Our life begins when the world stops

The weight of this year has been something I've carried daily; wondering, hoping, believing, in a better tomorrow. I've gone to bed nightly, hoping that the morning will bring new joy, new hope, and healing. But, it has not. It has brought new challenges, new heartache, more pain, more obstacles. And we are still here, right in the thick of it, completely unsure of the future. Numbers rising, more deaths, tragedy.

We are in a global, a worldwide pandemic, and there is nothing anyone can do to stop it. 

As a business owner, COVID has taken a lot from me. It has stripped away the security and comfort I had financially, it took away my confidence in raising a business to be successful, altered plans for our family, and it changed the way I saw the people around me; showing the ugliness of human kind, the ignorance, confusion, distrust, and fear all around me. It has shown me the vanity within my own life, the greed I didn't know was there deep down. It has revealed my weakness and fear surrounding failure, the very real fear of losing everything I've worked for, my need for control, my desire to be independent. 

But, I'm not here to talk about COVID and what it has destroyed.

There are times over the last 10 months where I have wondered if the curve will ever be flattened enough to return to life as we knew it, will a vaccine ever give security back to those of us who crave it, will business ever go back to, dare I say it, normal... or have we entered a new way of life, where our children are learning across technology, human interaction limited, distancing enforced, guidelines mandated--where home offices are the only workspace, no more need for big offices, corporations, or in person meetings. What if this year is the beginning of a new age? What will you miss most from the world before 2020? What has changed you?

For me, this is the year that I grew up. 

This is the year that taught me what matters, the things that are important and the things that hold value. It taught me less about business, less about numbers on a profit & loss sheet, less about market values, itemizing square footage, or exponential growth. I could sit here and say that COVID has brought families closer, more quality time, and more solid memories, but for me, it was the stillness that brought the most learning, not the business. Instead, it brought dinners around the kitchen table, something prior to this year, I've never valued or needed. It has brought quiet moments on the patio, reading books about living on faith, snuggling with pets, and raising my daughter to be bold, but kind. It has shown me the importance of commitment, of following through with promises, of holding one another up when mountains fall, and that stillness is not something to fear. It has shown me that life begins when the world stops. 

Last year, prior to COVID, we threw my daughter an extravagant birthday party, with surprise princesses, a cake bigger than life, balloons, dancing, and a 10,000 sq. ft. entertainment center filled with just the people who love her. She hadn't ever had a birthday party prior so my heart felt compelled to give her something bigger than what her little mind could ever even imagine. And, it was amazing. We've shared memories, and talked about her birthday party over the last 12 months, and she will smile from ear to ear. Whenever she would remember a gift she received, she'd run to her room, scurry around to find it, and run back with it, excited to tell me all about how she felt unwrapping it and playing with it for the first time. We talked about how she burned her hand on the candles, how everyone sang happy birthday, and how Queen Elsa said she was the most beautiful. And she loves looking back and thinking about that party, and I love that she remembers. 

This year though, there were no balloons, no princesses, no big cake. She turned five in the quietness of our own home. There was only little cupcakes with sprinkles, just one candle, and gifts that me and my boyfriend wrapped quietly the night before. I love my daughter more than life, she is everything beautiful in this world, sassy, and wild, and bold. And when we started planning this big birthday party again this year, right in the middle of the pandemic, we, or more so I, wanted rainbows and unicorns, her favorite things right now, complete with pony rides, a rainbow tier cake, and little rainbow masks for her friends. We were going to invite her brother and sister, have special little shirts, and goody bags for everyone. It was going to be the joy at the end of the tunnel of 2020. 

But then, my little girl, my perfect and sweet and beautiful tiny girl, said no. 

I've gotten so caught up in how much we have lost this year, the heartbreak, the anger, the failed dream that I have allowed that hurt to stain every area of my life, even motherhood. I've looked back on the last 10 months and have thought how miserable we have all been, however, in reality, it was more me, than her. I've thought about how much she has lost, the missed gymnastics classes, soccer lessons, and her spot at preschool. Oh, how she loved her friends at preschool. I thought about all the holidays she missed with my family, Easter, the fourth of July, birthdays, and the barbecues for all the little things in between. I thought about how much she had to watch me crunching numbers and worrying over business decisions, how she lost her playroom because I needed an office, and how she had to stay with me everyday now, rather than play with her friends at school. And my heart needed a big birthday party to make it all up to her. 

