They didn’t get the family they planned on a board; they built the family meant for them, one brave yes at a time. She holds onto a quiet truth: there’s no perfect way through hard seasons, only your way, with grace close by and people beside you. From the start, she dreamed in lists and Pinterest boards: wedding, nursery, the whole future.
She met her husband on the back line of a restaurant during college, and they wanted the same thing: a family. They did long-distance, got engaged, moved nearly 200 miles, found new jobs, and married in October 2015. A month later, a test turned positive. Their son was born in July 2016; a daughter followed two years later. Motherhood was beautiful and exhausting, just as she’d hoped.
In 2019, she flew to a work conference and heard a former foster youth say, “Every kid is one caring adult away from being a success story.” The line stayed with her. Foster care tugged at her heart, but she told herself it was for someone braver. They hoped for a third baby, then the pandemic hit. Secondary infertility settled in tests, waiting, a medicated cycle that didn’t work. She carried the ache quietly, feeling guilty for wanting more when she already had two children. The constant hoping and disappointment wore her down. She started poking around adoption and foster care, then backed away when the process felt confusing.
In September 2021, another company conference changed that. She listened to a panel of foster parents. One mom’s story matched her life in all the ordinary ways—she had two kids already, the same worries, and peeled back her fears. She texted her husband from the hallway: Maybe they should look into foster care. He was nervous but open. Before they even debriefed, she emailed a local agency. By Monday, they had a call. By October 10, they were signed up for the required nine-week classes. They told their kids, then three and five, over dinner. The questions were simple and sweet; the children seemed to understand more than expected.
Not everyone around them was immediately supportive, and that stung. They reminded themselves that they had signed up for foster care, but their extended family hadn’t. Meanwhile, they continued: Sunday classes, background checks, baby-proofing, fingerprints, vet forms, doctor visits. Just before Christmas, everything was turned in. The final home visit took place on January 25. That afternoon, the license arrived by email. The next day, at 1:04 p.m., a text asked if they would consider a one-year-old boy. Her husband said, “We have to rip the band-aid off sometime, why not now?” The child arrived the following day in a Mickey Mouse shirt.
He tucked his head into her neck like it had always belonged there. They were told the connection can take time; it didn’t for all five of them. They were a family of five overnight. Then came visits with his biological parents. She hadn’t expected how hard those would feel. Leaving him at the door made her cry. A caseworker later texted that the boy cried for her after she walked out. It broke her heart and confirmed what she’d already sensed: these children need adults who attach, not adults who hold back. “Too attached” wasn’t a mistake; it was the point. In June, another little boy stayed the weekend until a long-term home was found. It became their first goodbye. The grief was real for all of them, but so was the peace of knowing he’d been safe and loved while he was there.
Foster care has been a stack of unknowns and emotions, gut-wrenching, extraordinary, ordinary, and holy in uneven measures. Seven years into marriage, love looks like teamwork in the quiet: drop-offs, lunches, bedtime, paperwork, showing up again tomorrow. Infertility still pinches sometimes when a birth announcement pops up, but she’s at peace with the road they’re on. She’s deeply in love with the family they’re raising and grateful for the path that brought them here.
