This afternoon, while I was doing my daily meditation, I suddenly started to cry.
In my mind, memories of T began to roll through my thoughts. But this time, they were the good ones—his laugh, his big smile, his larger-than-life personality. Those are the moments I want so desperately to hold onto.
And yet, as those memories lingered, a quiet ache followed close behind. My heart breaks because it feels like that part of him is gone. Sometimes I find myself wondering if that boy was ever really there, or if it was all just another role he learned to play.
He was an incredible actor on stage, but I believe he carried that performance into real life too—until one day, he simply couldn’t carry it anymore.
Still, beneath all of that, I hold onto what I believe to be true. Deep down, I still believe he wanted to be part of our family. I believe he wanted to belong. I believe he wanted to be loved.
But wanting something and being able to receive it are not always the same. He just wasn’t able to receive it.
He came to us with a plan—to get what he needed and then leave on his own—or at least that’s what he told us. Yet even now, I wonder if, underneath all the walls he built, there was a little boy who desperately wanted what every child wants: a place to belong and people who would love him unconditionally.
And perhaps that is what made it so frightening. When that love became real, I think it terrified him.
He didn’t believe he was worthy of it. Allowing himself to be loved meant becoming vulnerable, and vulnerability felt far more dangerous than pushing people away.
When I think about it this way, I’m reminded of how much he carried long before he ever came to us. Before he ever entered our home, he had already experienced more pain, loss, abuse, and abandonment than most people could imagine. Those wounds ran deep.
And so my thoughts inevitably turn inward. Even now, I still wrestle with the question every mother asks: What more could I have done?
It’s a question I have to surrender to God over and over again.
In that surrender, something shifts. So when the tears come, I let them.
I don’t push them away or pretend I’m okay. Sometimes healing looks like sitting quietly in my room, allowing myself to feel the weight of the grief instead of running from it.
And in that quiet space, my heart turns to prayer.
I pray for his protection.
I pray for his peace.
I pray that one day he will know he is worthy of love—not because of anything he has done, but because he is a child created in the image of God.
I pray that when he is ready, he will find the help and healing he needs.
These are the prayers of a mother for her son.
And today, they are enough.
“The Lord bless you and keep you; the Lord make His face shine on you and be gracious to you; the Lord turn His face toward you and give you peace.” — Numbers 6:24–26
Unpolished Truth 