But, when we talk about the last year, my little girl smiles. She talks about late nights where we watched movies and ate popcorn, made cupcakes in the middle of the night for no reason at all. She talks about snuggling in and sleeping in during stay at home orders, dinner around the kitchen table, her daddy cooking us dinner. She talks about sprinklers in our backyard, a little kiddie pool in our living room, and swimsuits in the bathtub. She talks about long car rides, hikes in the summer, ice cream outside, popsicles at bedtime, and how we searched really hard and had to go to a lot of stores to find toilet paper once. She laughs when she tells you that once she had to use a kleenex after going potty. She talks less about things, and more about memories. She smiles, and giggles, and hugs, and kisses, more than she has since I've known her.

And when I asked her what kind of day she wanted for her birthday, so excited to tell her about the rainbows and unicorns and big party plans, she whispered and said, "I just really want another day with mommy and daddy and me." 

And, as heartbroken as I was that we wouldn't have the memories of a big party this year, I listened to my girl and that's exactly what we did. In the quietness of our home, our little girl turned FIVE years old and to her, it was her most favorite day yet. 

This, this was the gift of 2020.

This was the joy at the end of the tunnel, a really long, and trying year, filled with both hard and tragedy, but small moments of goodness, too. And, that's what I'll hold onto. 

Our life, everything that matters to us now, began the day the world stopped; and it is everything. 

Your day today could impact someone else's later.

It was a joke to me about three weeks ago. I laughed at the memes, I had no idea where Wuhan was, and I couldn’t tell you the definition of a pandemic. Truthfully, my entire world crashed suddenly and forcefully from a single word I can’t even define. From a virus.

When the news broke of the first identified positive case in Missouri, I held my breath and I slid under the water in my bathtub. The one place where I always felt a sense of sanctuary suddenly felt foreign, as if the weight of what was about to happen changed the surroundings around me. When you’re under water and holding your breath, your senses become muffled, hearing is less and the sight right above the water is all your brain focuses on, and all your body feels is the temperature of the water, the crisp air hitting the skin that has surfaced. Time slows. And desperation sets within. 

The desperation is what I felt most.

In the days that followed, I was clinging onto control, hoping the cases would stay at one or two, maybe a hand full, but would never come close to Boone County, to my business, to my life—but just as quickly as the news of one case broke, soon there were hundreds. Then there were deaths. And suddenly the bleach soaked rags I was cleaning with felt like betrayal between my fingers. The cans of lysol, the bottles of sanitizer, the spray bottles, the chemicals, the mops, they became teammates on a team I didn’t ask to be a part of in a war to save my business and to save my family. But mostly, they became the outward expression of my fear. Articles felt like enemies. The media and the news anchors feel like characters of horror films, unsure of the right direction out of the nightmare, confusing one another and making poor choices. No one tells you how to survive a pandemic, there’s no textbook, no right way, no answers, nothing. 

And control became my best friend. In the middle of a pandemic, when you know there’s nothing solid to hold onto, you try to control everything. I at least do. I readjusted. I replanned. I rethought our purpose, and I tried to speak a different message. I tried to be peace in a chaotic scenario, in the middle of the pandemic.    But then the stay at home order came into place for 30 days and the desperation was overwhelming, suffocating, silencing. 

Years prior to this pandemic, on November 25th, 2015, I sat down with colleagues and professionals, and I talked about my desire to leave the field of social work all together - claiming that I wasn't fit for the work, for the passion, for the emotional investment. I talked about my mental and emotional health, and the toll that case studies on paper in front of me had taken on me, fearful that I would fall a part if I was faced with a real case study, a real person's story. One thing that stood out to me as I sat and heard and listened to their perspective was, "Your day today could impact someone else's later." This has been a daily, and consistent message that I have replayed in my mind for the last four and a half years since that meeting. The good, the bad, the seemingly insignificant days or moments or choices TODAY could be either directly or indirectly affecting someone else's days tomorrow. While I knew for years prior that I was important and wanted by my God, I left that meeting holding onto the idea that I held significance in the world. I believed that I could change the world if I really tried. 

