heart.

People love to say how noble it is, how brave foster parents must be.

But the truth is far more complicated than the glossy headlines and the well-meaning thank-yous.

Because these are kids from another mother.

Kids who didn’t ask for you to step up.

They’re pulled in every direction—tugged by trauma, by loyalty, by survival.

And while everyone rightfully focuses on the children’s needs,

very few talk about what it does to you as the foster parent.

The invisible toll it takes.

The way their scars become part of your story.

The way you learn to flinch at words like “visitation,” “reunification,” and “termination”—

because you’ve seen firsthand how systems can fail, stall, or shatter someone you love.

No manual prepares you for this.

You’re trained to make safety plans and follow guidelines.

But there’s no training for:

• The look in their eyes when they call someone else “Mom.”
• The nights they cry for someone who never showed up.
• The guilt you carry when you start to feel like they’re yours,
  knowing at any moment, someone could say otherwise.

And there’s definitely no training for what it does to your own heart.

You give everything—and still feel like it’s never enough.

You advocate, attend meetings, juggle appointments, deal with caseworkers, and somehow manage the emotional wreckage quietly at home.

It’s not just parenting.

It’s parenting inside a storm you didn’t create,

with rules that shift like sand beneath your feet.

They told me it would be hard.

They didn’t tell me it would change me.

That I’d never look at birthdays the same again,

because I’d remember the one we celebrated with a cake no one came to eat.

That I’d never look at school pickup the same,

because I remember when their mom showed up high—and I had to explain why they couldn’t go home with her.

That I’d never feel fully relaxed again,

because part of me is always braced for the next call, the next crisis, the next goodbye.

And yet… we keep showing up.

Because love isn’t about biology. It’s about presence.

It’s about holding space when they rage.

It’s about being the calm in their chaos.

It’s about showing them—over and over again—that they matter.

That they are more than their file.

More than the trauma.

More than the broken promises left behind.

Five years ago today, it all became final.

The paperwork ended.

But the journey—the healing, the learning, the loving—continues.

If I could go back and tell that version of me anything,

I’d tell her she’s not crazy. She’s just exhausted.

I’d tell her she’s not failing. She’s fighting—for someone who may never say thank you, but will always carry a piece of her love.

And I’d tell her this:

You’re not alone.

And what you’re doing matters more than you know.

To every foster parent in the thick of it:

I see you.

I was you.

And I promise—your love leaves a legacy, even if no one ever puts it in writing