Raw. Vulnerable. Grieving. Mourning. Surviving.
A soul shouldn’t have to endure so much turmoil, so much loss, so much devastation in such a short span of time. In just a few months, I said goodbye to my marriage, to a baby girl we were adopting, and to two foster daughters I had been deeply committed to helping heal—children I had nurtured, loved, and guided until they could safely return to their parents.
Then, in an unimaginable twist, my son climbed onto the counter and got into some medication. Thankfully, he suffered no adverse effects, but my instinct was to rush him to the hospital—just to be safe. That choice triggered a full-blown investigation into alleged abuse. Accusations flew, questioning my love, my care, even my intent. At one point, state caseworkers insisted I had purposely overdosed my son because he was “too much for me.”
“Too much for me?” I repeated, trying to stay calm and not appear hysterical. “These kids are everything to me. It is my honor to parent them when they’re dysregulated, to help them calm down when their world feels chaotic, to be their safe place. I would never…I WOULD NEVER drug my child.” And yet, they persisted, listing imagined reasons why I could have.
A caseworker added: “We spoke with your therapist. She reports zero concerns about your parenting. She rarely has clients as motivated and invested in their healing as you…yet we still worry that your recent divorce has left you too stressed. We need to ensure you are safe for your children.” Her words dripped with judgment. Despite calling ten people to verify my care, she ignored them, kept my children from me for three days, and shattered my sense of security. It was a nightmare beyond words.
Weeks later, I had a pre-paid trip to California planned—originally to take my foster daughters to Disneyland. But because of these unfounded accusations, they were removed from my care, and all contact was forbidden. I pleaded to still use my airfare for a solo trip, promising no contact with the girls. “Yes, of course,” the caseworker said, almost begrudgingly.
I boarded that plane feeling utterly defeated. The warm California sun greeted me, and I resolved to let my soul rest. Exhaustion had settled deep in my bones. I jogged along unfamiliar streets, bought toothpaste I’d forgotten, and indulged in a mini facial a kind friend sent me with a note: “Pamper yourself. Try to relax.” I worked out in the hotel gym, finished three entire books, and lay in the sun, soaking up warmth my heart had sorely missed.
The first couple of days went well—I hadn’t crumbled. I was moving, reading, resting. Then came a lonely night in the hot tub, staring at the stars, wrapped in a towel, reflecting on how I was holding myself together. Chest pains flared as I thought of the children who still held my heart, but somehow, I was okay.
Later, I ran a bath, dropped in an orange bath bomb, and sank into the heated water. I let the fire of grief consume me. It had been so much: miscarriages, divorce, fractured family relationships, disrupted adoption, unnecessary foster care removals, decertification, no contact with A and I, restricted access to my permanent children. The losses had stacked, compounded, and weighed heavily on me.
This past year was the darkest season of my soul—long, lonely, misunderstood. The grief was all-consuming, though not constant, and not without moments of profound joy and gratitude. Yet sorrow had settled into the very fabric of my being. A great emptiness opened up where I thought I had known stability, yet in that emptiness, something undeniable remained: I am not apart from Him; I am part of Him, or in Him. There is no other place I long to be.
I am learning that divine absence and presence coexist—they are intertwined. Even when stripped of everything else, what remains is more real than I ever imagined.
“The soul does not grow by addition, but by subtraction.”
—Meister Eckhart