Years later, that promise was broken, that mindset destroyed, completely altered when I was asked to leave the career I had spent a good chunk of my adult life investing within, I truly believed that there was nothing left for me. If years prior I sat in a meeting and adults that I respected was telling me that I could make social work come alive and that I could change the world, to suddenly be asked to leave the field altogether... to desire to leave the field altogether... what had I just spent the last two years believing in? I thought about taking my own life, of ending the pain that I felt as I struggled with failure. How do I overcome that-- the place where emptiness and hurt blossom and the choice in front of you is to either overcome it or end it? I understand the hurt, and the grief, and the unimaginable pain that it takes to arrive at that thought. I really, really do. 

And then most of you know the story. I went on to become a business owner, and have spent a huge majority of the last two and a half years trying to make a difference in the lives of kids and families, by using this platform to either bless others or to build friendships and share the love of Jesus. Years have passed since I was a rookie in this business field, and I have felt like my footing was somewhat stable, until the virus pandemic hit. I think I share in the same fears that people all over the world face, and I am no one different. I am afraid of losing everything I have been building. I am afraid of every choice I face TODAY, knowing that somewhere someway that single choice could be the downfall in someone else's story.

But I know the ONE who stands at tomorrow and I know the ONE who is in control. 

A few years after the meeting in 2015 and after I left my job as a caseworker, on January 28th, 2019 a tiny girl moved into my home, into my life, and completely changed my world. She is altogether spunk and sass and wild and creative and extraordinary. She has made me want more for myself, and more for her, and more for my family. She has given me roots, given me purpose, and has given me much more than I could have ever given her. And whether she stays until tomorrow or forever, there is absolutely nothing temporary about my love for her, or temporary about the impact her tiny hands have had on my life. She is the absolute best part of me, even if she was not created by me. 

But the greatest part about this story, is not the way she came to me or the brokenness of both of our stories, but it's the fact that at the exact same time I was finding a purpose within the world, she entered the world. On November 25th, 2015 she took her first breath. On November 25th, 2015, I dreamed an idea that embodied my drive to change the very same world she was now a part of, completely unaware of her existence or the role I would play in her life later. My choices that day has affected not only MY LIFE since, but also hers, and so many others, with such a sobering reality. 

There’s just today, even in the middle of this pandemic, there's just today. Let it be positive.

And in the last month, the desperation to dig my way out and to keep my small business a float became a central focus. I would survive this. I would hold on tight to Jesus, my savior, and He would carry me through this, quickly and without pain. I would find a way. I would create a way if I had to. But I knew inside that I had what it takes, and nothing was going to stand in my way. Not even a virus. 

And I cried for days. I cried out for God to physically lift me out of the chaos, to lift me out of the dysfunction, the pandemic, and to bring me through it untouched. But instead, He woke me up each morning and asked me to face new hurdles. He asked me to stretch myself and to become uncomfortable. He asked me to stop and to be still and to rest and to hope. He taught me to stop controlling and to just let go. He taught me to sit in the middle of the chaos and to find peace in His words and to find comfort in only Him. He has asked more of me and of my faith than I have imagined--and He continues to show me grace and mercy as I fail. He has continued to hold onto me, to gently push me forward, gently reminding me that my faith MUST be placed in HIM, and not in my business, not in Tiger Bounce, not in the government, not in the money or the bailout that may or may not come. I cannot serve two masters.

And today, He taught me that hope is born in this story when I put down the pen. When I close the computer. When I stop planning, stop trying, stop obsessing over the comeback. And today, He asked me to start living in the now, the present, and to hand over the cords of control. All of it, nothing held back, everything, because TODAY will affect TOMORROW.

If I had left the field of social work altogether when I sat in that meeting and shared my concerns, I would have never taken my first real adult job with the State of Missouri--and had I not taken that job, I would have never held cases, never met foster parents, never built the relationships I hold now with some of my most precious friends. I would have never been asked by a former foster parent on my caseload to watch a tiny girl that would one day walk into my life and into my home, and would never leave. Had I walked away from my calling to change the world, and left that meeting uninspired, never wanting to continue to preach love, then I would not have been the character in God's story to have the life that I do now. 

