The Emotional Cost of Advocacy in The Face of Bureaucracy

527 days

12,656.728 hours

759,403.65 minutes

45,564,219 seconds

That's how long it's been since the state of Indiana snatched my children from me.

Unwarranted.

13 court dates - plus more coming.

Over 75 meetings.

15 hours per week in visitation rooms with SOME of my children.

Months without seeing others.

35 foster placements between my children - 14 of which my 5-yo has been through alone.

And yet, I was unstable?

I haven't seen my children in nearly 6 months.

You want the truth?

Here it is.

Advocacy in the child welfare system isn’t just exhausting. It’s soul-stealing. It’s humiliating. It’s rage-inducing. And it will chew you up and spit you out while telling you to say thank you.

I’ve sat across from people with degrees and job titles who looked me in the eye and asked me if I even understood what was best for my children—like I haven’t been the one there through every sleepless night, every ear infection, every fever, every meltdown. Like I haven’t been the one who’s carried the ache of their absence in my body every single day since the state decided I wasn’t good enough.

I’ve been forced to defend myself against allegations that were not just false, but wildly fabricated—twisted shadows of the truth meant to justify ripping my family apart. I’ve been made to endure psych evaluations that were so emotionally violating I sobbed in the office—not from guilt, but from the sheer dehumanization of it. As if grief and trauma were symptoms of instability, instead of signs that I gave a damn.

(Spoiler: my psych exams? All came back clear. Turns out I'm not "crazy", after all.)

I’ve documented everything—every scratch, every bruise, every infection, every change in behavior my children showed after being placed in these so-called “safe” homes. I took photos of the lice in their hair that persisted for six months. I begged for help. I showed the proof. And I was told I was lying. That I was planting insects to make foster parents look bad.

Let me say that again so it sinks in: I was accused of planting lice in my children’s hair.

As. If.

As if I would ever harm my children just to make a point.

As if I haven’t been losing sleep every single night worrying if they’re safe, if they’re warm, if someone is hugging them when they cry or just tossing them another consequence.

And then there was the visit I’ll never forget.

I helped my four-year-old out of the car at the end of the visit—the one she (foster mom) scheduled, then tried to cancel after we’d already driven three hours to be there. We got two hours together. Just two. Then I had to hand him back. And she was pissed—because we reported her for violating court orders and cutting my visitation short. Not the first time, either.

So, in retaliation, she snatched him from me. Tossed him into her car like he wasn’t even human. Yelled at him when he tried to talk to me. When all he wanted was a hug. A kiss. A proper goodbye. He was sobbing for me.

And the only—only—reason I didn’t catch an assault charge that day was because my son was watching. And I told her that.

She’d better never forget that four-year-old saved her.

Because when I said it, I fucking meant it.

But the real kicker?

They still tried to spin it.

Still tried to make me the problem.

Because that’s what the system does. It protects itself. It protects its narrative. It will gaslight you into silence. It will threaten you with TPR. It will drag out the timeline until your hope turns brittle, then call you “unstable” when you finally crack.

And now that I’m stable they’re trying to scare me off again. Telling me it’s "too late". Telling me not to get my hopes up. That there are statues of limitation on cases like mine. That the state changed laws. That things have to go through certain avenues - even though when they wanted to do it, none of that mattered.

Telling me to just sign the paperwork and make it easy for everyone.

But I told them no.

I told them I will not sign away my rights. I will not surrender my children to a system that has failed them and then blamed me for noticing.

Not until I see them working -

Staffing the case. Pulling in CASA, supervisors, attorneys. Treating this like something that matters and not something they can quietly bury.

They have taken so much from me already.

But they will not take my voice.

They will not take my memory.

They will not take the truth.

So if you're reading this and you’ve never lived it—understand something:

When a parent in this system says they’re fighting, what they mean is they’re bleeding. Quietly. Daily. Without backup. Without mercy.

And when they say they’re tired? That’s not weakness. That’s endurance.

I am tired.

But I am not done.

Not until my children know I fought for them with everything I had.

And not until the system is forced to look me in the eyes and realize—

I never stopped being their mother.