How are you doing?
This is such a common question, and one that's easy to gloss over. But there are times when being asked this question immediately results in me breaking down in tears. Sometimes life is just overwhelming. And sometimes this normal. simple question that is thrown out without much consideration or thought floods me with the reality that in that particular moment, I can't just say, "Pretty good."
We just finished a weekend of being unable to answer "Pretty good" to that question. Our six-year-old foster daughter is experiencing some pretty serious regressions with her behaviors. While we understand that her behavior is communicating her pain and frustration and anger, we still have to ride it out with her. And while her needs are front and center, it can feel stifling to feel like we don't have the flexibility or freedom to have our emotional needs met, too.
On Friday night, we had plans to meet some new friends from our church for dinner. We ended up being an hour late due to waiting out a temper tantrum over changing into a more appropriate dress for the outing. (The tantrums can really be over anything - not wanting to get dressed when someone is about to come over, not getting to eat 12 pieces of gum for dessert, not getting a big enough piece of chocolate as a special treat in the morning, etc.) In addition to the high screeched screams, repetitive door slamming, and thrown objects, our beloved foster daughter also broke out with screams of "I hate this family!" for the first time.
The screams of her hating us actually was pretty easy for me to weather, although I understand that's not the case for a lot of foster/adoptive parents. What wore on me and ultimately broke me down was the fact that my husband and I rarely have opportunities to make connections with other people right now, and while I know she wasn't intentionally undermining this opportunity for us, it felt very personal that on the rare occasion that we do get to pour into ourselves, she couldn't keep it together. And I'll admit, my frustration and anger overrode a lot of the compassion that I can normally muster up for our foster daughter.
One lesson I'm learning through this process is that we have to make space for our own pain. I strongly believe in the importance of sharing our lives with those who are hurt and broken. But it also means sharing their pain and suffering, bearing it with them. Yes, our foster daughter is going to have to overcome so many more obstacles than we ever did to be healthy and whole. She will have to confront her history and choose to make different choices to break the cycle. She will likely have to learn to love her biological family while accepting that the choices they made harmed her in significant ways. But hopefully, in the short time she's with us, we can model for her in some small way that you can love someone even when they disappoint you, and even when their actions cause you overwhelming pain, and even when their anger and frustration causes you to have to sacrifice something that is good and worthy.
No, we are not "pretty good" at the moment. We have jumped into the emotional trenches and are hunkering down indefinitely. It is emotionally draining and physically exhausting, but we've also chosen to be here. And even during the hardest moments, it is a privilege to provide comfort to those who don't have the choice to be there.
We just finished a weekend of being unable to answer "Pretty good" to that question. Our six-year-old foster daughter is experiencing some pretty serious regressions with her behaviors. While we understand that her behavior is communicating her pain and frustration and anger, we still have to ride it out with her. And while her needs are front and center, it can feel stifling to feel like we don't have the flexibility or freedom to have our emotional needs met, too.
On Friday night, we had plans to meet some new friends from our church for dinner. We ended up being an hour late due to waiting out a temper tantrum over changing into a more appropriate dress for the outing. (The tantrums can really be over anything - not wanting to get dressed when someone is about to come over, not getting to eat 12 pieces of gum for dessert, not getting a big enough piece of chocolate as a special treat in the morning, etc.) In addition to the high screeched screams, repetitive door slamming, and thrown objects, our beloved foster daughter also broke out with screams of "I hate this family!" for the first time.
The screams of her hating us actually was pretty easy for me to weather, although I understand that's not the case for a lot of foster/adoptive parents. What wore on me and ultimately broke me down was the fact that my husband and I rarely have opportunities to make connections with other people right now, and while I know she wasn't intentionally undermining this opportunity for us, it felt very personal that on the rare occasion that we do get to pour into ourselves, she couldn't keep it together. And I'll admit, my frustration and anger overrode a lot of the compassion that I can normally muster up for our foster daughter.
One lesson I'm learning through this process is that we have to make space for our own pain. I strongly believe in the importance of sharing our lives with those who are hurt and broken. But it also means sharing their pain and suffering, bearing it with them. Yes, our foster daughter is going to have to overcome so many more obstacles than we ever did to be healthy and whole. She will have to confront her history and choose to make different choices to break the cycle. She will likely have to learn to love her biological family while accepting that the choices they made harmed her in significant ways. But hopefully, in the short time she's with us, we can model for her in some small way that you can love someone even when they disappoint you, and even when their actions cause you overwhelming pain, and even when their anger and frustration causes you to have to sacrifice something that is good and worthy.
No, we are not "pretty good" at the moment. We have jumped into the emotional trenches and are hunkering down indefinitely. It is emotionally draining and physically exhausting, but we've also chosen to be here. And even during the hardest moments, it is a privilege to provide comfort to those who don't have the choice to be there.
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