On November 25th, 2015, I prayed a simple prayer and walked out of the meeting saying, "God, I hope you have a plan!" and I went on to live through the hurts, the pain, the grief, the joy, the love that the last four years have brought, knowing that someday, the entire picture will come into view and I will see the most beautiful masterpiece that God has promised me. 

And until that day comes, my entire hope is in Him, and I will continue to live everyday knowing that I am known, and I am significant, and that there IS a place for me in not just the world, but in the story of God. 

This is His story, even in the midst of this pandemic, and He has never stopped being in control. 

...And I will overcome.

There’s a lot of darkness in my own little corner of this world right now. A lot of sadness, and fear, and anger. For the last 4 days, I’ve walked out my front door, drove the 7 minutes to my business, then down the street to the grocery store. That’s the only 3 places I’ve been this week.

By default, that’s the only 3 places my girl has been too. She’s my shadow right now. When I start to feel overwhelmed, she instantly feels it and tears well up in her eyes. She knows something is happening, but she has no idea or comprehension of this pandemic to even guess.

I have snuck away and hid in the bathroom more times in the last four days than I care to admit, leaving my kid on an iPad to entertain herself. I had intentions of teaching her all about the alphabet and was determined she’d go back to school being able to identify each letter. Instead, I think she’ll be quoting movie lines and singing theme songs for cartoons. Am I allowed to say that for the public to read? Does that make me a bad parent? I had a lot of plans that haven’t gone as planned, but this one makes me feel the most as a failure.

In all honesty, I’m scared shitless.

I have spent the last 28 months building a business that I have proudly and excitedly been behind, determined to see growth, pouring my soul into, my sweat, tears, and blood all left behind on the floor. I had come to the other side. I made it. We surpassed the amount of months everyone before me had lasted, and we celebrated the numbers increasing, each positive review, and each relationship we built with our customers. We dreamed new dreams and we expanded. We were building an empire; me, my tiny girl, and my two managers under me. Together, I believed we could hold our own and would become a name in the entertainment industry that wouldn’t go unnoticed.

And then the darkness fell. 

If I was being honest, I would tell you that I first learned about this virus when a customer gave me a call asking what we were doing in response to it. Is it embarrassing if I admit I thought she was asking if we sold alcohol? I don’t like politics, I don’t watch the news, and I don’t find enjoyment over scrolling through articles online. I spent the next three hours head down in research trying to make sure I knew every detail before I made a plan to counteract it. My business would survive this. We would clean, we would have sanitizer, we would use humor, and we would be flexible. We would survive. We had to. After all, we survived flu season, winter storms, and that one time I flooded the building when I accidentally left the hose on over night. We learned, we made policies, and we came back each time as strong as ever. But we’ve never faced a public health pandemic before. And we wouldn’t stay open like our plans and our determination said we would.

We battled for 5 days. I continued to research. For every argument telling me to close, I found six more telling me that as long as we did our best to clean, we could make it.  I found articles telling me that kids were the strongest and that we should only be worried about the elderly. We serve kids, we serve families, we serve grandparents. How do we keep it safe? 

I cried a lot. I was walking through uncharted territory, unsure of my steps, questioning every choice, and living on a prayer. How do you make a choice between keeping a dream alive and making sure my customers stay safe? How do you selfishly pray a prayer for a business, when loved ones were saying goodbye, hospitals were full, and people were afraid? Uncharted territory. You fail. You fall. And you dodge the bullets.

I trusted blindly. I had faith. I held onto Jesus and I listened. God would lead me through the waters, just as he parted the sea when Moses couldn’t see a way out, I believed he would give me a cane to raise and would save me. But he didn’t. As the days slowly faded away, I grew increasingly uneasy. We weren't getting out of this untouched. Does he not hear me? Does he not see me? Look at me! I’m here! I’m working! I’m trying! I’m trusting YOU, how could you not see?

And as painful as this journey has been, I still praise his name.

