In February of 2017, I came across a picture of a guy named Ari on a dating website and, on a whim, sent him a winky face. I had no idea that small, impulsive gesture would change the trajectory of my life. A year and a half later, we were married.
Early in our relationship, after just a couple of months of dating, the conversation naturally drifted to the topic of children. We were both surprised—and delighted—to discover that the other had a deep desire to adopt. We tucked that thought away for the time being and spent the following months falling more deeply in love, dreaming about our future together, and imagining the life we would build.
After our wedding, we made the move from California to Oregon. It was just the two of us, largely on our own—without family or close friends nearby. We spent nearly every moment together, reveling in the joy of our new life as newlyweds. Life felt full, simple, and wonderfully ours.
We had originally planned to wait about two years before starting a family, intending to pursue both biological children and adoption. But about five or six months into our marriage, I tentatively brought up the idea of foster care. Over the course of the next year, we talked about it more seriously, weighing the challenges and the blessings, imagining what it would mean to open our home to children in need. Gradually, we found ourselves leaning into the idea, and by about a year into our marriage, we were ready to start the process of becoming foster parents.
It was a blessing that the new church we had joined had a ministry dedicated to supporting children and families in the foster care system. One Sunday, after service, we spoke with someone who ran the ministry, who then introduced us to a woman—a foster mom and advocate, not much older than us. When we shared our interest in fostering, she encouraged us to start right away. She explained that the certification process often takes close to a year, and if we waited, we’d only prolong the journey.
Taking her advice to heart, I called the local Department of Human Services (DHS) that week to ask how we could begin. We quickly signed up for a foundations class, eager to learn the first steps of what becoming foster parents truly entailed. At the time, we thought a year-long timeline was perfect—we weren’t quite ready for children yet, but we were on our way.
The foundations class gave us a clearer picture of foster parenting—the joys, the challenges, and the realities. At first, we were nervous, even a little scared, but our excitement and passion grew with each lesson. After completing the class, the next step was filling out our application. Submitting it to the DHS office felt monumental, a tangible first step toward building a family. To celebrate, we went to Chuck E. Cheese. We played games and made Build-A-Bears, imagining giving them to our future foster children. It was a small, whimsical way to honor a huge milestone.
After that, there was a bit of a lull while we waited to be assigned a certifier. We thought waiting would be a normal part of the process, but we were about to learn otherwise. In our first meeting, the certifier asked endless questions about who we were and began compiling our home study—a detailed record of our lives that would eventually help match us with children in need of a family.
Then, on September 1, just a few weeks after our first certifier meeting, we were at church when the same foster care advocate approached us with a story that changed everything. She spoke of three siblings—a nine-year-old boy and his two younger sisters, five and six—who might need a foster home. Our hearts leapt, but the situation felt overwhelming. We were still early in the home study process, had barely considered fostering multiple children, and weren’t sure we were ready for kids of that age. She offered to send us pictures, and though doubts swirled, we agreed to pray and think it over. Deep down, we knew we had said yes to fostering because we wanted to give a family to children in need—and there they were, waiting for us to consider them.
When we expressed interest in meeting them, I didn’t think we’d actually end up fostering them. We weren’t certified yet, and we assumed there would be months to prepare. But our certifier surprised us: if we were willing, we could be emergency-certified in a day or two.
The next two and a half months were a whirlwind. We met the children multiple times, slowly falling in love while simultaneously wrestling with fear and uncertainty. Could we really parent a nine-year-old? Were we ready for three kids all at once? Every visit left us more certain yet more apprehensive. Eventually, we had to make a choice. There were no guarantees, no easy path—but we said yes.
Our start date was set for the weekend before Thanksgiving. We had a few weeks to prepare, which included getting our home ready and taking a small “babymoon” in Seattle to spend time together before life changed forever. The uncertainty was intimidating. We wondered how our marriage would survive, whether our relationship would endure the pressure of instant parenthood. The only thing we had was hope—and each other.
The morning the children arrived, we were in the middle of making pancakes when the doorbell rang. And just like that, we were parents. There was no turning back. The first few weeks were surreal. We were a group of strangers trying to be a family. The children were wonderful, but adjusting to a new home and new parents was challenging. For us, it was even more intense—everyday routines, emotional care, and the sudden responsibility of parenting three children at once felt overwhelming.
We cried often and doubted ourselves. But each day we chose to persevere, and slowly, we began to truly become a family. It wasn’t one moment that defined us—it was countless small moments: hearing them call us “Mom” and “Dad,” helping with homework, watching them play in the backyard, celebrating birthdays, reading books together, road trips, and quiet nights filled with Disney movies. Over time, our hearts intertwined, and the children became ours, in every sense that mattered.
Beyond the daily parenting, we were learning the foster care system, juggling appointments, court dates, and caseworker communications. Exhausting as it was, it was also an honor to care for these children in such a meaningful way.
Eventually, we realized our story with this family wouldn’t last forever—and that realization was heartbreaking. Saying goodbye was excruciating. On their final day, we recreated their first breakfast at our house—pancakes and lemonade—and spent hours reliving memories. Tears flowed endlessly, even in the quiet moments after they went to bed. The morning of goodbye was unbearable; we choked out “We love you,” hoping they felt the depth of our hearts.
Returning to life as just the two of us felt surreal. The house was quieter, but our hearts felt heavy. Empty beds and forgotten half-eaten snacks reminded us of the love we had been privileged to share. Grief came in waves, unexpected yet natural, and continues to resurface even as we tell our story.
Yet life moved on. Less than a month later, the calls for children needing homes came again. Some we said no to, some we said yes, including a little boy whose brief time with us left an indelible mark. Through it all, we’ve grown, healed, and remained committed to opening our hearts to children.
We are not heroes. We are not special. We simply chose to say yes, to love imperfectly, to learn, to fail, to rejoice, and to grieve. And in choosing to embrace that messy, beautiful journey, we have experienced a depth of joy and love that we would never trade for anything in the world.
