Finding My Identity
I grew up in a small town just outside Savannah, Georgia, in a family that is loud, loves fiercely, and has always been my greatest support system. Looking back now, as a foster mom myself, I can see just how incredibly blessed I was to grow up with such stability, love, and encouragement.
From a young age, my heart was pulled in many directions—different hobbies, passions, and dreams—and my parents gave me the space to explore them all. Over time, though, two things stuck: sports and music. My mom says I’ve been singing since I could talk, and if you were to flip through my pre-teen songwriting journals, you’d probably laugh at my early attempts. Music became my safe place, a constant friend through childhood. On the other hand, softball became a second home. Countless hours were spent in batting cages with my dad, tears over blisters, strange tan lines, and late afternoons on the field. That dedication eventually earned me a college softball scholarship to Thomas University in Thomasville, Georgia.
Shortly after moving away from home for the first time, I was swept up in the college party scene, and slowly, my priorities shifted. It hit me that so much of my identity had been wrapped up in being “the athletic singer girl.” I loved the applause, the rush of hitting a home run, and seeing the stands erupt. I lived for my own glory. But during my sophomore year, everything changed when I suffered a major injury at practice. Two knee surgeries later, my athletic career came to an abrupt end. During those months of recovery, someone invited me to a local church. I hesitated—I had strayed from my faith since leaving home, even though I grew up in church and with parents who taught me about God daily. Somehow, though, I agreed to go.
That little Southern Baptist church reawakened something in me. I realized my identity had been tied to the temporary things of this world, which explained the emptiness and constant searching I had felt. What I had been missing all along was Jesus. In 2012, I surrendered my life to Him and began a relationship that has fulfilled me more than anything this world could ever offer. Do I still have hard days? Of course. But my hope is anchored in a God who cannot be moved, and that changes everything.
Around this time, I began leading worship at my church while also finishing my Bachelor’s in Marketing. I crossed paths with the owner of a local adoption agency—she happened to be hiring a Marketing Coordinator. I’m forever grateful for that role because it opened my eyes to the critical need for foster parents. I poured over foster care statistics, spoke with DFCS workers, and learned about ministries striving to raise awareness. It planted a seed in my heart, and I prayed for a husband who would share that same passion for vulnerable children.
Enter JR Benton. He was a skateboarding, guitar-playing, Bible-thumping guy whose smile could warm anyone’s heart. Every lady in Thomasville knew “JR Benton,” but somehow, we became friends first. Eventually, I forced him to ask me out—I basically gave him an ultimatum. Our first date was a picnic, and over time, friendship blossomed into a deep love. Six years of marriage later, I’m so grateful God made me a sassy Southern woman—otherwise, JR might have never asked me out!
After our first year of marriage, I brought up foster care. His initial reaction was no. He didn’t feel ready and feared getting too attached to children only to face heartbreak. I understood, and I stopped asking, choosing instead to pray that God would break both of our hearts for what breaks His. About a month later, JR told me he was ready to call DFCS and begin the licensing process.
The statistics shocked us: over 300 Christian churches in our area, but fewer than 80 open foster homes. The gap between what we profess on Sundays and how we live it out during the week was staggering. Our licensing process took about a year. The day after approval, our caseworker called with a request: could we take in two little boys? Nervously, we said yes. The next day, they arrived. I had never felt more scared yet committed in my entire life. I knew these boys would teach us far more than we could ever teach them.
We fostered our first two little bear cubs for just over a year. That time came with tears—both theirs and mine—sleepless nights, and navigating unresolved traumas. But it also brought laughter, joy, and watching shy little boys grow into confident young men. Every moment, even the hard ones, was worth it.
Foster care also taught me about reunification. It’s hard work, and as a foster parent, you are trained to support birth families while ensuring the child’s safety. I struggled during our first year with judgment toward the boys’ parents. I wish someone had told me: birth parents are not monsters. They are broken humans, navigating grief, addiction, and past trauma, often trying to find their way. I wish I had extended more grace. Not condoning neglect or abuse, but realizing that love, patience, and support can transform lives—both for the children and their parents.
Today, we are fostering two little ones who have been with us for a year. I still stumble, but His mercies are new every morning. I’m thankful for the experiences that have shaped me, taught me to extend grace, and helped me love their birth mom better. Every child deserves a loving home—could you open your heart and home to a child?