I snuck away tonight and sat quietly on the bathroom floor, the one I know my girls hadn’t mopped in a week but that’s a story for another day, and I cried. I cried big ugly, scary, anxiety riddled tears. I called God a liar. I shouted at him and accused him of leaving me alone. I begged for an answer. I screamed for help. How could you give me a dream and then snatch it away? How could you show me success and right as I was about to break the threshold, how dare you hold me back? Did you not want me here? Did you not have a plan for me like you promised? Show me you love me! Show me you see me! Hear me! Where are you? 

And then just as quickly as the anger and hurt hit me, it was gone. God showed up. God was there. And in the smallest way, he gave me peace. For the first time since I started my google search on the virus, I felt hope. It was going to be okay, it will be okay. God will carry me through.

I felt God calling me out to the waters and whispering to my heart to take his hand. He was calling me to be calm, to quiet my mind, to stop the fear, to believe that He would restore everything, if only I relinquished control and trusted. And so I praise his name. 

Jesus. If His name alone is enough to make the devil tremble, how could I fear any threat against me?

And in my soul, I knew. I knew I made the choice that he was quietly telling me to do all along. But I was fighting him. I was holding onto the control. I was trying to be my own savior, asking God for help, but trusting that I would be the one who saved me. But if God cares enough to provide food for the birds of the air and the fish in the sea, does he not also care to provide for every need I have? Does he not promise that he will work out all things? Does he not call me to trust him? Has he ever failed me? Has he ever let me go? Has he ever not rescued me when I couldn’t stand up, given me wings to fly, and loving held me when I needed a father? Why now, after all of this, would he choose to leave me alone on a bathroom floor? 

God showed up. God was there.

His name. Not mine.
I will praise his name.
And I will raise my cane and I will wait. Because I know the Lord, my God, my savior; and I know that he is holding onto me and he is giving me a dream of comeback, and he is writing this story and I have faith and I believe and I trust that my God is getting ready to turn the page of this tough chapter to read, “And then she overcame.” 

Kids will run and play again, and their laughter and giggles and smiles will fill the air. My staff will continue to work to keep kids happy, and they’ll be driving me crazy again soon, they’ll forget to mop the bathrooms and they’ll eat all the snacks, but they’ll make me proud when they go above and beyond for a birthday child or comfort a parent when they come out from the tunnel carrying their screaming little one. They’ll be there, with their witty sense of humor and their personalities rattling the walls, and they’ll be stronger because of this.

But for now, we’ll keep on going. We’ll continue to update, and fix and repair, and create a place for kids to play when the risk is lower. We’ll do the research and we’ll hold on tight to Jesus, trusting that His plan is coming. We’ll spend time with our families. We’ll go on walks with our dogs. We’ll make each other laugh over FaceTime and they’ll teach me all about tik tok. We’ll find new board games, new tv shows, and things to keep us busy. I’ll learn to let go of the control, will work on trusting without knowing, and will hold tighter to the things that really matter. I’ll spend time helping families, I’ll grow closer to Jesus, and I'll make memories with my own tiny girl while we’ve been gifted these weeks together. I’ll accept the opportunity to just be a mom in this moment, and when the time comes to turn the page, I’ll be here holding onto my savior, with my cane in the air, knowing it is ONLY through Him that my life is worth living. It is only through Him that our future is known. It is only through Him that I can stare down a pandemic and know that we will be okay. And it is through Him that I can know my business will open for business again soon.

And until that day comes, I’ll be here praising God for his promise that this story isn’t over yet; and that through Him, I will overcome. 

My shoulders can bare the weight; Yours cannot.

My sweet tiny girl;

You are deserving. You were never made for a life of bouncing around, from home to home, without a basic understanding of the world around you. You were not created to feel hurt. You were not made for the life you have lived. You were made for so much more. You are so much more than the titles the state gives you, or the story of your past, or the choices that have been made for you. You are not just a foster child. You are not just a victim. You are not just the sum of your choices, or your behaviors, or your file. You are value. You are hope. You are worthy. 

You are so beautifully you. 

