So many children are waiting.
Waiting for the day they feel good. Waiting for the day they feel safe. Waiting for the day they feel full. Wanted. Appreciated. Loved.
Many of these dear kiddos are waiting to return to their own home, to their own bed—to know the freedom of space and the security of place. Others are waiting for a forever family, for the day they can call someone “Mom” or say, “Hey, Dad.” They wait to hear themselves called son, grandson, nephew, daughter, granddaughter, niece. They wait for the chance to build memories with cousins.
Some are longing for a second chance. Longing for a visit from the tooth fairy—or even just a dentist. Sadly, some long for their nightmares to stop. For someone to care about their education. For the day they are no longer labeled: Poor. Slow. Foster kid. Trouble maker. One of those kids.
Still, others crave purpose. Meaning. Connection.
There are children who deeply desire to be touched—but in a good way. To be disciplined—without bruises. To have adults who talk with them, not just correct them.
These small humans want what we all want—to be treated as someone of value and worth. To be seen as unique, as one of a kind. To understand and be understood.
But the longer these children wait, the harder their little hearts grow.
Eventually, these vulnerable children become hardened adults—jaded, cynical, untrusting. Victims who, in time, may become victimizers. And sooner rather than later, they have children of their own, carrying trauma like an inheritance. The wind that was sown into their tender spirits returns to the world as a whirlwind—a perfect storm of shattered hopes and dreams. A cycle that never seems to end.
