In November of 2013, life felt settled and good. I was a photographer, a wife, and a mom to two wonderful boys, one grown, one just starting his teenage years. Then one ordinary day, the phone rang, and everything changed.
It was a social worker from Lee County, Virginia. She told me my niece’s six-week-old baby had been placed in foster care. His name was Grayson. She went on to explain that I was the only blood relative who could possibly take him.
Then came the part that made my stomach twist Grayson had been born addicted to drugs and had spent the first month of his tiny life in the hospital, being weaned off them. I held him tightly, heart racing.
I hung up the phone shaken. The idea of taking in a newborn felt overwhelming, but my heart already knew the answer. Still, I talked it over with my husband, Tony, and both of our boys. I prayed about it, and together we agreed we would do whatever it took to bring Grayson home.
It turned out that “whatever it took” was a lot. Since Grayson was in Virginia’s custody and we lived in Kentucky, his case was labeled an ICPC an Interstate Compact for the Placement of a Child. That meant two social workers, two states, and mountains of paperwork.
We had to complete foster-parent training, home studies, physicals, interviews, and written references. They even asked us to describe the “culture of our family of origin.” Every part of our lives was dissected. It was, without a doubt, the most invasive process I’ve ever been through. I felt exposed, vulnerable, completely overwhelmed.
At one point, an attorney named Julie Hensley, Grayson’s Guardian ad Litem, called to schedule a home visit. I told her she realized it was a four-to-five-hour drive, right? She said yes and came anyway. When she arrived, I finally felt like someone was being honest with me. She looked me straight in the eye and asked if I was “in it for the long haul.”
I was confused. We’d been told the plan was for Grayson to eventually return to his mother. But Julie said quietly, “If you take him, you’ll be keeping him.” That changed everything. We sat as a family and talked, prayed, and cried. And then we decided we were still in.
On June 22, 2014, we drove to the Lee County Courthouse and came home with an eight-month-old baby we had never met. The moment they placed him in my arms, I realized nothing could have prepared me for that kind of love or fear. Grayson had Neonatal Abstinence Syndrome. He wouldn’t eat or sleep, and every day was a challenge. But we learned quickly that early intervention would make all the difference. With therapy, patient teachers, and the most incredible support system, he began to thrive.
Three years later, in March 2017, our adoption was finalized. The official Order arrived in the mail on a Saturday morning, without fanfare or courthouse photos, but it didn’t matter we were finally, legally, and forever his family.
Now, seven years later, Grayson is a happy, bright, kind-hearted boy who never meets a stranger. He knows he was adopted and that he “grew in another mommy’s belly,” but he also knows that he was loved from the very start. He doesn’t yet understand the full story, and that’s okay someday, when he’s ready, we’ll tell him everything.
Today, our home is full three sons, ages 30, 18, and 7. Some days are chaos, some are hilarious, and some are just plain hard, but every single one is a gift. We closed our foster home after adopting Grayson; his needs keep us plenty busy. Still, I’d encourage anyone who’s considering adoption from foster care to take that leap.
There are so many children waiting, and the process, while long and exhausting, is worth every moment. You’ll find love beyond imagination.
Grayson didn’t just change our family, he completed it.