I’ve been sitting here for several weeks trying to form a single sentence that will somehow summarize the last 12 months with you. I have always come up short. As I start to write and reflect on the last year, tears well up in my eyes and all the words in my soul just creep up my throat, but die on my tongue. I have never known hope like I know now. I have never seen life like I see through your eyes.

You are magic, baby. You are the light. You are the sweetest sounds, the best part of wonder, the laughter in every story, the hope, the strength, the fight. You are perspective and theory and opinion and facts, all beautifully wrapped into one. You are the story. You are the equation. You are life; the most beautiful example of resiliency, and perseverance, and determination. You are fire and ice and storms, but most importantly, you are the rain that falls after months of drought.

You are you & I am so proud to be your mommy, even if only for a moment.

You came into my life as quickly as I said yes. You brought laughter and life into my home and into my world, walked right up into my heart the moment you reached for my hand. Loving you was never a choice. It has always been the greatest privilege, the greatest love I have ever known, there is no stopping, no turning back, no changing my mind. You will always have my love for as long as you live. You couldn’t possibly have been more mine had I given birth to you myself. I couldn’t love you more or love you less even if I gave it everything I had. You are and will always be loved by me. Nothing you do, or no where you go, will ever change the depth of the love that I have for you.

That first night as you held onto me, screaming and grasping for something you knew, I held onto the only one I knew who could rescue us both. Jesus. The only hope I had that we would be okay. The only one I still cling to, even a year later, as I hold onto you and try my hardest to wrangle your fire. You had to learn to be YOU, but I had to learn to live within the walls of my role that I couldn’t even begin to understand on that first night together. As you whispered, “mommy” in this mumble foreign toddler language that I barely could figure out, we both know you phrased that more as a question than as a loving name. You needed a mommy. But what you don’t know is that I needed you, more, than you needed me.

Twelve months flew by as I blinked.

In the first 30 days, you worked and fought and loved with all you had. Each new person and place was overwhelming. You started school. You went to church. You met my family that so quickly became yours. You started speech. You learned sign language. You learned to count to five. We celebrated Valentine’s Day with little heart chocolates and juice boxes. You visited your mom who gave you life, for the last time, the reality of a child in a world too big. You still looked for normalcy, searched for my face when I left the room, and cried every day I dropped you off at school— leaving my heart shattering and left me questioning if homeschool was an option.

With new seasons came new struggles. We learned how to live amongst social workers and therapists and within the walls of courthouses. You grew to talk and have your own personality. You grew to question the world around you, the world that mistreated you, and the things that never made sense to you. You grasped at the life you knew. You cried yourself to sleep, tirelessly hanging on to the life you could remember, hoping and praying that someone you knew would walk back into our home and scoop you up back to the life you came from. Me, I prayed, for you. I cried out to God every night. I pleaded with him, I wanted to carry your pains and hurts and grief myself. I begged him to take away the weight of the choices of those who were supposed to protect you off your shoulders. These hurts were always too big for your tiny body. I held onto God every month that came and went, praying I would always do right by you. I pleaded for you, on behalf of you, that no matter what happens, it will be what is best for you. I wanted my shoulders to bare the weight of your trauma; within our life together, a love inside me was created with such depth and width that nothing would stop me from being your biggest warrior for peace.

With summer and warmer weather came bigger problems, more sleepless nights, and even more laughter. You grew into your heart, understood for the first time right from wrong, and how awful those were who mistreated you. I struggled to know what was best, to know what worked for you, what made you click, and what you needed. You sang silly made up songs, created your own language, named all your dolls, found a love for dress up, all things princess, and how to turn your lip up to get whatever you wanted. You bravely got your ears pierced, cut your own hair, and took dance lessons. You found a love for running, for jumping on the trampoline, for making friends at school, and for playing fetch with your puppies. I learned that simple things like “I’m so proud of you!” and “You are my favorite!” brought life to your eyes. You sought my love as if it wasn’t already yours. You looked for approval, validation, and love from every person in your path.

By six months, our lives were intertwined and I couldn’t even remember a time when you weren’t here. My carseats were filled with discarded goldfish and empty juice boxes, my phones memory much more fuller, and my heart so big that most nights it emptied itself out by crying tears for you. I dreamed new dreams, I believed in the future, in hope, in You, in our life together. I wanted You to become everything You dreamed of and was determined to fight every battle for you, making sure you were given the justice you deserved. I so badly wanted to protect every hair on your head, keep you small and innocent, and happy.

