I grew up in foster care, always wondering why my parents didn’t want me. But when I found Christ, I realized I’ve always been wanted. Always Chosen, by God.
It didn’t happen overnight. I wrestled with rejection for years—carrying the weight of unanswered questions and the ache of birthdays spent alone. I learned to build walls, to smile through the pain, to pretend I didn’t care. But deep down, I longed for someone to say, “You belong.”
Then one Sunday, a friend invited me to church. I didn’t expect much. But as the worship began, something stirred in me. The lyrics spoke of a Father who never leaves, a Savior who calls us by name. I felt seen. Not by the crowd, but by the One who made me.
That day, I heard the story of the prodigal son. And for the first time, I didn’t see myself as the abandoned child—I saw myself as the one being welcomed home. Tears streamed down my face as I realized: God hadn’t forgotten me. He had been waiting for me all along.
I gave my life to Christ that morning. And in doing so, I stepped into a family that would never let me go. Scripture became my anchor. Ephesians 1:5 says, “He predestined us for adoption to sonship through Jesus Christ.” That word—adoption—hit me like a wave. I wasn’t just tolerated. I was chosen.
Since then, healing has come in layers. I’ve forgiven my birth parents, even though I may never understand their reasons. I’ve learned that my worth isn’t defined by who left, but by Who stayed. God didn’t just rescue me—He redefined me. I’m no longer abandoned. I’m beloved.
Today, I mentor teens in foster care. I tell them what I wish someone had told me: “You are not a mistake. You are not forgotten. You are deeply loved.” I share my story not to relive the pain, but to point others to the hope I’ve found.
From abandoned to adopted—that’s my testimony. Not just into a family, but into grace. Into purpose. Into the arms of a Father who never lets go. And that, to me, is the most beautiful kind of homecoming.
