The end of the road...

"Tedi Ellis is no longer with our agency," was the email that was sent out two days after I resigned from my position as a caseworker. In the days that followed, I laid silently on my couch, eating cereal from the box and watching endless reruns of grey's anatomy and Netflix originals. If I was to be completely honest, there was very little that my resignation had to do with me. It was not, by a long shot, my choice. 

I promised myself in the days that followed that I would never talk bad about the agency, as the root of that agency surrounded bettering the lives of children. They deserved more than the little I could say. I also promised myself that while I felt hurt by some of the people I had trusted for the last 11 months and spent countless hours working beside, I would not spend my energy hating them or trying to destroy their work. There was, even in the midst of all the hurt, freedom in that choice. I promised myself that I would not allow the hurt I felt and the "what ifs" to follow me. I promised myself that I would choose to allow the last year of my life to be used for good, to not allow my words to ruin the friendships I created and the work I dedicated the last year of my life to. So I stayed silent. I think though, to a certain extent, there was also freedom in that choice. 

When I was a student in college, I knew Social Work wasn't for me. I knew journalism wasn't for me, either. Same for psychology, sociology, law school, marketing... and on the search to find a path for myself, I even took a small detour through med school, where I literally lasted a conversation and a tour through the hospital, before I knew that wasn't for me either. I had to make Social Work "work" for me. So I did. I think there is a line, in both directions, when it comes to being successful in a career. If you care too little, you won't be successful... but on the other side of that, if you care too much, you won't be either. In this case, I fell on the later, where I found myself forcing myself to give up, to stop caring, to shutting it all off, just to survive and make it through the day. I mean it when I say that I needed a nap, every single day I got off, to transition from the weight of the work back to my own personal life. I cared too much. I cried daily, my heart broken to the hurt and grief these children I worked with experienced every single day. 

This period of my life, this chapter of my life, was closed before I wanted it to be and the last three months have taught me, that that's okay. I laugh more than I did. I see my family more than I did. I dream more, plan ahead more, make time for the important things, I pray more. I play and chase my puppies around more. I take more pictures, I watch more movies, and I smile more. I go to church more. I lay in my bed more, I sleep more, and I honestly mean it when I say that I just feel more like Ted. Mentally, I am just more. 

I am happier. 

I wanted to make a difference in the world... and I wanted to do that for foster children and I thought that being a caseworker was my calling, but it wasn't. My calling in life got buried under paperwork, missed calls and voicemails, court dates, and meetings, and I lost myself. I lost what I wanted in life and what I wanted to accomplish and I realized that I wasn't making a difference at all. I lost the last year. 

And that's okay. 

Three days after the last day I worked as a caseworker, I got out of bed, showered for the first time in three days, poured a bowl of cereal, and I walked into a new job (an old job) and I knew that I was exactly where I was supposed to be. It felt like home. It felt like Ted, the old one that I had spent the last year trying to find. It was right. It was what I needed. It was healing. 

When I was a kid, I spent every summer at my grandma's condo with my brother and sister while our parent's worked. Every day of the summer, after lunch, we would go swimming. We would play for hours. One thing I always did was jump in with my sister and we would try to swim the whole length of the pool under water, trying so hard to get to the other side before coming up for air. I could never do it, but there was this moment when I would push myself past my limit and I would have no choice but to swim like hell to try to get to the surface to keep my lungs from exploding, and then I would take this big deep breath of air... and in seconds, everything was fine. 

That's what walking back into Tiger Bounce was for me. 

It was the breath of fresh air that I needed after trying so hard to make it in a field that wasn't for me. I didn't know everything I know now, then. But I knew I was where I was supposed to be. I can't explain it, but it was just good. 

And in a little more than a week, I'll be the new owner of Tiger Bounce, official January 1st... a complete and utter blessing, a gift I did not deserve, and a beginning I didn't see coming. As this new chapter begins for me, I am blown away by the grace of God and the kindness of others. 

In 3 months, I have been broken and shattered and destroyed... I have felt hurt, I have grieved for a life I won't have and broken dreams scattered all over the place. I have been at my lowest... completely unsure of where to turn. But God has taken all of that, all of that brokenness, everything that I lost, and He has created this hope and these dreams and this beginning for me that I never imagined was possible. 

Thanks to everyone who has stayed a part of my life through the last decade, as I have failed more times than I can count, but who have supported me endlessly and remain my motivation for everything. I am so thankful for the friends I have made over the last year and the people I have worked alongside and I hope and pray that the friendships I created in the Social Work field will continue as I transition from social worker to business owner. 

