What It Means to Care This Much: Part 2

I thought the tightness in my chest would ease once I slept, but it followed me into today — quieter, but still there, like a reminder that some moments don’t resolve overnight. And yesterday unfolded in a way I didn’t expect. I found myself calling into work so I could sit in on the virtual CPS meeting, the foster‑care permanency plan, the court hearing. All through a screen, all from my own home, and somehow still heavy enough to rearrange something inside me.

There’s something surreal about watching a newborn’s future being discussed in little digital squares. You’re close enough to feel the weight of every word, but far enough that you can’t reach through the screen and steady anything. It’s a strange kind of helplessness — being present, but not in control. Caring deeply, but not being the one who decides.

And yet, I showed up. I didn’t plan to. I didn’t know I would. But when the moment came, I couldn’t not. Not when a child’s entire beginning was being shaped in real time. Not when my instinct had already risen up and made itself known.

I still don’t know what my role will be in all of this. I still don’t know what the system will decide, or whether the door I opened yesterday will lead anywhere. But I do know this: caring this much means stepping into spaces you never expected to be in. It means holding your breath through meetings and hearings and waiting rooms, even when they’re virtual. It means letting your heart stretch in ways that feel both brave and terrifying.

And it means admitting — quietly, honestly — that a part of me will be devastated if I’m not able to take him in. Not because I feel entitled to him, but because something in me recognized him. Something in me said, “If he needs safety, I can be that.” And once that part of you wakes up, it doesn’t go back to sleep easily.

And now, the rest isn’t up to me. I’ve taken every step that was mine to take. I’ve shown up in the rooms — even if they were virtual — where decisions were being made. I’ve made my willingness known. I’ve opened the door I’m allowed to open. And from here, the process has to unfold the way it’s designed to.

It’s a strange kind of surrender, realizing the ball is no longer in your court. All I can do now is wait to see if they reach out with next steps, if there even are any for me. I can’t push. I can’t force. I can’t control the outcome. I can only hold space for the possibility and brace myself for the ache that might come with the answer.

This is what it means to care this much — to step forward with your whole heart, and then step back with the same amount of respect. To offer yourself without expectation. To hope without gripping. To love without claiming.

Tonight, I’m letting the system do what it does. And I’m letting myself breathe, knowing I’ve done my part.