04/09/2026
She laid her head on my chest and sighed.
This is the moment I knew — could feel in my soul — that while I could leave this job, this profession, this org, I could never leave this. It was later, maybe even much later, that I could define it. I could see it in my mind: this moment stretching over time from seconds through years and over generations, reaching back through the past and forward into the future. How to explain this to others when I could scarcely put it into words myself?
She lived with me for a little while, this sigher I mention, closing in on 18 years old and finally becoming an "adult" (or so the system says). She didn't seek me out like some of the other kiddos, we didn't make a quick connection, and I can't point to some poignant memory that preceded the sigh. She lived with me, though, and she turned 18. We celebrated — with gifts and cake, streamers and singing. She moved.
One day, late on a Friday afternoon, I was working in an empty building. A joy of being the boss is getting to let others leave early for the weekend, and the kids were gone on an outing. It was peaceful — the kind of quiet that settles at the end of a chaotic week when you can finally see the hard-won weekend ahead. The door chime broke the silence, and I glanced up to see her: our recent graduate, still in her work uniform and coated in sweat beneath her mandatory hat, chin jutting out defiantly, footsteps slow and labored, breathing heavily from the long walk across town — several miles in the sweltering Oklahoma summer.
I smiled, grateful to see her — but before I could truly move, her mask cracked. Desperate to reach her, I watched the weight of the world press down on her with every step, time dragging, fear bubbling up as I considered what may have driven her desperate walk. She stepped into me — several inches taller and wearing her signature black combat boots — and somehow curled up to lay her head wearily on my chest with a sigh. I wrapped my arms tightly around her and quietly murmured something comforting, along the lines of, "Ahhhh, it's okay. I'm here."
With her sigh, I knew: this is forever — this moment, this connection, this found family we created almost by accident in a five-bedroom, two-bath children's shelter over on Monroe. Her story — that which caused the hug and sigh that will now forever symbolize a family forged — is not mine to share. Much of what we do at CYS is deeply private and confidential. It makes what we do even harder, this inability to share that which makes us show up to a job that holds moody teens, crying toddlers, laughter that leads to tears and tears that lead to laughter, fire drills, an entire room for hygiene products, security systems, and cleaning five toilets every day.
I share this brief glimpse into my heart in honor of Child Abuse Prevention Month. If you would like to learn more, follow our social media accounts or visit our website — we always welcome new members to our family ☺️
