"They Are Just Kids. How Hard Can It Be?"

Someone said it to me once with a smile on their face.

"They are just kids. How hard can it be?"

I did not answer. I could not answer, not in a way that would have been appropriate for the setting, anyway. Because what I wanted to say would have taken hours and probably still wouldn't have been enough. So I smiled back. And I carried it home with the rest of it.

This is part two of a conversation I started last week about the lonely road of foster care. But this part is about something specific, the guilt and shame that gets layered on top of an already impossible situation by the people around you. The friends. The family members. The coworkers. The people who love you and have absolutely no idea what they are saying.

"The hardest part was not the child in crisis at 2am. It was coming downstairs the next morning and pretending everything was fine to a world that had no idea what had happened the night before."

The Things People Say

There is a specific kind of exhaustion that comes not from the work itself but from what people say about it. From the comments that are meant to be helpful or encouraging but land like small accusations. From the looks when you admit that you are struggling. From the silence when you say something honest.

If you have been in foster care or adoption for any length of time, you know exactly what I am talking about. You have heard some version of these:

What they said and what they didn't understand

"They are just kids. How hard can it be?"

What they don't know: these are children who have experienced abuse, neglect, abandonment, and loss. Their behaviors are not typical child behaviors. They are trauma responses. And parenting through trauma requires a level of emotional regulation, knowledge, and endurance that most people will never be asked to sustain.

"They are so young. They won't even remember."

What they don't know: trauma is stored in the body before it is stored in memory. The research on early childhood trauma is clear and it is sobering. Young children who experience neglect and disruption carry it in ways that shape their nervous systems, their attachment patterns, and their sense of safety in the world, whether they can articulate it or not.

"You knew what you were signing up for."

What they don't know: almost no one actually knows what they are signing up for. The training does not prepare you. The home study does not prepare you. The first placement call does not prepare you. You learn what this costs by living it. And telling someone who is drowning that they should have expected the water does not help.

"I could never do what you do. You are so strong."

What they don't know: this one sounds like a compliment but it is one of the loneliest things you can say to a foster parent. Because it puts you on a pedestal that makes it impossible to say, I am not strong right now. I am barely holding on. I need help. It makes the asking harder, not easier.

"You just need to love them more."

What they don't know: love is not a treatment plan. Love is necessary but it is not sufficient. Children who have experienced trauma need consistency, structure, therapeutic support, and trained caregivers, on top of love. Implying that the problem is a deficit of love is not only wrong, it is cruel to the parent who has been pouring love into a situation that love alone cannot fix.

"At least you are giving them a good home."

What they don't know: "at least" is almost never a helpful phrase. It minimizes whatever comes before it. And it shifts the focus to gratitude at a moment when what a struggling foster parent needs is not to be reminded of their blessings , it is to be seen in their difficulty.

The Guilt That Comes With the Honesty

Here is what makes all of this particularly hard: when you say something true, something like "I do not like my kids right now" or "this is so much harder than I expected" or "I am not okay", the responses you get back often make you regret saying anything at all.

The gasps. The redirects. The "but you chose this." The subtle implication that a good foster parent would not feel what you are feeling. That admitting struggle is a form of betrayal of the children, of the calling, of the image of the selfless caregiver that everyone needs you to be.

So you learn not to say it. You learn to smile and say it is hard but rewarding. You learn to perform gratitude in rooms where you are actually falling apart. And the silence grows. And the isolation deepens. And the anger builds, quietly, steadily, until you do not recognize yourself anymore.

What the people around you are not seeing:

They are not seeing the 2am crisis that happened three nights in a row. They are not seeing the school call you took in the bathroom at work. They are not seeing the therapy appointment you scheduled for a child who then refused to go. They are not seeing the caseworker who promised to call and didn't. They are not seeing the court date that got postponed again.

They are not seeing the goodbye you had to help a child through while your own heart was breaking.

They are seeing a child who looks fine. And they are drawing conclusions from that. Because they do not have access to anything else.

That is not entirely their fault. But it is still yours to carry. It is the reality you are living inside of, and it is exhausting to keep bridging that gap.

What I Wish Someone Had Said Instead

I spent years wishing the people around me would say something different. Something that didn't make me feel worse for being honest. Something that made the weight lighter instead of heavier.

If you are on the outside of someone's foster or adoptive journey and you want to show up for them, here is what actually helps:

Say "I don't fully understand but I'm here." Say "what do you need right now." Say "you don't have to be okay." Say "I believe you that this is hard." Say nothing at all and just sit with them. Bring food. Watch the kids for two hours without asking questions about them. Text at 6pm and say "I'm thinking of you."

What does not help:

minimizing,

redirecting,

silver-lining,

comparing,

advising,

or reminding them that they chose this. They know. They are living it. Every single day.

"Saying 'I do not like my kids right now' does not mean you do not love them. It means you are human. And you are tired. And you are being honest in a world that keeps asking you to perform fine."

And to the Foster and Adoptive Parents Reading This

If you have said something honest to a friend, to a family member, to anyone, and been made to feel ashamed of it, I want to say something clearly:

You are not a bad parent for struggling. You are not a bad person for saying it out loud. The feeling you are having is not a sign that you are doing this wrong. It is a sign that you are human, that you are carrying something enormous, and that you have been doing it largely without the support you deserve.

"I do not like my kids right now" is not a character flaw. It is a sentence that deserves to be heard without judgment, by someone who understands what it actually takes to show up for a child from a hard place day after day after day.

The guilt that gets piled on top of the honesty is not yours to carry. Put it down. You have enough already.

This is part two of an ongoing series called The Unquiet Pages. Part one — Nobody Told Me This Road Was Lonelyis available here. If this resonated, share it with someone who needed to read it. And if you are a foster or adoptive parent who is struggling right now — reach out. You should not be carrying this in silence.