I never thought I would say anything close to this, but I am so thankful September happened and I am so thankful that January 1st is right around the corner. 

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Let her hate me, I can handle it.

When I first decided I wanted to study social work, I sat down in front of an advisor and said, "Well... the only thing I'm really good at is talking." Looking back on that conversation, I still laugh because I had exhausted every option when it came to a future career and I had no interest in becoming something I wasn't. She looked at me oddly and while holding back a smile, she said, "Well... social work is more of a 'listening' job."

I nodded. I would just learn to listen, then.

Those first few weeks slowly turned into months as I learned to shut my mouth and open my ears to the stories of the lives of real people inside case studies, and then those months turned into finished semesters and then years went on, and finally after nearly six years of being in college, I graduated with my Master's in Social Work. My life was finished, over, done... everything from then on out was supposed to be a downhill race. 

I started my first real, big girl job at the beginning of November, last year. Whenever someone asks me about how long I've been with Children's Division, I pull out my fingers and count, "November, December, January, February, March, April, May, June, July, August... 10 months." I've been adulting now in a real job for 10 months, two whole hands worth of time, where the things I say and the things I do have an actual impact on real people and their lives. I don't know if I somehow skipped over this reality of social work while I was in school, however, lately the weight of truly messing up someone's life has left me feeling overwhelmed and unprepared and anxious.

What if I say the wrong thing? What if I make a choice and a child gets hurt or a family is destroyed... or what if in 10 years, some kid sits in front of his therapist saying, "Well... it all started when this lady came and took me away from my parents," or what if I just simply fall on my face and fail? What if I become the person a child hates or a family begins to see as an enemy? What if what I am asking a family to complete would be impossible for me to do myself? What if the very thing I studied for my entire adult life turns out to be just something else I'm not good at?

These are the thoughts that run through my mind every single day. Every single day. I know for a fact, that while I never truly understood "burnout" prior to working at Children's Division, these are the thoughts and these are the feelings that are more emotionally exhausting and mentally draining than anything else about my job. It's the feeling, the contest nagging thought, that every decision I make could forever impact someone else. For me, that's almost debilitating and more days than not, it sends me wanting to run out the door and never come back. 

In the last 10 months, I have met some of the most courageous people, which despite everything going wrong in their lives, continue to still show up and put a smile on their face and attempt to do what is best for their children. I have seen drug addicts become sober, children become stronger, and grandparents start all over and choose to raise children that they shouldn't have to. I have seen families make sacrifices, parents give up addictions, pride set aside, and in the toughest of all situations, I have seen parents choose to be selfless to willingly allow their child to be adopted in a home with a family that can love and support and parent in ways they just aren't able to. I've seen it. I've watched as a system, a completely broken system, work together to reunite families and to make the lives of children better. 

I sat on the floor with a kiddo the other day in her foster home and talked with her about the good things that she was doing and focused all my energy on making sure she knew how much progress she had made. However, about 10 to 15 minutes in, she looked at me and said, "Okay... you can tell me the bad now." When you grow up in the foster care system, you realize that it's a roller coaster. It's 15 minutes of good things and then as always, the bad follows. In that moment, I hated that I had to tell her that her family had to continue to be separated and the thing that she wanted more than anything, for her family to be back together again, would likely never happen. I had to hold her as she cried for her mother who is fighting an addiction that is much stronger than the will of a seven year old to go home... and every day, even though I do see a lot of good, I see a lot of heartbreak. 

If I have learned anything since last November, it is that social work is hard. Plain and simple. My job is hard. However, when I take a step back and look at the lives of those I work with, I realize that the job of the person sitting across from me, who I am trying to help, is harder. My job is nothing compared to that of a child fighting to go home or a mother fighting demons or a father fighting to keep a job and provide for his kids. My job is hard, but most days, it doesn't compare to the job the families I work with have to do every second of every single day. 

A couple days ago, I listened to a little girl yell at me for over 20 minutes. Brutally yell. I saw anger come out of her that I didn't ever know was inside. She yelled, she kicked, she screamed, and when she was calm enough to sit down, she soaked my shirt in her tears. Where does a caseworker even begin to pick up pieces that have fallen from the broken life of a child and work like hell to make pieces fit together that never should have been broken? This child, this little girl, who is no bigger than a cricket, who I always thought liked me well enough, yelled through tears that she hated me. She hated me. She meant it, too. She did hate me. When her foster dad pulled her onto his lap and told her that she couldn't talk to adults that way, I instantly felt overwhelmed with this need to protect her and to advocate for her and in that moment, I didn't see a kid who was being defiant or who was acting out, I saw a child who had really big feelings and had no where for them to go. 

