Holding the Line

I’ve tried to sit down and write something meaningful several times over the last few weeks. April was Child Abuse Awareness Month, and I felt a pull, maybe even an obligation, to say something.

Something hopeful.

Something inspiring.

A story about how one person can change the trajectory of a child’s life.

But I couldn’t do it.

I couldn’t find the words. I couldn’t organize my thoughts in a way that felt honest, let alone meaningful. Every time I sat down to write, I came up empty.

The truth is, April was hard.

At the child advocacy center where I work, the cases came in one after another, some of them carrying details that stay with you long after you close the file. The kind you hope never come across your desk. On top of the new investigations, I'm also navigating a full caseload while stepping into additional responsibilities as a supervisor; haphazardly balancing the weight of safeguarding and supporting my own tiny clients with the responsibility of guiding the next generation of advocates.

The work doesn’t slow down to make space for transition. It just keeps moving, and you move with it. Sink or swim.

Day after day, sifting through reports, verifying facts, setting aside internal biases, observing behavior and listening closely. Really listening. Not just to what is said, but to what is often too hard for a child to say at all. Listening to the small, quiet voices that are counting on someone to hear them.

There were moments this month when I knew what needed to be said. Moments where the truth was clear, but speaking it came with a cost. I understood that using my voice might create tension, might invite criticism, might place a target on my back.

And, it did.

Accountability is not always welcomed. Truth has a way of making people uncomfortable, especially when it challenges motivations, decisions, or systemic shortcomings. But this work has never been about my comfort. It has always been about doing what is right, even when it is difficult. Especially when it is difficult.

There is a quiet weight that comes with that kind of responsibility. The long days. The emotional toll. The reality that even when you do everything right, the outcome is not always what you hoped it would be. There are no guarantees. No neat endings tied up in a way that makes the story easier to tell.

I wish I could offer a feel-good story to close out Child Abuse Awareness and Prevention Month. I wish I could point to a single moment and say, “This is where it all worked out.”

But the truth is, we are still in it.

Still asking the hard questions.

Still challenging decisions that don't align with a child's best interest.

Still standing firm when it would be easier to back down.

There are no awards for doing the right thing in this field. No applause for handling a case with integrity. More often than not, the cost of speaking truth is criticism, not recognition.

And yet, the work continues.

Because it matters.

Because children deserve to live in safe spaces, surrounded by safe people.

Because they deserve every ounce of care and commitment we can muster.

Child welfare is not glamorous. It will test your resolve and stretch your capacity in ways you never expected. It requires a willingness to stand alone at times, to speak when others won’t, and to keep going even when the outcome is uncertain.

And maybe that is the lesson April left behind.

Not that the work gets easier.

Not that the recognition or appreciation will come.

But rather, what an absolute privilege it is to take the hits meant for children and refuse to let them land.

Advocacy is not defined by a month on the calendar but in the daily decision to show up, to act with courage, and to speak out when it would be easier to stay quiet.

And as long as there are children who need someone to listen, someone to stand in the gap, someone willing to be their voice—

I'll be here.