11.08.2025
How we became foster parents and changed from the inside
I've been planning for some time to write my story again. I've written them before. I like writing about what’s happening to me and how I feel. For years, I believed our story would have only one outcome – a child. A biological child. Ours. Nothing less than that. But life had different plans.
My husband Aleksandar and I went through many long years of struggling with infertility. Those are years that eat away your youth, your daily routine, friendships, faith, and sometimes even the very meaning of it all. In that battle, you don’t even know who you're talking to anymore, or what to say to yourself. And all you want is for someone to look at you and say: “I understand.”
But more often, people look at you like you’re either too persistent or not realistic enough.
Aleksandar has a son from his first marriage. He has always been part of our everyday life and part of our family. He healed those invisible wounds we carried from every failed attempt and every year without pregnancy.
For years, we were also considering adoption, but it felt like we never reached that step with true inner readiness. Even though we had grown emotionally over all those years, there was a barrier, maybe fear, or that constantly whispering “what if...”.
And foster care? No. Foster care was a word we didn’t like to even say. We associated it with people who “do it for the money,” with children who come and go, with something that isn’t built on a deeper connection. We knew nothing, and yet believed the worst. We had strong, sincere, but completely wrong prejudices.
And then Marija happened.
Our daughter. Our miraculous gift. Born after many years of waiting, disappointment, and sorrow. It’s hard to describe what it means to become a mother at the very moment when you’ve already given up on that dream. Marija brought light into our lives, but she didn’t bring an end to all the questions.
After her birth, we began the process of eligibility assessment for adoption. It was important for us to at least try, to leave that door open. However, nothing concrete happened — we were contacted, but never chosen, we didn’t receive a child. Everything was on hold, undefined. But in our hearts, there was still room.
At some point, the concept of foster care stopped triggering resistance. Maybe parenthood through Marija changed us. Maybe we finally learned that love isn’t limited to biology. We started asking questions, quietly, without much fuss. We began the training, and that’s when everything turned around.
We met wonderful people — professionals, foster parents, psychologists, and other couples who, like us, once had fears. I started realizing that foster care isn’t a temporary “service,” but a serious life role. It’s not about money, nor about “someone else’s child.” It’s about making sure a child has someone. So that they are not alone.
Very soon after completing the training, we got the call. A child. A small person in need of a safe space. A home. And us.
There were so many emotions. At times, I asked myself: “Will we be able to do this? How will it affect Marija? Am I good enough for another child, especially one already carrying a burden?” But the excitement, the need to help, to be someone’s support — that outweighed everything.
The child’s move-in was quiet and cautious. We didn’t insist on anything. The first days were filled with observing. Mutual. Every look, every sentence, every habit — everything was new. Marija was confused at first. She was used to being the only one, to sharing attention only with us. We didn’t hide anything from her; we explained everything, patiently and with understanding.
Over time, the two of them began to laugh together. They invented games. Made a mess in the room, in the house. Sometimes they even argue — like sisters.
But everyday life brings challenges too. Sometimes I have to explain ten times why something isn’t allowed. Some evenings I sit by the bed, waiting for her to fall asleep, because she has fears she can’t even name. Sometimes she closes off and doesn’t want to talk, so I let her. I’ve learned that silence can sometimes say more than words.
I’ve had moments of guilt — will I be able to love and support both children equally? And every time I hold her hand and she doesn’t let go, I remember that love is a matter of choice, not coincidence. It’s no less real just because it started differently.
Now, when I look back, it’s hard to believe I ever thought foster care “wasn’t for us.” It’s actually the deepest, quietest form of giving — when you know the child might not stay forever, but you’re there for as long as needed.
Today, we are a family. Not a typical one. Not a simple one. But a real one. With daily chores, smiles, sometimes tears, and many, many hugs.
My name is Dragana. I’m a stepmother. A mom. And a foster mom. And I love three children who came to me in completely different ways, but all of them are forever in my heart.
