Waiting

What if we stopped calling it foster care and started calling it what it really is?

Waiting.

Waiting for someone to show up.

Waiting for a social worker to return the call.

Waiting for a parent to change.

Waiting for court to make a decision.

Meanwhile, the child waits too.

In a stranger’s home. In a borrowed bed.

Trying to make sense of a life flipped upside down.

We say things like “they are doing their best.”

But the truth is, they are slow to move plans forward and quick to forget.

Quick to forget that every delay has a face.

Every extension has a name.

Every “ give them one more chance” is a child holding their breath. Again.

You know who isn’t waiting?

The adults making the choices.

They’re not waiting for consequences.

They’re not waiting for comfort.

But the child?

The child waits.

And waits.

And waits.

And foster parents?

We carry the weight of that wait.

We hold children while they fall apart.

We pretend to be fine when our hearts are splitting in half.

We celebrate small wins with tears in our eyes—because sometimes small wins still hurts like hell.

So no. It’s not just foster care.

It’s a war zone of love and loss and letting go.

And if you’re in the thick of it, raw and undone—you’re not weak. You’re wide awake.

You’re the one who stayed.