There’s a question nobody asks foster parents out loud, but we all feel it hanging in the air.

Are you going to quit?

People watch us. They watch for the cracks. They watch for the moment we throw our hands up and say we’re done. And honestly? I understand why they watch. Foster care is hard in ways that are nearly impossible to explain to someone who hasn’t lived it.

But here’s the truth I rarely hear anyone say:

I never once thought about quitting. Not once. But I absolutely questioned how much more I could take.

And I think that distinction matters more than most people realize.

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The Difference Between Quitting and Questioning

When you’re in the thick of foster care — the court dates, the caseworker calls, the middle-of-the-night phone calls asking if you can take one more, the behaviors that make no sense until you remember what trauma does to a child’s brain — it’s easy to feel like you’re falling apart.

I remember nights when I was so exhausted that I couldn’t form a coherent sentence. Mornings when I woke up dreading the day before my feet even hit the floor. Moments when I locked myself in the bathroom just to breathe for thirty seconds without someone needing something from me.

In those moments, did I question how much more I could handle?

Absolutely.

Did I question whether I was cut out for this?

Every single day.

Did I think about walking away, closing our home, and going back to a life that felt manageable?

No. Never.

And I know that might sound contradictory. How can you question your capacity without questioning your commitment? But here’s what I’ve learned: questioning your capacity is human. It’s honest. It’s what happens when you’re doing something that stretches you beyond what you thought you were capable of.

Questioning your commitment is different. That’s a soul-level decision. And for me, that decision was already made the moment I said yes to this calling.

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The Weight Nobody Warns You About

Before I became a foster parent, people warned me about the hard stuff. They told me about the sleepless nights. They mentioned the behaviors. They hinted at the heartbreak of saying goodbye.

But nobody warned me about the weight.

Not the physical exhaustion — although that’s real. I’m talking about the emotional weight of holding space for kids who have experienced things no child should ever experience. The weight of loving someone with your whole heart while knowing that the goal of foster care is reunification. The weight of advocating for a child in a system that doesn’t always listen.

That weight doesn’t lift when you clock out for the day. There is no clocking out.

It follows you to the grocery store when you notice your foster child flinching at loud noises. It sits with you at church when someone makes a well-meaning comment about how “lucky” your kids are to have you. It wakes you up at 2 AM when you’re replaying a conversation with a caseworker and wondering if you said the right thing.

The weight is constant. And if you’re feeling it right now, I want you to know: that weight doesn’t mean you’re failing. It means you’re paying attention.

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The Moments That Made Me Question Everything

I want to be specific here, because I think foster parents need to hear that they’re not alone in the details.

There was the time I sat in a courtroom and listened to a decision that made no sense to me. I kept my face neutral because that’s what you do. But inside, I was screaming. I questioned everything in that moment — not my commitment, but my ability to keep showing up to a system that felt broken.

I need to tell you about a specific night. One I’ve never really talked about on the podcast.

We had been planning a family vacation for months. An out-of-state trip to see my husband’s family — grandparents, aunts, uncles, cousins. The kind of trip that doesn’t happen often because everyone lives so far away.

Our foster daughter had been with us since birth. We were the only family she had ever known. She called us Mama and Daddy. She didn’t know any other home.

And then, the night before we were supposed to leave, we got the call.

The travel request had been denied.

I hung up the phone and felt my stomach lurch. I made it to the bathroom before the sobs started. The kind of crying that doesn’t make sound at first because your body is too busy trying to survive the wave.

I cried so hard I almost threw up.

My husband found me on the bathroom floor. He didn’t say anything. He just sat down next to me and let me fall apart.

We went on that trip — without her. My husband drove us there, stayed for less than 24 hours, then turned around and drove all the way back to relieve the babysitter. He spent his “vacation” doing bedtime routines alone, making sure our daughter felt loved and not abandoned while Mama was hundreds of miles away at a family gathering she should have been part of.

I want to be clear: I’m not telling this story to cast blame. Everyone in the foster care system — biological parents, caseworkers, judges, foster families — is navigating impossible situations with incomplete information and hearts that are trying their best. Biological parents are fighting their own battles, carrying their own wounds, making decisions from places we can’t fully see or understand.

This isn’t a story about anyone being wrong.

It’s a story about what it feels like to love a child fiercely while holding so little control. The private grief. The bathroom-floor breakdowns. The gut-punch reminders that you are not fully this child’s parent — not in the eyes of the system.

That night, I questioned how much more I could take.

But I never questioned whether I would keep going.

Those moments? They didn’t make me want to quit. They made me wonder how much more I could carry.

And I think that’s an important distinction for every foster parent to understand.

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Why I Never Thought About Quitting

So if I questioned my capacity so often, why didn’t I ever think about quitting?

Because I knew why I was doing this.

For me, that why was rooted in faith. I believe that God calls us to care for the vulnerable. I believe that foster care is ministry — messy, exhausting, beautiful ministry. And I believe that obedience to that calling doesn’t require perfection. It requires showing up.

But here’s the thing: your why doesn’t have to look like mine.

Maybe your why is rooted in your own childhood experiences. Maybe it’s connected to a deep belief in justice for children. Maybe it’s simply that you saw a need and you couldn’t look away.

Whatever your why is, that’s your anchor. That’s the thing that keeps you tethered when the questioning gets loud.

I questioned my capacity constantly. But I never questioned my why. And that made all the difference.

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What I Wish Someone Had Told Me

If I could go back and talk to myself in those early days of foster care, here’s what I would say:

You’re going to feel like you’re not enough. That’s normal.

You’re going to wonder if you’re making any difference at all. That’s normal too.

You’re going to have days when you count down the minutes until bedtime — not because you don’t love your kids, but because you’re human and you’re tired.

None of that means you’re failing.

The foster parents who make it aren’t the ones who never struggle. They’re the ones who keep showing up even when they’re struggling. They’re the ones who question their capacity but never let go of their calling.

And if you’re reading this right now, questioning how much more you can take?

That means you’re paying attention. That means you care. That means you’re exactly the kind of parent these kids need.

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A Word for Those Thinking About Closing Their Home

I need to say something that doesn’t get said enough in foster care spaces:

Closing your home is not quitting. It’s not failure. It’s not giving up.

Sometimes closing your home is the wisest, healthiest, most loving thing you can do — for yourself, for your family, and for any future children who would’ve entered a home that was already stretched past its limit.

We closed our home after our adoptions were finalized. Not because we stopped caring about foster care. Not because we “couldn’t handle it.” We closed it because we knew we were at capacity.

We had two kids who needed all of us. Two kids who had already been through more than most adults experience in a lifetime. Two kids who deserved parents who weren’t running on empty, trying to give pieces of themselves to the next placement while they were still healing.

Closing our home was an act of stewardship, not surrender.

And if you’re in that place right now — wondering if it’s time to close your home, feeling guilty about even considering it — I want to offer you permission you might not know you need:

You are allowed to recognize your limits.

You are allowed to say “I’ve given what I have to give right now.”

You are allowed to close your home for a season — or forever — and still be a foster care advocate. Still be someone who made an immeasurable difference. Still be someone who answered the call.

The foster care community sometimes has an unspoken pressure to keep going, keep taking placements, keep saying yes. And that pressure, while well-intentioned, can lead to burnout, resentment, and homes that aren’t healthy for anyone.

Knowing when you’ve reached capacity isn’t weakness. It’s wisdom.

So if you’re wrestling with that decision, please hear me: You are not less-than for considering it. You’re not abandoning the cause. You’re not letting anyone down.

You’re being honest about what you can sustain. And that honesty protects everyone — including the children who need homes that are truly ready to receive them.

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