So I just listened.

My job as a caseworker is to reunify families. My job is to alleviate safety concerns and to send kids back home. When that fails, my job is to find a place, a permanent place, for that child to thrive in. My job is to put families back together. It's to keep kids safe. My job entails a lot of different hats, it means sitting in court and telling the judge everything going wrong. It means asking a parent to do drug tests, to provide proof of employment, find housing, make efforts to become better parents, and so forth. My job is to place kids in good homes, to schedule therapy, and arrange visitation. I have a professional job, where I interact with people who I don't always agree with or even support, but my job is to help.... and some days, my job means I sit on the floor with a screaming 7 year old and allow her to hate the only person she can. Me. 

Some days, I am hated. I am the easy one to hate because I am there. I am the physical reminder of everything going wrong. When you can't hate the drugs, you hate me. When you can't hate your mother, because she's your mom and she's not around, you hate me. When you can't hate the choices of all the other adults in your life, you hate me. When you can't hate yourself anymore, because therapy has taught you that you're not to blame, you hate me. 

My job, by nature, makes me hated. 

I was overly annoyed tonight, about circumstances in my personal life and about the inability for me to turn my job off. Some days are just hard. I was already in a rush and running behind, but as I stood in the check out lane tonight at the grocery store, I felt little hands grab my arm and a little familiar voice yell, "Look! It's my caseworker." I couldn't help but smile at the tiny little human staring back at me, who was the angriest that she has ever been not even a couple days ago as I sat in her living room. I chatted with her foster family for a few minutes and this little girl asked a lot of questions like "why are you buying pizza rolls?" and "where's your vegetables, you have to buy at least some?" She also told me about how for the first time today, how for the first time in her entire life, how she was brave enough to get in the water and swim without crying. I told her how proud I was of her and as sweet as can be, she put her little arms around me and buried her face into my shirt and whispered, "I love you, Miss Tedi," before running off towards the candy aisle. 

In that moment with her, it all came back full circle. Just like my advisor said way back when, "social work is more of a listening job," It absolutely is. But in the silence of your listening, when you're really able to listen and just be, you realize the reason for it. When someone is given an outlet, even the tiniest of people, can grow and heal. That's what social work is all about. 

There's a lot of responsibility when it comes to my job, so naturally, there are days when I am overwhelmed. Some days I want to throw my hands up and yell and scream and hate everyone around me. But some days, when everything is going right and you're able to overcome these huge obstacles, and everything starts to turn around, I'm not the enemy. 

Some days, a little girl comes up to you and in the midst of your own chaos, she makes not just your job, but also your life, completely worth living.

That's what keeps me going. 

You, my dear, have a purpose.

I entered the "real world" just over a year ago, "adulthood" as they call it... in many ways, it seems like it has only been a few weeks since I graduated from college, but when I look back over the last year, I am reminded of how far I have come, the things I have lost, the things I have gained, the blessings and joys and hurts... when I think about the last year of my life, I think about how hard things have been, how I cannot possibly recognize the same girl who walked across that stage last May, and I am simply amazed that it has only been a year. 

I have only been a real adult for a little over a year... 

This year, although tremendously difficult, has brought a lot of good things... new job, new car, new house, new friends, new perspectives, new beginnings, new hope. As I sit on the counter of my kitchen and write this, while eating icing straight from the tub, I am reminded of the great words one of my professors said to me before I graduated, in which she said, "Find the things that motivate you and you will be just fine. You, my dear, have a purpose." 

Again, I laugh as I write that, just as I did when I heard the words the first time. How can Tedi Ellis, the girl who has made a mess out of adulthood and failed more than she has succeeded, who has made people who don't even know her shake their heads in wonder, who falls down the stairs more than she doesn't, and who finds herself pretending to make it just to get through the day, who is literally sitting right now on her kitchen table eating a tub of icing with the soundtrack of "Cheetah Girls" playing in the background... how can that Tedi Ellis have a purpose?

I have spent the great majority of my life trying to find that purpose, trying to find that reason to get out of bed and to keep trying... I have tried and I have failed. A year out of college and I still find myself wondering if a purpose even exists out there for that Tedi Ellis... for me. Who am I outside of ridiculous snapchats and witty, funny Facebook statuses? 

