The generosity of grief

Topanga Canyon, California x Erin Scott

This Mother’s Day feels heavy because I am grieving.

I began a recent conversation with Nic saying I wanted to write about our son Zen’s adoption for Mother’s Day. We adopted Zen in April of 2023 when he was just over fourteen months old. He came to us when he was one week old through foster care.

Something about my idea didn't resonate with Nic. He kept quiet, transferring our bulk box of olive oil into a glass bottle on the counter.

Impatient, I inquired, should I write about something else?

He stayed silent pouring the oil. I anxiously bit my pinky nail waiting for his response.

After a few more long minutes, he looked up from the bottle, it’s not hitting.

Oh, I replied, annoyed. He was right as usual.

He stepped back and turned toward the fridge.

You need to write about what you are avoiding, he continued, staring at the fridge.

Like what? I asked, even though I already knew what he was going to say.

Look at the photo on the fridge, he said.

I don’t want to, I replied, my voice cracking.

I couldn’t look at T anymore. I couldn’t look at how happy he was in that photo. I couldn’t look at his bright face looking up to meet Sol’s adoring gaze.

I couldn’t look at him because it split my heart in two.

I miss him, I said, tears beginning to well. I am terrified that he is reunifying with his mother. I feel like I am going to throw up imagining him living with her and her abusive boyfriend.

Me too, he said.

Nobody is looking out for him. Not his lawyer, not child welfare, not his mother, not his grandmother, not his brothers. He has no one.

I cried and cried.

It is excruciating to feel helpless in the face of such injustice. It causes harm to remove a child from an abusive home, give them an opportunity to be cared for in safety, only to send them back to the sites of their original wounding.

I understand the child welfare system is complex and that there are many systemic issues at play in the case with T and many other children. What keeps me up at night, what splits my heart in two, is that aside from his current foster family, nobody is guarding his safety. Too often, parental rights outweigh child wellbeing.

Nic and I spent the rest of the evening talking about T. Our trips to the river. His obsession with Batman. How we could get him to eat anything if we said it was chicken. How he was always down to have a dance party. The way he laughed. How nobody had ever read to him. He memorized Goodnight Moon and read to himself on the couch over and over. How he loved the sandals I bought him because he finally had shoes that fit. The nights I spent with him on the playroom floor until he felt safe enough to fall asleep.

Just writing this, my chest is heavy with the weight of my helplessness. I wish I could have done more for him.

Since last August we have been fostering Ophelia¹, who came to us at five weeks old. She is the half sibling of Zen and, like him, came to us detoxing from meth and needing a host of medications and interventions.

Because of the level of uncertainty of her child welfare case, I had no idea how long she would stay with us. While there is more clarity in her case today, there are still a slew of future court hearings, and the judge has the final say in the fate of her life. Foster parents have no rights.

When she arrived at our home, I was terrified she would be taken soon. I spent hours online trying to figure out how to keep her safe. I skimmed Facebook pages in the darkest hours of the night of locals in our town desperate for answers, a clue, anything that might help me keep her here.

Every time I looked at her, my body constricted. When I picked her up, I kept myself distant, something that is easy for me to do with a history of dissociating. When she cried, I tuned her out just enough to keep myself from letting her in too much.

After two months of her being placed in our family, I broke down from the stress. I’d been so sick with worry for her that I couldn’t open my heart to her, and the pain in my body from keeping her at arm’s length reached a critical mass.

One afternoon, I collapsed in a ball on our bedroom floor, sobbing.

She needs you, Nic offered, gently putting his hand on my shoulder.

She needs a mother.

Tears poured from my eyes.

Tears for this little one who desperately needed a mother. Tears for this little one who I emotionally avoided. Tears for the attachment wounding she already experienced. Tears for her birth giver. Tears for myself, for the challenging position of being a foster parent, a person expected to care for children as if they were your own, with no guarantee they will stay with you or end up in a safe and loving home. Tears for the younger parts of myself that are terrified of attachment.

Eventually with Nic’s support, I peeled myself up off the floor.

I walked into the living room to sit with Ophelia. I watched her bang two wooden cups together, shrieking in delight. I let out a deep exhale, the tension of keeping her at arm’s length releasing through my fingertips. 

She is such a force to behold. She is such a joy to be with. She is such a deep soul.

She deserves a present, attuned mother. I am committed to being hers for as long as we have together.

Here is what no one tells you about fostering: it takes every single one of your hard-earned skills to not only care for your children, but to care for the parts of you that are still children themselves. The parts of you that grieve, that ache. That resist fully stepping into motherhood, the places where joy is hidden, the places where you feel helpless. But avoiding my own fear and grief means avoiding deeper connections with my children, and so I must learn new ways forward. In particular, I must metabolize my own sadness and pain about T, for myself and for my family, who are also grieving their relationships with him. 

Through letting this relentless heartache tear me up, I make room for our children to feel through their sadness. I make room for our family to heal. To form attachments. To keep loving when we don’t fully feel safe and grapple with belonging. To keep showing up when we are scared to let ourselves land here, in this constellation, with each other.

The other night while brushing my teeth, Nic popped into the bathroom and urged me to quickly peek into the playroom.

You are not going to want to miss this, he said, smiling.

I set down my toothbrush and walked across the hallway. I gently pushed the door open, stretching my head inside. There, in Sol’s new twin-sized bed, I saw our foster baby curled up sleeping with Sol’s arm around her.

Look mommy, she’s sleeping in my bed! he exclaimed as quietly as his five-year-old voice could.

She is, I replied softly.

Sol looked up at me beaming.

I can’t help but cling to this intensely tender moment. Solomon’s willingness to open his heart to Ophelia, even though he's also grieving, is teaching me to have courage. He is showing me that the way through this uncertainty is to keep loving. To keep showing up. To keep holding each other.

If essays like this one are meaningful to you, please consider supporting my work by becoming a paid subscriber. In support of Foster Care Awareness Month, a portion of your subscriptions this month will go to Advokids, an incredible advocacy and accountability non-profit in California doing very important work for foster kids and their families.

1. Opehlia is a pseudonym in keeping with our confidentiality agreements of her foster care placement.