Last week, a text arrived from an old friend. “Thank you for your forgiveness,” it began.

Radical change doesn’t always happen in a flash. It can arrive as a whisper, dropping hints over the years of something new to come.

When I was in college, I studied in Spain for a year. Arriving back on campus, I needed a place to live. Luckily, one of my besties from high school offered me space in her apartment, along with three of her friends.

I never saw it coming: The moment that changed everything.

When I woke up on that crisp Minnesota morning in the fall of 2014, it was a day like any other: ordinary, unremarkable. I grabbed my coffee, took a shower, brushed my teeth. I barely noticed my feet beneath me – or the vibrant leaves from our ancient maple tree in a continual free fall, offering an unspoken message on how to let go.

The space between false hope and false hopelessness is a chasm.

When I worked to find adoptive and permanent families for teens in foster care, I’d often hear from other child welfare workers, “You’re giving the kids false hope.”

It was always said as a bad thing, as if carefully involving teens in their own permanency planning was unhelpful, unreasonable, or in some way detrimental to their mental health.

Transformation is rarely easy.

I once spent a few summers helping to shepherd monarch caterpillars into butterflies for release, an undertaking that’s both astonishing and beautiful: The insatiable caterpillar munches loudly on milkweed leaves, readying itself for metamorphosis. After a couple of hungry weeks – shedding its skin as it grows exponentially – the arthropod finds a quiet spot, hangs upside down, and essentially digests itself, becoming soupy goo.

It’s probably safe to say that many people find this a relatable feeling these days…

Sometimes, there comes a moment when you realize the earth has shifted on its axis, and your life will never be the same.

Memories flood in…

Me, age 6, one big shoe in each hand, carrying the kicks to my dad as we played Shoe Store, a fantastical game of make-believe.

“Would you like to buy some shoes?” I’d ask my dad, imitating a salesperson.

It began with a dream.

“What if we started our own nonprofit?” I asked my colleague and friend Michelle. I was sitting on my desk, legs dangling, chowing down on a turkey sandwich.

We had about two years left on a five-year federal project; the goal was to find adoptive and permanent families for Minnesota teens under state guardianship. It was time to start thinking about what came next.