My name is Courtney, I’m 27 years old, and after almost nine months, I’m finally about to be re-joined with my two boys. They were taken from me suddenly, without warning, and I had no idea what my rights were. No one obtained services to help reserve my family. One day they were just gone, and my world fell apart.
At first, I was told it was because I wasn’t taking care of my mental health. That was painful enough, but when I finally received the official petition, it accused me of being a fentanyl addict and even said I’d been arrested for possession and selling drugs. I had never been in trouble with the law in my life, not even a parking ticket. I wasn’t an addict, and to see those words in black and white broke me. I still can’t fully process it.
My court-appointed attorney didn’t seem to believe me at first. She treated me like I was just another addict who didn’t care about her kids. She even looked me up to confirm I had no illegal history. But she said the allegations were so strong that there wasn’t much we could do. Family court doesn’t require solid proof, only a “51 percent chance” that something might be true.
I agreed to every drug screen they asked of me. Hair tests, urine tests, observed screenings, I lost count of how many. Every single one came back negative.
Still, they insisted I had a substance abuse problem. My case plan was long: parenting classes, therapy, psychiatric evaluation with medication, substance abuse evaluation and treatment, plus random drug tests at any time.
Parenting classes were supposed to take ten weeks, but after meeting us, the instructor said she was shocked our children had even been removed. She got us approved to do the minimum, and we finished in just over four weeks. Therapy was another hurdle. My therapist only wanted to see me every two months, but I convinced her to let me come in more often so I could move forward with my case plan. Everything felt like a fight, but I wasn’t going to give up.
Eventually, I got approved for medication management and saw a psychiatrist. She listened to my history, my stillborn son in 2018, the depression and anxiety that followed, the medications I’d been on, and the struggle through postpartum after my youngest was born. She, too, couldn’t understand why my children had been removed, but she prescribed medication so I could comply with the plan.
The substance abuse evaluation was almost laughable. I had already done around ten negative screens, and again, my test came back clean. The evaluator said there was no need for further treatment. Finally, even my attorney began to see the truth and started fighting for me.
The hardest part was not knowing where my boys were for almost a month. When I finally got to see them after three weeks, it was supervised, but it was the best day of my life. I didn’t care about the woman typing notes on her computer. All I cared about was holding my kids again.
At the end of that visit, the foster parents asked to meet me. I had been terrified of who they might be, but when they walked in, all of that disappeared. They were kind and genuine, the kind of people I could see myself being friends with. From that moment on, the foster mom and I built a relationship. She emailed me photos of the boys, kept me updated on their milestones, and eventually gave me her phone number so we could text. That simple act meant everything to me.
In February, after completing my case plan, we were granted unverified visits. The foster parents were flexible, often letting me keep the boys longer than the court permission. Slowly, life started to feel a little more normal. On Mother’s Day, the foster mom even offered me an extra visit, sacrificing her own plans so I could have the day with my kids. I cried tears of gratitude. On Father’s Day, I gave the foster dad a gift to show my thankfulness. They had cared for my boys with love, and though I was jealous of the moments I missed, I was never angry, only grateful.
In June, we were finally approved for overnights. Putting my children to bed, making them dinner, even dealing with a untidy house all the things I once took for granted became valuable. Every spare moment mattered, though the anxiety of losing them again never completely left me.
Now, we are set to be rejoined by July 6, 2022. I am counting down the minutes. I am angry this ever happened, but I am grateful it’s almost over. I’ve received therapy, learned patience, and supported my mental health. My boys will continue therapy too, to help them cure from this shock.
If I could give advice to anyone going through this, it would be this: obey, even when it feels one-sided, and keep supporting for yourself and your children. The system may not be on your side, but your resolved matters. I would go through every class, every test, every choice all over again if it meant having my children home.
Because they are my world. And this time, I will never take a single second with them for decided.