Dragana Krstić
Source: https://sansazaroditeljstvo.org.rs/kako-smo-postali-hranitelji-i-promenili-se-iznutra/?fbclid=IwQ0xDSwMGhbZleHRuA2FlbQIxMQABHtL7UWKcYxM6XwpT_RgVrZtjzndnsZ1kdSPFuA6ofkhuJgVdZQHW8IVNnU8K_aem_tdXq4hfNK4vmRrLAxMXSQg
My husband Aleksandar and I went through many long years of struggling with infertility. Those are years that eat away your youth, your daily routine, friendships, faith, and sometimes even the very meaning of it all. In that battle, you don’t even know who you're talking to anymore, or what to say to yourself. And all you want is for someone to look at you and say: “I understand.”
But more often, people look at you like you’re either too persistent or not realistic enough.
Aleksandar has a son from his first marriage. He has always been part of our everyday life and part of our family. He healed those invisible wounds we carried from every failed attempt and every year without pregnancy.
For years, we were also considering adoption, but it felt like we never reached that step with true inner readiness. Even though we had grown emotionally over all those years, there was a barrier, maybe fear, or that constantly whispering “what if...”.
And foster care? No. Foster care was a word we didn’t like to even say. We associated it with people who “do it for the money,” with children who come and go, with something that isn’t built on a deeper connection. We knew nothing, and yet believed the worst. We had strong, sincere, but completely wrong prejudices.
And then Marija happened.
Our daughter. Our miraculous gift. Born after many years of waiting, disappointment, and sorrow. It’s hard to describe what it means to become a mother at the very moment when you’ve already given up on that dream. Marija brought light into our lives, but she didn’t bring an end to all the questions.
After her birth, we began the process of eligibility assessment for adoption. It was important for us to at least try, to leave that door open. However, nothing concrete happened — we were contacted, but never chosen, we didn’t receive a child. Everything was on hold, undefined. But in our hearts, there was still room.
At some point, the concept of foster care stopped triggering resistance. Maybe parenthood through Marija changed us. Maybe we finally learned that love isn’t limited to biology. We started asking questions, quietly, without much fuss. We began the training, and that’s when everything turned around.
We met wonderful people — professionals, foster parents, psychologists, and other couples who, like us, once had fears. I started realizing that foster care isn’t a temporary “service,” but a serious life role. It’s not about money, nor about “someone else’s child.” It’s about making sure a child has someone. So that they are not alone.
Very soon after completing the training, we got the call. A child. A small person in need of a safe space. A home. And us.
There were so many emotions. At times, I asked myself: “Will we be able to do this? How will it affect Marija? Am I good enough for another child, especially one already carrying a burden?” But the excitement, the need to help, to be someone’s support — that outweighed everything.
The child’s move-in was quiet and cautious. We didn’t insist on anything. The first days were filled with observing. Mutual. Every look, every sentence, every habit — everything was new. Marija was confused at first. She was used to being the only one, to sharing attention only with us. We didn’t hide anything from her; we explained everything, patiently and with understanding.
Over time, the two of them began to laugh together. They invented games. Made a mess in the room, in the house. Sometimes they even argue — like sisters.
But everyday life brings challenges too. Sometimes I have to explain ten times why something isn’t allowed. Some evenings I sit by the bed, waiting for her to fall asleep, because she has fears she can’t even name. Sometimes she closes off and doesn’t want to talk, so I let her. I’ve learned that silence can sometimes say more than words.
I’ve had moments of guilt — will I be able to love and support both children equally? And every time I hold her hand and she doesn’t let go, I remember that love is a matter of choice, not coincidence. It’s no less real just because it started differently.
Now, when I look back, it’s hard to believe I ever thought foster care “wasn’t for us.” It’s actually the deepest, quietest form of giving — when you know the child might not stay forever, but you’re there for as long as needed.
Today, we are a family. Not a typical one. Not a simple one. But a real one. With daily chores, smiles, sometimes tears, and many, many hugs.
My name is Dragana. I’m a stepmother. A mom. And a foster mom. And I love three children who came to me in completely different ways, but all of them are forever in my heart.
Dragana Krstić
Source: https://sansazaroditeljstvo.org.rs/kako-smo-postali-hranitelji-i-promenili-se-iznutra/?fbclid=IwQ0xDSwMGhbZleHRuA2FlbQIxMQABHtL7UWKcYxM6XwpT_RgVrZtjzndnsZ1kdSPFuA6ofkhuJgVdZQHW8IVNnU8K_aem_tdXq4hfNK4vmRrLAxMXSQg
PHOTO
