04/25/2026
I have sat in those courtrooms.
Holding my breath.
Trying not to cry.
Walking out like I am fine when I am not.
I have held babies after visits that broke something in them.
Whispering comfort I cannot promise will last.
And somewhere in all of it, there is this unspoken expectation.
Stay quiet.
Stay strong.
Do not make this about you.
Because I chose this, right?
I knew what foster care was.
I am just the in between.
Not the “real” mom.
Not the one the case is about.
So when I say I am hurting
When I say I am overwhelmed
When I cannot even put words to the grief I feel
You can feel the shift.
The looks.
The silence.
The pressure to pull it together and keep going.
But let me say this clearly.
Foster parents are not robots.
We are people.
We love these kids with everything in us, knowing full well it might wreck us.
We hold them when they fall apart.
We carry stories we cannot share.
We build bonds we might be asked to break.
Yes, we are strong.
But strong does not mean numb.
It does not mean unaffected.
It does not mean we do not feel it.
This kind of love costs something.
And pretending it does not only leaves us carrying it alone.
We are not saviors.
We are not here for applause.
We are the safe place.
The steady arms.
The ones showing up in the middle of the night and the middle of the mess.
And when we love them, we love them fully.
Even if it means letting them go.
So if you are a foster parent and you feel unseen in this
If you have been made to feel like your emotions are too much
If you have questioned whether your grief even counts
It does.
Your tears matter.
Your heartbreak matters.
Not because it changes the outcome
but because it changes you
And how you are supported matters for the child you are loving.
Jesus sees it all.
The quiet tears.
The moments no one else notices.
The weight you carry without saying a word.
You are not too emotional.
You are not too much.
You are not alone.
This is holy work.
And your heart was never meant to be silent.