By fall, we were tired. We had spent all summer enjoying the sun and the warmth, of the hope that comes from healing. We took vacations. We slept in. We watched cartoons. We played with the dogs out back. We found someone who loved us, who truly loved us, and who loved YOU just as much as I did. We learned to make s’mores and hot dogs over a campfire, snuggled under blankets, and told spooky stories with a flash light. You had your first sleepover. Your first black eye, your first bee sting, your first busted lip, your first dog bite. Your head always hit the ground or the car or the bike handles much before your body. You always got back up though and no bruise or scar ever made you stand down to fear. You always gave life your all, and this entire last year, I’ve stood in awe of you. You have faced battles bigger than you and walked out with a smile.

You are magic, tiny girl.

I watched as you remembered the horrible hurts that others did to you. I watched, terrified, unsure of how to undo all the trauma. I watched as you became braver, stronger, smarter. I watched as you became You. I watched with tears flowing down my face as you said “Peoples hurt me and peoples break my heart,” but then smiled as you said, “but not no more!” You have learned safety, and security, and most importantly, you have trusted in love again. In twelve months, you have transformed before me, and in many ways, I believe I have transformed from who I was, the selfish woman who lived for herself and trusted in her own ways, to a woman of God, who loves You more than I can ever say and who trusts in God's plan for YOU even when it hurts.

You turned four years old this year. You went from this little tiny girl who wasn’t even on the charts medically with the darkest, most guarded eyes I’d ever seen in a child, to this girl who is fearless, smiles as if she has never known anything other than silliness, who is the definition of hope and magic, to You. You. You have gained 13 pounds, and grown 7 inches, putting you exactly average on the charts. You went from talking at an 18 month old level to graduating speech above your age expectation. You know your ABCs, can count to 25, and can write your name complete with all the accents. You have grown, tiny girl, and as I write this, and reflect on all the photos of our year together, I want to slow down time. Life with you is the fastest chapter I’ve ever lived. The best chapters always are.

Life with you has given me purpose.

The you that I know today is my favorite version of you. And by loving you for the last twelve months, I have found that my most favorite role, my most loved job, the only thing that matters most, my most favorite version of me will always be life as your mommy... if even if it’s only for now.

You have taught me the value of the present, of living every single day to the cheesiest fullest, and thanking God for the good, the tears, and the accomplishments. Baby, tiny girl, love of my life, you are and will always be my most favorite adventure and there’s not a thing I would have changed about the last year. Except how fast it went.

You have taught me the value of the present, of living every single day to the cheesiest fullest, and thanking God for the good, the tears, and the accomplishments. Baby, tiny girl, love of my life, you are and will always be my most favorite adventure and there’s not a thing I would have changed about the last year. Except how fast it went. 

Today, we are one. It is our first birthday, mine as a mother, and yours as a child who will be protected, and loved, celebrated and nurtured, and cared for, lovingly taught to live life without fear of being hurt. You are always safe in my arms and as cheesy and silly as that sounds, I hope you know that I’ll always be here for you, ready to hug you, no matter how big you get.

I was born the day I answered the door last year and saw you. You. The tiny girl who became my world. You made me a mother. There was never anything temporary about the love I had for you. You are so much more than a foster child. You are you. And I will always be your mommy.

I hope one day I give this to you as I stand at your high school graduation, or on the day you become a mother, but until then, I just hope and pray that you will hold onto the one who has held onto us this last year through whatever is to come. And I pray and plead that you are here forever, that the day you walked into our home last year will be the last time you carried a trash bag of trauma, and instead your bed will always be yours, the safety net holding the knowledge of love and hope and healing.

Happy 1st birthday to you, to us! You are the most precious gift life has given me and there's no greater privilege to sit here on the sidelines with a front row seat to You. I will always be your biggest fan, your faithful friend, your protecter, your safety, your advocate, your mommy. You are home, tiny girl. You are loved.

You are my favorite.
Love, 
Mommy