I can still hear her screaming.

Three and a half years later, in the quiet moments when my house is still and everyone’s asleep, I can hear that primal, desperate wail that tore through my chest and left a hole that’s never quite healed.

She was eighteen months old. Tiny fists clenched around my shirt, her whole body shaking with the force of her terror. “MAMA! MAMA!” she screamed, reaching for me as the social worker pried her from my arms.

I stood there in my driveway, frozen, my arms still curved in the shape of her little body. Empty. Helpless. Watching the car drive away with my screaming baby because “she has to go to the visit. It’s court ordered.”

Those words — court ordered — became the soundtrack to my personal hell.

If you’re a foster parent, you know this scene. You’ve lived it. You’ve felt your heart shatter into pieces while trying to keep a brave face. You’ve questioned everything — your calling, your sanity, your ability to keep doing this work that asks you to love with your whole heart while preparing to have it broken over and over again.

The Complexity of Visits

Visit days are complicated for everyone involved. The children are torn between worlds, often displaying behaviors we’ve never seen before or after. They’re processing trauma, confusion, and divided loyalties in the only ways their developing brains know how.

As foster parents, we’re asked to facilitate these visits with grace while managing our own complex emotions. We see the regression. We deal with the aftermath. We hold space for everyone’s pain while trying to maintain stability in our homes.

And through it all, we’re reminded that our role is temporary. That we’re meant to love fully while holding loosely. That we’re supporting reunification even when every instinct in our body is screaming.

When Your Gut Tells You Something’s Wrong

I need to be clear about something: I believe in reunification. It’s the primary goal of foster care, and when it’s safe, it’s beautiful. I’ve stood alongside foster mama friends who’ve celebrated successful reunifications. I’ve cheered for restored families and healed relationships.

But sometimes, visits don’t feel safe.

Every instinct in my body would scream warnings. The visits were chaotic. She came back different — not normal adjustment different, but the kind that made my trauma-informed training alarm bells scream. She went from a babbling, exploring toddler to a silent, terrified shell who wouldn’t leave my arms.

But I was “just the foster mom.” My concerns were documented and dismissed. My detailed notes were seen as being “overly involved.” My advocacy was reframed as attachment that was “interfering with reunification.”

I felt crazy. Was I seeing things that weren’t there? Was I too attached? Was I the problem?

The Emotional Whiplash No One Prepares You For

Foster care is emotional whiplash at its finest. One day you’re told to “love them like your own,” and the next you’re reminded to “maintain professional boundaries.” You’re expected to facilitate a relationship between worlds while protecting a child who sees you as their safe person.

You’ll have five different social workers in two years, each with their own interpretation of “the child’s best interest.” You’ll sit in court hearings where your daily lived experience with this child is reduced to a few lines in a report. You’ll watch attorneys who’ve spent five minutes with your foster child make arguments about what’s best for them while you — the person who’s held them through night terrors, celebrated their first words, and knows exactly how they like their sandwiches cut — sit silent in the gallery.

The system will demand documentation of everything while simultaneously criticizing you for being “too involved.” You’ll be told your concerns aren’t valid while being asked to provide increasingly detailed reports. You’ll be praised for providing stable care while being prepared to disrupt that stability at a moment’s notice.

What I Learned Supporting Other Foster Mamas

While I haven’t personally experienced reunification with my foster children, I’ve walked alongside many foster mamas who have. I’ve held space for their joy and their grief — because reunification, even when it’s right and good, involves both.

I’ve learned from watching them that:

Your feelings are valid. That gut instinct that something isn’t right? Trust it. You’re not crazy. You’re not too attached. You’re a human being who loves a child and wants them safe. Document everything, but know that your feelings matter even when the system makes you feel like they don’t.

You can’t fix the system, but you can navigate it. I’ve watched foster mamas exhaust themselves raging against the machine, trying to make social workers see what they see. But the system is broken. It just is. What we can do is learn to work within it while maintaining our sanity and protecting these kids the best we can.

Documentation is your lifeline. Not because it always changes outcomes (sometimes it doesn’t), but because it validates your experience. When you’re gaslit into thinking you’re overreacting, your detailed notes remind you that no, this really happened. This really was concerning. You’re not crazy.

Community is everything. Find your people — the other foster parents who get it. Who understand the rage you feel when someone says “I could never do what you do because I’d get too attached.” Who know the particular grief of loving a child you may lose. Who celebrate the tiny victories that no one else would understand.

The Reality Check That Changed Everything

I’ve seen children leave care and thrive with their biological families. I’ve also seen children return to care, worse than before. I’ve watched foster mamas navigate both with grace, always putting the children first even when their hearts were breaking.

What I’ve learned is that we can’t control outcomes. We can only control our response. We can document. We can advocate. We can love. We can create stability in the midst of chaos. We can be the safe harbor these children desperately need, even if it’s only for a season.

How to Survive the Visits That Break You

So how do we do it? How do we navigate visits that feel unsafe, complex family dynamics, and a system that often works against the very children it’s meant to protect?

1. Document like your child’s life depends on it — because it might. Get a notebook specifically for visits. Document everything: behavior before the visit, during drop-off, at pick-up, and after. Note exact quotes, times, behaviors, regression patterns. Use objective language: “Child clung to me and screamed for 7 minutes during drop-off” rather than “Child was upset.”

2. Find your professional voice. Learn to translate your mama bear instincts into language the system understands. Instead of “This visit wasn’t good,” try “Following the visit on [date], I observed [specific behavior changes] including [specific examples]. This represents a significant regression from baseline behaviors documented on [date].”

3. Build your team. You need a therapist who gets foster care. You need respite providers you trust. You need other foster parents who can remind you that you’re not crazy when the system makes you feel like you are. You need people who will validate your experience when everyone else minimizes it.

4. Create transition rituals. The screaming drop-offs? They’re trauma responses. Work with your child’s therapist to create transition rituals that help. Maybe it’s a special song you sing. Maybe it’s a comfort object that goes with them. Maybe it’s a picture of your family they can hold. Small things that remind them you still exist when they can’t see you.

5. Practice radical self-compassion. You will have days where you handle visits badly. Where you cry in front of your foster child. Where you text things you shouldn’t to your support group. Where you fantasize about keeping this child safe forever. You’re human. You’re doing an impossible job. Be gentle with yourself.

6. Know your rights and responsibilities. You may be “just the foster parent,” but you have rights. You can request to speak at court hearings in many states. You can submit your own reports to the judge. You can request meetings with supervisors when concerns aren’t addressed. You can’t fix the system, but you can make your voice heard within it.

Finding Purpose in the Pain

Here’s what keeps me going when the visits feel impossible: Every moment of stability we provide matters. Every time we show up for these kids, even when it’s hard, we’re rewiring their brains for trust. Every documentation we write could be the thing that keeps them safe. Every tear we cry on their behalf tells them they’re worth fighting for.

I’ve learned that foster care isn’t about saving children — it’s about loving them through impossible circumstances. It’s about being their safe place in a world that often isn’t. It’s about showing up, again and again, even when your heart is breaking.