At the end of October last year, I accepted a job working with Boone County Children's Division as a caseworker... my first real attempt to find some kind of purpose outside of blowing up bounce houses and entertaining birthday kids. However, in the weeks before I officially started, I found myself terrified of failing, of messing up some kiddo's life and leaving a part of their story forever scarred by my actions. What if what I thought was best was not actually best? Who was I to decide if a child was safe, or cared for, or protected? Who was I, the girl lacking purpose, to tell a parent how to raise their child? 

To put it simply, I was terrified of royally screwing up some kid for life. 

In the last 7-8 months, I have learned a lot. I have felt the immeasurable pain that children in foster care experience. I have held babies as their parents walk out the door knowing that they are not allowed to leave with their child. I have rocked a baby to sleep in a hospital, while machines all around them record every breath. I have gotten on a plane and been handed a child, that was not my own. I have buckled children into carseats, kissed scratches and bumps, braided hair, and tried to comfort little hearts that were breaking. I have reassured foster parents that they are doing everything right and have begged them to keep on trying, to keep on showing love, to keep on giving every piece of their heart to a child that is not their own. I have chased after little legs and have played board games with teenagers. I have watched as every belonging a child has is stuffed into laundry baskets and trash bags and packed into a backseat. I have watched as a little girl stared out the back window knowing she was leaving the only world she knew. I have laughed and learned and cried and watched in wonder as this system, as this child welfare system has unfolded before me. I have prayed and prayed for hours for little faces to have a better life, to get the life they deserve. I have held hands with the littlest, most precious souls out there, and every day, I am reminded that my job is not just a job, but rather a privilege. 

I have seen cruelty... but I have also seen great love. 

In those moments when I can literally feel my heart just breaking away, I struggle to hold onto the purpose of it all. So many times, I am the last person a family wants to work with or a child wants to see... they want their mother or father or grandparents or siblings, and rightfully so, but they do not want me. No child wants a caseworker. At the end of the day, no matter how "normal" we try to make it, there is nothing normal about the process of child welfare or about foster care. That fact alone makes things exhausting. 

Life as a caseworker is exhausting. 

In the beginning of training, we were asked to create posters of our lives and share timelines of things that have happened in the course of our life, both the good and the bad. I remember writing down the big things for me, like graduating college and getting my dog and the death of family members and "normal" things like that, but one thing that stuck out to me as I sat and listened to the other new workers introducing themselves, was a girl who shared her story of being in foster care herself. She shared about feeling "passed around" and "not really wanted, but not really unwanted, either." As she shared her story, I remember thinking and wondering why that was her story... why, of all the things before and after those two years when she was in foster care, would she choose to talk about those two years when she was. I didn't know her story other than from the surface, but as I have continued to work with kids in care, she always comes back to mind. 

Her story was forever changed by foster care... who she is now was altered when she was 8 years old... who she is and will be and could have been was changed... her life, her dreams, her future, forever impacted by the decisions of the adults around her. 

Why does that story, her story, impact me? Why does it stick out to me so much? 

I don't enjoy my job everyday. I don't love my job everyday. There are days when I can't even think about my job, or the kids on my caseload, or the families I work with. To be honest, there are days when I absolutely despise the child welfare system and I dream of the day when I won't have faces of kids in the back of my head to worry about... but child welfare, Children's Division, motivates me.

The girl in the training, now an adult sharing her story and helping kids like her, motivates me. For the first time in my entire life, there is something in front of me that motivates me and drives me to do better, to work harder, to be a better person, to love deeper and to hope in new things. 

To be honest, while the children motivate me daily, I am most driven by that girl in training, who unknowingly forever changed my perspective and impacted the way I work. Her story was changed, forever altered, forever scarred, forever different, by decisions adults made... and while I am more than aware that most of the children by the time I even lay eyes on them or read their names on papers have already seen trauma, I have an obligation to minimize the effect of that. 

While I don't always know my purpose in this world, at Children's Division, that child in front of me is my purpose... when that child meets me, they will have a different story from then on out, it's unavoidable... but as a caseworker, wanted or not, I can impact the moments when their lives change forever, and hopefully, it can be for the better. 

Yesterday, I sat on the floor of a tiny little room with a little girl in my lap, and as we laughed and played and talked about butterflies and how she couldn't wait for her whole family to be together, I caught myself whispering words that changed my life just a little over a year ago, as I said, "You, my dear, have a purpose." These kids have a purpose, every last one of them, and it is a privilege to watch their lives unfold. 

This job is a privilege, a privilege that is not lost on me.