It’s Bananas: Learning Patience, Love, and Letting Go

Foster Momma Kiki shares her journey as a foster parent and all that comes with caring for children who have experienced more than most of us ever will.

By Foster Momma Kiki

/Re-un-i-fi-ca-tion/ noun
The process of returning a child in foster care to their biological parents when it is safe and healthy. It is the primary goal of the foster care system and a testament to a parent’s hard work and resilience.

/Grief/ noun
The deep sorrow caused by someone’s departure or loss. In foster care, grief and joy often live in the same house, especially when a child we love prepares to move on to their next chapter.

These aren’t just words in a dictionary anymore. They are words that now live in our home—at our dinner table, in quiet moments after bedtime, and in the in-between spaces where emotions don’t always make sense. Reunification and grief—two things that don’t seem like they should belong together—yet somehow, they do.

For those following my journey, you know that my family is a beautiful, sometimes “bananas” mix of adoption, guardianship, respite care, and fostering. Up until this point, our home has not gone through preparing for reunification for any of the children in our care. This season is what I’ve come to understand as being the bridge.

For nearly a year, we have had a little boy in our care who has become part of our daily rhythm. We’ve watched him grow from a tiny, timid toddler into a curious, thriving child. We celebrated his fourth birthday, taught him to speak clearly, potty trained, showed him how to ride a bike, and so much more.

But when he first arrived, he was different. He was quiet in a way that felt heavier than shyness. He would talk to his hands as if they were a friend, having full conversations with them. It didn’t take long for us to realize that this likely came from spending too much time alone.

Over time, as he began to feel safe, that behavior slowly faded. He started speaking directly to us, laughing with our boys, and engaging in playtime instead of retreating inward. Those small, beautiful shifts felt like milestones—proof that connection, consistency, and love were doing exactly what they are meant to do. Recently, as reunification has become more real, we’ve seen glimpses of that old behavior return. And yes, that brings worry. But we are not navigating it alone. We are working closely with his therapist, asking questions, and doing everything we can to support him through this transition.

Even with all those memories and the time spent with our family, we have come to the hard but hopeful reminder that being a foster parent means holding a permanency plan—the potential for reunification—in one hand and a heavy heart in the other.

Part of what makes this moment so meaningful is what has been happening behind the scenes. This little boy’s father has been doing the hard work, the kind that doesn’t happen overnight. He has made intentional changes, stepping away from people and situations that once led him astray. He asks thoughtful questions about his son—his growth, his routines, his education—trying to prepare himself not just to reunify, but to parent well. There is something incredibly powerful in witnessing that kind of effort. This isn’t accidental. This is earned.

As a foster mom, I have to remind myself why we do this. For me, my path to motherhood didn’t center around having biological children. Instead, through personal experience, I felt called to support the many children who need safe and loving homes. As a foster parent, did I avoid thinking about reunification over the past four years? If I’m being honest, yes. I knew it was always a possibility. I saw other foster families walk through it. But quietly, I think I felt lucky that we hadn’t had to face it yet.

Now we are here.

We are the bridge. A bridge’s job is to hold someone up safely until they can get to the other side. It doesn’t choose who crosses. It doesn’t go with them. And if it does its job well, the person eventually leaves it behind to reach their destination. That doesn’t make the bridge any less important—it means it worked.

In the year he has been with us, the growth hasn’t just been his. It’s been ours, too. As parents, we’ve learned a deeper level of patience and understanding—learning to slow down, to meet him where he is, and to see the world a little more through his eyes. We’ve learned his favorite songs, the way he insists on eating an apple every single day, and how to comfort him after a hard moment.

Our boys have grown, too. They welcomed him in as a sibling without hesitation, and over time, they’ve stepped into what it means to be good big brothers: showing him how to play, including him in their world, and loving him in a way that feels both natural and selfless.

This time wasn’t “lost” just because he may be leaving; it was an investment in all of us. We gave him tools, stability, and love so that when he goes back to his dad, he goes back stronger. And we carry forward the growth he gave us, too.

I won’t sugarcoat it. Knowing a goodbye may be coming is its own kind of grieving process. My husband and our adopted children feel it, too. Our boys, who were once in foster care themselves, understand the system in a way that is both helpful and heartbreaking. The questions they ask aren’t always easy: Why is his dad able to do what he needs to get him back when their biological parents couldn’t?

There isn’t a perfect answer for that. Only honesty, compassion, and space for their feelings.

In our home, we are learning to hold multiple truths at once: joy for a father and son being reunited, pride in the role our family played in their journey, sadness for the empty chair that will soon sit at our table, and fear of what could go wrong. And somewhere in the middle of all of that, we keep showing up.

From the outside, people often say, “I could never do foster care. I’d get too attached.” To that, I say: Attachment is the point. This little boy deserved a year of people being “too attached” to him. He deserved a year of being loved like he was ours forever, even though we knew he was ours for a season.

I don’t believe I am more brave or more amazing than any other parent. Every parent does something brave every single day. Yes, foster care brings additional layers of trauma and emotion into your life. But I truly believe many more people could do this if they felt called to it.

What this experience has changed for me, though, is a quiet question about the future. It has made me feel a little more guarded. It has made me wonder—not just for myself, but for our children—if we want to walk through this kind of goodbye again. Do we give our family a break? Do we continue? I don’t have that answer yet.

As we prepare for these next few months, we are focusing on what I call the long hello. We are making memories, taking photos, and—even when it’s hard—cheering on his father. We are practicing the art of letting go, knowing that while he may leave our home, he will never truly leave our hearts.

Reunification is complicated, sticky, and emotional. But it is also the goal. It is what we are working toward from day one, whether we say it out loud or not.

We are honored to have been his bridge. And when the time comes, we will be standing here—waving him on with tears in our eyes and love in our hearts—as he crosses over to where he is meant to be.

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Foster Momma Kiki grew up in a loving home right here in Northern New Mexico. A home that openly took in children and teens throughout her upbringing. She learned from her parents the selfless act of caring for others. She currently lives with her husband and two children, who they have adopted. She also stays in contact with their 19 year old, formerly in their care. She also cares for the little foster 4-year-old mentioned in this story. You can reach her at fostermommakiki@gmail.com