Growing up with a name like Vanessa, I often faced the teasing nickname “Little Orphan Vanessa.” In truth, that nickname reflected a painful reality for much of my early life. I lived as an orphan, devoid of a mother’s embrace and a father’s protection. As a teenager, I was engulfed in fear and confusion, enduring a tumultuous childhood filled with abuse and silence. I often found myself praying for liberation from the torment that seemed unending, yet I felt compelled to keep my struggles hidden.
I longed for a family like the one depicted in “Annie,” not for a mansion but for the love that could rescue me from my troubled home life. For years, I buried my story, prioritizing the feelings of others over my own. But now, I understand that my life is a narrative woven by divine hands, filled with healing, redemption, and transformation. I know that my story is still unfolding.
The timeline of my abuse is hazy; I can hardly recall the moments before it began. What I do remember is the overwhelming sense that the pain would never cease. The very people who should have nurtured me inflicted suffering instead. I transformed from a carefree toddler into a broken middle schooler, and eventually a despondent high school student. I often heard harsh words that told me I was unworthy, and the idea of finding a loving family felt impossible amidst the negativity that surrounded me.
At school, I wore a mask of happiness and success. I excelled academically and cultivated friendships, playing my role as best I could. But deep down, I recognized that my situation was unlikely to improve. One fateful night, I decided that the next day would be my last. I reached out to my youth pastor, under the guise of wanting to say hello, not knowing that I was silently bidding farewell.
The next day, I was called into my school counselor’s office due to concerns about my safety. I deflected, claiming it was a friend who needed help. My counselor contacted the Department of Human Services, and I felt a flicker of hope as I realized that perhaps I didn’t have to navigate this alone.
Later that day, a devastating incident with my biological mother escalated into violence. I fled, bloodied and bruised, to a nearby store where a friend noticed my injuries. Despite my attempts to downplay the situation, she recognized the signs of abuse and took action, contacting my youth pastor and other leaders. That day in May 2010, I found myself surrounded by law enforcement in a parking lot, finally grasping the escape I had yearned for. That night, I entered foster care in Oregon.
My youth pastor and her husband quickly became certified foster parents, and I was fortunate to live with them for the next couple of years. Their home was a sanctuary, filled with encouragement, love, and faith. I treasure the memories of summer nights spent playing outside and forming deep friendships through our church community. I began to experience new joys while grappling with the lasting effects of my past trauma.
I attended a private Christian university on scholarships, graduating in 2015. Gradually, I started to recognize my resilience and embrace my identity as cherished. I thought that my dream of finding a permanent family had vanished when I aged out of foster care. I built emotional walls to protect myself, convinced that I could never trust again, especially older adults.
Little did I know that a couple I met in 2012 would become the answer to my prayers. They entered my life gently, breaking down my barriers over time. Although I resisted calling them “mom” and “dad,” we formed a bond, and on May 31, 2017, we went to court to legally change my last name, solidifying our family ties.
As the years passed, my heart grew more tender toward the notion of adoption. I found myself moved to tears by stories of families forming through adoption, realizing I longed for the stability and love these individuals represented. I had spent years guarding my heart, but after a heartfelt conversation with my (now) mom about my fears of losing them, she assured me, “We’d adopt you!”
Tears streamed down my face as I heard those words, a promise I had never expected to hear as a 26-year-old former foster youth. I soon learned that this had been their wish for years. On May 31, 2019, I was officially adopted, surrounded by loved ones in a courtroom filled with joy. The judge, visibly moved, remarked that it was a happy day for the foster care system.
I share my story to celebrate the faithfulness of God in writing such beautiful, unique narratives. I am still navigating my healing journey, learning to forgive my biological parents, and finding strength through therapy. My hope is to inspire others—those in foster care, those who have aged out, those longing for adoption, and those considering fostering—because everyone deserves a family. You’re never too old to seek parental love.
As Jessica Satterfield beautifully put it, “He asks us to lay down our ideas about what family should look like and listen to His.”
In summary, my journey from foster care to adoption illustrates the profound transformation that love and support can bring. I am immensely grateful for this divine fulfillment of my dreams and remain hopeful for more stories of healing and family to unfold in the lives of others.