For a long time, I thought trauma looked a certain way. I assumed it came from obvious loss or ongoing instability. What I have learned over time, often the hard way, is that trauma is not always visible or easy to name.
Our son came to us when he was just ten days old. He never left our home during the eight hundred days he was a foster child with us. From the outside, his story appeared steady and secure. And yet, there has been deep trauma living quietly in his heart and body.
It has taken me more than ten years to begin to understand this. That understanding did not come all at once, or through a single book or appointment. It came through many conversations with professionals, long seasons of therapy, hours spent learning and unlearning, and countless moments of choosing the next best step when the path forward felt unclear.
Trauma-informed parenting has taught me that behavior is a child’s way of communicating what they cannot yet put into words. What looks like defiance, withdrawal, or emotional intensity is often a nervous system asking for safety. Healing is not linear, and progress is rarely predictable.
It has also taught me how much I do not know.
Some days I feel steady and capable. Other days I feel completely in over my head. There are moments when I respond with patience and clarity, and moments when I need grace for my own shortcomings. Trauma-informed parenting requires humility, curiosity, and a willingness to keep learning, even when growth feels slow.
One of the hardest lessons has been accepting that love alone, while essential, is not always enough. Love must be paired with understanding, support, and professional help. It must make room for setbacks while still holding on to hope.
As a parent, I have had to release the illusion of control. I cannot fix everything. I cannot predict the future. I cannot always explain what is happening inside my child’s heart and mind. What I can do is remain present. I can listen. I can advocate. I can keep showing up.
Most days, trauma-informed parenting looks less like answers and more like faithfulness. It looks like prayer whispered in frustration. It looks like trusting God with the parts of my child’s story I cannot fully understand. It looks like believing that healing is possible, even when it unfolds slowly.
I carry both hope and humility into the future. Hope rooted in the God who restores and redeems. Humility rooted in the knowledge that I am still learning, still growing, and still in need of grace.
My prayer is that my son will continue to discover safety, wholeness, and joy. That he will learn to name what is happening in his heart and mind. And that he will walk, in his own time and way, into the future God has prepared for him.
And my prayer for myself is this: that I will keep taking the next best step, offering grace where it is needed most, and trusting that God is at work, even when I cannot yet see the whole picture.
As the saying goes, God does not call the equipped. He equips the called.
May he equip you with everything good for doing his will. — Hebrews 13:21
Grace in the Disarray 