Uncomfortable.

Uncomfortable.


From our very first placement to our most recent, foster care has prodded, pushed, and sometimes even dragged me.

I’m not quite sure where I am now.

But I can look back and see more clearly where I was and all that I was missing.

As they say, ignorance is bliss.

And I was dreadfully ignorant of so much. Of my privilege. Of the pain around me. Of the people beside me.

I still don’t get it. I’m not there.

But I’m taking baby steps. Toddling forward and falling down again and again. Shaking off a bit of naivete with every step. And misstep.

Slowly I’m learning how to walk with the pain. In the discomfort. Enduring, not fixing.

How to be comfortable being uncomfortable.

Because the bandaids and bows don’t help trauma. And saying it’s okay doesn’t make it okay.

Even letting it not be okay. Giving trauma the time and space it needs to work through. Still won’t make it okay.

In the end okay doesn’t need to be the goal. Maybe none of us should really be okay.

Today, with children being taken from mamas at borders, as uncomfortable and heartbroken as I am. I’m still far too comfortable. Too okay.