Our family room at Zoey’s Place sees a lot.
Sometimes children walk in holding a parent’s hand.
Sometimes it’s a grandparent, an aunt, or another trusted relative.
Sometimes they come with a foster parent they only just met that week.
And sometimes… they have to come all alone.
Our staff members wear many hats—often all at once.
Sometimes we’re advocates.
Sometimes we’re interviewers.
Sometimes we’re doing administrative work behind the scenes.
And sometimes, we’re doing all of it at the same time.
Our services are available 24/7/365.
When the call comes in the middle of the night, we show up.
When it comes just after 5:00—after we’ve already made it home and just started spending time with our own families—we show up.
But, we get to be a safe adult.
We listen to a child’s story.
We help them feel seen, heard, and safe.
Sometimes that also means running out to grab Wendy’s because no one has eaten dinner.
At the end of the night, our staff gets to go home—to a warm bed, to rest.
But we don’t always get to know what happens next for that child.
We carry their story with us, trusting that what we did in that moment mattered.
This work is heavy. It’s exhausting. It’s emotional.
And it matters—more than words can say.
We hate that our jobs even have to exist, but we are honored to show up. 💙
You were only 2, 3, 5, and 7.
What was supposed to be a basic set of interviews turned into one of those days that never really leaves you. By the end of it, so much had changed for all of you, even if none of us yet knew what your futures would look like.
At the time, I was an intern, still learning what this work really meant. That day taught me more than I ever could have learned in a classroom.
My role was to stay with you downstairs while your siblings took turns being interviewed. I kept you fed, occupied, comforted, and as safe as I could in the middle of a day that was anything but normal. Later, I was told that during her interview, the littlest girl kept talking about her “new friend Molly downstairs” and how she wanted to go back and play with me. I have carried that with me ever since. Hours passed. Questions were asked. Pieces did not fit. The adults in the room had to make impossible decisions with incomplete answers. In the end, the decision was made to remove all of you, not because everything was known, but because too much was unknown and your safety had to come first.
What I remember most is your little brother. He came into my arms terrified, crying so hard his whole body shook. He clung to me while the world around him changed in ways he could not possibly understand. He cried and cried, and after what felt like forever, he finally fell asleep on my chest. I sat there with him in my arms in my office clothes covered in tears, snot, and urine, and none of it mattered. In that moment, all that mattered was that he felt safe and held. When it was time, I carried him to the car and buckled him into the seat that would take him somewhere unknown. I watched him leave, and I stood there feeling everything at once. I felt heartbroken for what had already been lost. I felt overwhelmed by what all of you had just endured. I felt helpless because I could not promise what would come next. But I also felt relief knowing that, at least for that night, you were being taken somewhere safe.
I still do not know exactly how to name all the feelings that day left behind. Grief, heartbreak, helplessness, hope. Maybe it was all of them. Maybe that is what this work is sometimes: carrying many truths at once. What I do know is this: you were never just another case. You were children I sat with, played with, held, soothed, and worried about. Months later, I still think about you. I still wonder where you are. I still hope you are safe, loved, and given the chance to just be kids. And I know this too: that day changed my life. Before that day, I was an intern learning about this work. After that day, I knew this was what I wanted to do with my life. You children, without ever knowing it, helped shape the person I would become. In the middle of one of the hardest days of your lives, you gave me clarity about mine.
I will never forget you four kids, and I will always wish each of you nothing but the very best.
