Taylor and I live the lives of overworked, stressed-out, and completely exhausted 50-year-olds—even though we’re still in our 20s. We watch our friends travel the world, party on weekends, or just begin their little families, and sometimes my heart aches. Sometimes I wish I could go back to a simpler time. I’m only 26, but my mind and body feel so much older than that.
When we decided to foster, we knew there would be sacrifices. We knew we’d be giving up time, money, and pieces of our young adulthood. And I won’t sugarcoat it—sometimes it’s far harder than I ever imagined. That’s the honest, raw truth.
Fostering is hard. It’s exhausting in ways I didn’t know were possible. I struggle constantly to find balance between everything I’m trying to be and do. It can feel overwhelming, like I’m always running on empty.
But at the end of the day, when I ask myself if it’s worth it, the answer is always yes. Without hesitation. Those hugs, the snuggles, the tears soaked into your lap, the emotional breakdowns—they’re how these kids survive and cope. I can’t even begin to understand the pain and confusion they carry. And if I can be there for even one child, if I can change just one life, then every single second is worth it.
I guess I should start from the beginning.
When we decided to have children, it wasn’t easy like we hoped it would be. We tried for a long time with no real hope that we’d ever become parents. Years were spent on medications, treatments, invasive procedures—everything we were told might help. We were exhausted and overwhelmed, and it took a real toll on our marriage. When you get married, it’s easy to picture a family. But when that dream doesn’t come, it hurts deeply. And the reason we couldn’t have kids was because of me. My body didn’t work the way it was supposed to, not his. I didn’t understand why, as a woman, I couldn’t do the one thing I thought I was meant to do. It was a painful struggle, but somehow we came out stronger together.
Adoption wasn’t financially possible for us, but every part of me ached to be a mom—to love a child. We knew we had to do something. So we decided to start the foster care process. Whether adoption would ever be an option or not, I knew I needed children in my home, even if only for a little while. We had so much love to give. And then, just as we were finishing the process, I got pregnant. I took 14 tests because I couldn’t believe it. Of course, right? That’s how it always happens. So we put fostering on hold for a bit.
Once our baby was six months old, we felt it was time to jump back in. We thought we were ready—though I don’t think anyone ever truly is. Trauma doesn’t pause. Healing doesn’t take breaks. And it doesn’t get easier when a child still aches for their mom, even after a great day with you. Fostering is mentally, physically, and emotionally exhausting in ways I never anticipated. Between therapy, counseling, and visits with biological parents, emotions are constantly running high.
People warned us. They shared horror stories and questioned our decision. Some even told me I wouldn’t be able to love foster children like my own—that loving biological children more was just “in your DNA.” Those words broke my heart. Why should love have limits? Children are children, whether they’re biological, adopted, or fostered. None is better than the other. Your heart grows in ways you never expect. And yes, there were days it felt like I was babysitting someone else’s kids. Nothing magically falls into place. It takes time.
Our first little guy stayed with us for about a year. At first, everything felt awkward. We were all trying to figure out a new normal. He was confused, and I was terrified because I had no idea what I was doing. We had a six-month-old baby and suddenly an emotional five-year-old, and I felt completely unprepared. We learned as we went.
He became the perfect addition to our family—funny, quirky, and full of personality. He picked up our humor and fit right in. And then, on Christmas Eve, he went home to his mom. We haven’t heard from him since. All I can do is hope the judge made the right decision and pray every single day for that little boy.
After that, I was done. Done fostering. I was emotionally drained and deeply depressed. I couldn’t even walk into his room without breaking down. I didn’t think I could survive that pain again. Days turned into weeks, weeks into months—until we got a call asking us to do respite care.
We agreed to take two kids—a six-year-old boy and a four-year-old girl—for just one weekend. Their foster family needed to travel. And wow… that weekend was something. They were emotional, picky, and refused to eat anything but pizza. It was the longest weekend of my life. Then I learned they’d been moved through four families in six months. No wonder they struggled. They didn’t know what normal was. Any adult could be mom or dad, but it didn’t really mean anything.
Months later, they’re still with us. And it’s been a ride. Some days are beautiful. Some days are really, really hard. But we’re doing the best we can. And sometimes, that’s exactly what they need—someone who shows up, teaches them how to love, how to be kind, how to be good humans.
There wasn’t one single moment that bonded us. But about a month in, we were all playing games on the floor, laughing so hard. I looked around and thought, This is my family. Scooter rides, trampoline jumps, kitchen dance parties—we became a normal family.
We love these kids as our own and will adopt if and when the time comes. It’s been a journey that’s forced us to think differently and love deeper. But this is us. This is our family.
