The Village Is Not Optional
I’m pretty sure I wouldn’t have made it through this journey—at least not this far—without my village.
And here’s the thing: at the start of all this, I didn’t even know many of them.
They weren’t lifelong friends I could call on out of habit. They were people who showed up while I was in motion—while I was trying to figure out foster care, parenting kids with big stories, and how to keep everyone’s head above water… including mine.
My village came in pieces, and it came in waves.
It came from a church group.
It came through our case manager.
It came from people I met at events who somehow just got it.
It came from one person connecting me to another person who had been through it—or was currently in it—so we could talk honestly about what was happening without having to explain every detail first.
They were the people who mentored my kids.
The ones who hugged them and stayed consistent.
The ones who helped show them that family can be chosen, and safe adults can exist, and love doesn’t have to be temporary.
They were also the people who sent dinner—because they remembered what it felt like to be so tired you couldn’t even think about what to feed your kids, much less make a healthy, warm meal and pretend you had it all together.
They showed up.
And then they kept showing up.
They kept me going when I wasn’t sure I could.
And it wasn’t just practical help (though that mattered a lot). It was the no-judgment space. The “you don’t have to explain yourself” conversations. The advice when I asked for it. The commiseration when I didn’t need advice—I just needed someone to say, “Yep. That’s hard. You’re not crazy.”
So why do I talk about the village so much?
Because this road is not built for solo travelers.
Foster care and adoption can be meaningful and beautiful, and it can also be exhausting, isolating, and relentless. Even when you’re doing everything “right,” you can still feel like you’re barely hanging on. That’s not a character flaw. That’s the reality of trauma, transitions, systems, and parenting.
A village doesn’t fix everything—but it makes survival possible. And sometimes survival is the win.
What I’ve learned about “finding your village”
If you’re reading this and thinking, Cool for you… must be nice… I don’t have that, I hear you. And I don’t want you to leave this post feeling worse.
Here’s what I’ve learned the hard way:
Your village probably won’t show up all at once. It’s built one person, one conversation, one connection at a time.
You may have to borrow someone else’s village at first. Meaning: join a group where people already “get it,” and let proximity do its thing.
Some people are for a season, and that’s still valuable. Not every support person becomes a forever person.
Ask for specific help. Not “I’m struggling,” but “Can you bring a meal Tuesday?” or “Can you sit with my kid while I take a walk?” People want to help—they just don’t always know how.
Let yourself be supported. This is the hardest part for a lot of us. (Hi. It’s me.)
Why Fostering A Chord exists
Honestly? Because I don’t want you doing this alone.
I’m trying to take what I’ve learned—what others have learned around me, plus my ability to research and my deep desire to care well—and turn it into something useful.
Fostering A Chord exists to be a source for you:
a place to find your people
a place to bring your questions (even the messy ones)
a place where it’s okay if there aren’t perfect answers
a place where someone else can say, “I’ve been there,” and you can figure it out together
I look forward to taking you on this journey with me.
And if you’re still building your village?
You’re not behind. You’re not failing.
You’re just at the beginning of something that matters.