Before giving birth to my girls, I became a very proud bonus momma. I jumped in fully and thought love would earn me a place in the little family my husband had. I naively believed if I was playful enough, kind enough, consistent enough, and healed enough, I would eventually be welcomed in with open arms.

I thought if I tucked them in, packed their lunch with notes and favorite snacks, remembered their favorite songs, I’d be seen as a “real” parent. Not to take their birth mother’s place but to create my own place in their lives. I thought love was the bridge that would close the gap of not being a “real mom”.

Before foster parenting and eventually adoption, I thought love would help rewrite the story. I thought safety would be enough to erase fear.

But here’s what I know now,
Love doesn’t always get a warm welcome. Love doesn’t fix what broken homes and survival taught. Love doesn’t always feel good. Structure doesn’t always feel safe. Stepping in as a parent isn’t always welcomed without hesitation and reservations.

I’ve sat in the spaces where a child’s loyalty to someone who abandoned them broke my heart in ways I never thought possible. I also reflected on many moments where my own brokenness, insecurity, and unrealistic expectations failed them.

I’ve wiped tears that weren’t mine, yet somehow were and I understood my assignment was to stay. Staying is not clean and peaceful. Staying is a war. I’ve been asked, “why do you still love me?” I’ve been abandoned and rejected and wondered “if they will ever forgive me for struggling in my humanity?” I tried not to feel pain or let them see my wounds but I failed many times.

I’ve taken the silence personally. The outbursts. The distance. The resistance.
I thought if I hurt, it meant I failed. But that wasn’t true, it was just human.

It’s taken me years to understand: their pain wasn’t always about me. Their grief didn’t begin with me. Their survival instincts weren’t a rejection of my love. But still, I took it personally far too often. That’s on me, not them.

Learning emotional intelligence as an adult, while parenting, is like trying to read a map during a terrible storm. It’s slow, confusing, humbling work. But it matters.

Before this parenting journey, I thought I was supposed to be some kind of healer (that is embarrassing to confess). Now I know, I was still healing. Still learning that love without control is the hardest kind.

Still choosing to stay when the doors slam, the eyes roll, and the silence screams louder than words.

This love? It doesn’t guarantee thank you’s. It doesn’t come with picture perfect endings. But it does come with transformation.

This love stretches you. Exposes you. Softens you.
It humbles you to your knees and raises you to a deeper kind of faith.

Because this isn’t performative parenting. It’s sacrificial. It’s holy.

Though it breaks me some days, it’s the kind of breaking that lets the light in.

To every bonus mom, foster parent, or heart-weary parent walking this road, you are not alone. Your love may not always feel like “enough,” but it still matters more than you know. Don’t let bitterness take root from the storms. Heal and grow. Stay. Keep loving.

❤️ Stephanie Ellison
(Proud Momma through broken love)