Though the church can sometimes inflict deep wounds—because it is made of imperfect people—it has also been the place where I’ve found some of the deepest healing. I often speak about the Church, the community, and the countless people who poured into my life over the years. Teachers, coaches, and families guided me through trauma and pain, opened their homes to me, and encouraged me to keep going when I felt like giving up. But in all those conversations, I rarely talk about the woman who reflects goodness in quiet, profound ways—the woman who loved me from the very start, enough to birth me and raise me for as long as she was able: my mom.
From ages twelve to eighteen, I lived apart from my mom in several foster homes. My mom has struggled, and still struggles, with multiple mental illnesses, which shaped our relationship in ways that were often painful and complicated. Many people judge her harshly, seeing only the challenges of our bond. I remember one time I shared a Facebook post about the sacrificial love my mom had shown me. A commenter angrily asked, “How could she be a sacrificial mom when she let her daughter grow up in foster care?” I felt a pang of sadness—not for myself, but for the lack of understanding in that question. People can be quick to judge without knowing the full story.
Birth mothers often bear the brunt of scrutiny, yet they are heroes in ways that can go unseen. They love their children enough to recognize when they cannot provide the life they truly deserve. My mom’s heroism looks different from what the world expects of a “perfect” mother. She brought me into this world during extreme hardship. I was conceived in the shadow of abuse, my biological father passed away before I was born, and my mom had recently lost both of her parents, leaving her alone in a big city she barely knew. Yet, when she first heard my heartbeat and saw me on the ultrasound, she said, “I knew I loved you.” From the very beginning, my mom chose life—and sacrifice—for me.
Many might say that my life has been far from ideal—abuse, neglect, foster care, PTSD—the list goes on. But what life is truly perfect? I am endlessly grateful for the life God has given me, a life made possible because my mom chose to bring me into this world. People often praise me for overcoming adversity, for not falling into the harsh statistics of foster care. But that praise doesn’t come without the quiet shame my mom carries for not fitting the world’s version of an “ideal” mother. To me, she has always been my ideal.
I genuinely believe my mom has always given everything she could, even while battling the mental illnesses that limit her. She may not be the type of mother who can be found in a church pew or whose life looks “picture-perfect,” but she is, to me, a glimpse of Christ—a suffering, humiliated woman who continues to endure, to give life, and to love deeply for the sake of another.
