I’ve never considered myself a writer. In fact, as a graphic designer by trade, I’ve always said that I do pictures, not words.
Secretly, this is also because the majority of my family is uncannily gifted at crossword puzzles and I want to avoid the embarrassment of falling far from the apple tree.
Yet now I find myself writing.
It started as an attempt to share our experience in foster care less terribly awkwardly.
For so long, friends or acquaintances asked how it was going and I always seemed to say the wrong thing. Sharing too much or too little. Always with a steady look of constipation.
After a year, things didn’t seem to be getting better. I didn’t seem to be getting better.
I felt more and more isolated as I struggled to share my life and my loves and my heartbreaks with my community.
I wanted and needed to talk about these beautiful babes that were coming in and out of our home. But I wanted and needed to protect their stories more.
Finally, after a dear friend encouraged me to write a book about it, I thought essays might be a good start. To me, that’s what this. Essays more than blog posts.
These are letters to those who want to know why we do foster care. To learn why my eyes are sadder and my smile slower. And to understand why I would never go back.
For me, writing is deeply therapeutic. Allowing me to externally process with a magical delete button. And through it revealing beautiful kids. To me and to others.
I hope it serves as a light on these precious children. Helping us see them better. And love them better. Together.