When Support Feels Like It's Never Enough
Written from my journal, May 8, 2021
Last night was one of those nights where you realize—again—that love doesn't always come with power. And sometimes, supporting a child you didn’t give birth to still makes your heart ache just the same.
There was a town meeting from 7 to 9 PM. Katie went. Around 8, Autumn called from a friend's house. She said Aurora was asleep. Then my phone died.
When I finally plugged it in, I saw six missed calls. Autumn had tried to reach Nick again and again, and when she couldn’t get through, she called me. She needed someone. She was panicked, scared, overwhelmed.
I handed Nick the phone. She was crying, yelling, trying to explain—trying to be heard. And then, just minutes into the conversation, it turned into something else. Raised voices. Sounds of struggle. A scuffle? The line went tense.
Nick stepped away and called the police at 9:44 PM for a wellness check. I stayed on the line with Autumn until the officer arrived. She said that just knowing someone was on their way helped her calm down. My heart broke a little at how many times kids are made to navigate their trauma alone. How many times they don’t know if anyone will show up.
The officer came. We think it was Officer Cassavant. He asked if she had bruises or cuts. Autumn told him she’d been pushed, that her mom grabbed for her phone, blocked her from leaving—but the officer said there was nothing he could do without “visible signs.” He told her a story about his own dad hitting him with a belt. Then said, “You need to listen to your mother.”
I wanted to scream.
Later that night, Autumn called again. Her phone had been taken. Her uncle Jason showed up—probably to keep things calm. She seemed steadier, but you could hear it in her voice. That fragile, careful peace.
The next morning, she called Nick again, asking to come over. Her words were sharp and heartbreaking: “She disowned me.” She said it more than once. That she had been told she wasn’t wanted. She needed out.
Nick picked her up right away.
Katie, still focused on things like a bag of chips or an empty energy drink can in the car, barely acknowledged the emotional weight of what was happening. But Autumn couldn’t stop talking about what had happened. Her legs were shaking. Her stomach hurt. She was trying so hard to stay composed, but the trauma was raw.
I suggested she use her calming app. It helped. A little.
She didn’t want to go to her soccer game. She said, “I just experienced the most traumatic event in months.” I tried to downplay it, not out of disregard, but out of fear. Fear that if I let myself agree, if I leaned into her pain too far, I’d unravel too.
Eventually, she decided to go. She called her friend—the coach’s daughter—and asked for a ride. The spark in her voice when she made that choice… it was beautiful. She got ready. She left with a smile. She found her own way back to herself.
But I couldn’t help but feel the weight. Of how hard it is to love someone deeply and know that love isn’t enough to shield them. That you're not their legal parent. That you’re just… doing your best. And praying it's enough.
We can’t always protect the children we love. But we can show up. We can answer the phone. We can be the calm voice when everything else feels like chaos.
And sometimes, that’s the only power we have.
Looking back, as I move these journal entries from my WordPress to Blogger, I still never will understand why nobody helped sooner.
Wela’lioq na teliula’lin,
—Tashena
