Healing Through Love: Our Foster-to-Adopt Journey

The first time I held her, she was trembling—not just from the cold night air, but from a fear so deep it seemed etched into her bones. Her tiny hands clutched a tattered stuffed rabbit, the only familiar thing in a world that had, once again, been turned upside down. At just five years old, she had already learned that adults were unreliable, that homes were temporary, and that trust was a risk that often led to pain.  

As I knelt to her eye level, my heart hammered in my chest. “Hi sweetheart,” I whispered, forcing a calm I didn’t feel. “My name is Sarah. This is your room now. You’re safe here.”  

Her dark eyes flickered with something between suspicion and exhaustion. She didn’t speak, didn’t nod—just stared, as if waiting for the other shoe to drop.  

That first night, I sat beside her bed long after she finally succumbed to sleep, her breathing uneven, her small fingers still gripping the rabbit like a lifeline. Tears blurred my vision as I traced the faint scars on her arms—marks from a past I could only guess at. “God,” I prayed silently, “how do I love a child who doesn’t believe love exists?” 

Little did I know, this moment was the first step in a journey that would stretch my faith, redefine my understanding of family, and teach me that sometimes, love isn’t about fixing—it’s about showing up, day after day, even when healing feels impossible.  

My husband, Mark, and I had always envisioned a house full of children. We married young, certain that biological kids would come easily. But after three years of infertility treatments, negative pregnancy tests, and a miscarriage that left us hollow, we found ourselves at a crossroads.  

One evening, as I scrolled through social media, a post from a local foster care agency stopped me mid-scroll: “1,200 children in our county are waiting for a safe place to sleep tonight.” The number seared itself into my mind. That Sunday, our pastor preached from James 1:27—“Look after orphans and widows in their distress.”  

Mark turned to me, his eyes glistening. “What if this is our answer?” 

The foster care licensing process was equal parts exhilarating and terrifying. We attended training sessions where seasoned foster parents warned us: “These kids will break your heart. They’ll push you away. They’ll make you question everything you think you know about love.” 

One trainer, a woman who had fostered over 30 children, said something that stuck with me: “You’re not just parenting a child—you’re parenting their trauma. And trauma doesn’t heal on a timeline.” 

After months of home studies, background checks, and emotionally draining interviews, we received our license—and our first placement call just two weeks later.  

The social worker’s voice was brisk over the phone: “Five-year-old female. Removed due to neglect. Needs a temporary placement—likely short-term.”  

When she arrived that night, wearing clothes two sizes too small and carrying nothing but that worn-out rabbit, I realized no amount of training could have prepared me for the reality of holding a child who had learned the world was unsafe.  

• The Battle for Trust: The first six months were a minefield of triggers and setbacks:  
• Food hoarding: We found crackers stuffed under her mattress, rotting fruit hidden in dresser drawers.  
• Night terrors: She would wake screaming, drenched in sweat, unable to recognize us.  
• Testing behaviors: She broke toys, lied compulsively, and once told a teacher, “They’re not my real parents.”  

One particularly brutal evening, after she threw a chair across the room during a meltdown, I locked myself in the bathroom and sobbed. “God, I can’t do this! She deserves better than me!”  

In the stillness, a verse whispered to my spirit: “I can do all things through Christ who strengthens me.” (Philippians 4:13).  

• Slowly, imperceptibly, cracks of light began breaking through:  
• The first time she let me brush her hair without flinching.  
• The day she drew a family picture—with all three of us holding hands.  
• The night she whispered, “Will you sing to me?”—a request so small, yet so monumental.  

But foster care is a pendulum of hope and heartbreak. Just as we dared to believe she might stay forever, the court ordered weekend visits with her birth mother. Watching her leave each Friday, her small face twisted in confusion, was agony.  

Then, the unexpected: her birth mother, through tears, told the judge, “I love her too much to keep failing her.” She voluntarily terminated her rights, choosing her daughter’s stability over her own heartbreak.  

When the social worker called to say, “She’s adoptable,” I collapsed to my knees. This child—the one who had taught me more about love than I’d learned in a lifetime—was going to be ours.  

The courtroom was packed—social workers, our church community, even her kindergarten teacher came to witness the moment she legally became ours. When the judge asked, “Do you understand what’s happening today?” our daughter (now 7) grinned and announced, “I’m getting a forever family!”  

But adoption isn’t a fairy-tale ending—it’s a new chapter in a lifelong healing journey.  

• Therapy: We learned that trauma lives in the body. Play therapy, EMDR, and neurofeedback helped rewire her fear responses.  
• Attachment parenting: We practiced “time-ins” instead of time-outs, connection before correction.  
• Community support: Our church rallied around us—meals, babysitting, and most importantly, prayers.  

Three years in, the child who once couldn’t tolerate touch now climbs into my lap to read stories. The girl who hoarded food helps me bake cookies for neighbors. The scars are still there—but they’re part of her story, not the definition of it.  

If you’re reading this, wondering if you could foster or adopt:  

1. You don’t need superhero qualities—just willingness.  

2. It will be harder than you imagine—but more sacred than you can dream.

3. You will fail sometimes—and grace will meet you there.  

• When the system feels broken, remember: You are the healing in the brokenness.  
• When behaviors overwhelm you, pray: “God, help me see this child as You do.” 
• When reunification hurts, trust: Love isn’t measured in time, but in sacrifice.  

To every child still in the system: You are not forgotten. You are worth fighting for. Your story isn’t over.  

This journey has taught me that love isn’t a feeling—it’s a thousand daily choices to show up, to stay soft in a hard world, to believe in redemption even when progress is invisible.  

“And now these three remain: faith, hope, and love. But the greatest of these is love.” (1 Corinthians 13:13).  

Love doesn’t always fix—but it always transforms. And sometimes, that’s a miracle.