I cried in the car after Target.

Our 21-month-old son—adopted, born addicted, full of energy—did great. He wore his backpack leash, stayed close, laughed, smiled. But the stares came anyway. Five people. All silent judgment.

They don’t know his story. That he hates being confined. That I physically can’t run like I used to. That he’s in therapy and making progress every day. That he’s loved fiercely.

They just see a leash.

Before I was a mom, I judged too. Now I know better. This isn’t about control—it’s about safety, survival, and doing what works for him.

So if you see us, know this:
This is love. This is protection.
This is parenting.

I thought I had it all figured out when we first adopted Nate. We’d had so many talks about it beforehand—about the challenges, the risks, the rewards. But there’s no manual for parenting a child with a history that involves addiction and neglect. No book can prepare you for the moments when your heart breaks and you’re not sure what to do next.

I remember those first few weeks so clearly. Nate didn’t trust us at first. He couldn’t. How could he? He was used to the unpredictability of a foster home, used to moving between strangers, used to things being loud and chaotic. The first night he stayed with us, he wouldn’t fall asleep unless he was held. He would twist and turn in his crib, whimpering, until I finally gave in and picked him up. I sat on the rocking chair in his room, holding him for hours, wishing I could make the world feel safer for him. And yet, even then, there were moments where I questioned everything. Was I strong enough for this?

When we started taking him to therapy, I noticed the smallest progress. He made eye contact for a second longer than usual. He said “mama” when he was upset. But the hardest part was when we had to go out into the world. The world that didn’t understand him. The world that didn’t know his story.

Today at Target was one of those days. I felt the familiar weight of judgment on my shoulders as I maneuvered through the aisles. Nate, as usual, wanted to run everywhere. He reached for anything he could grab, and I couldn’t keep up. I could feel the eyes of other shoppers on me as I gently tugged the leash to guide him back toward me. And I couldn’t help but think of what they must be thinking. They must think I’m a bad mother, that I’m controlling him, restricting him.

But they don’t know.

They don’t know that Nate doesn’t understand the dangers of running off. That the world is a scary place for him, full of noise and overwhelming sights. They don’t know that he’s had to fight just to feel safe, just to trust again. They don’t see the hard work that my husband and I put into making sure Nate feels loved and secure. They don’t see the hours of therapy, the patience, the compromises we make to get through each day.

As I walked through the store, I could feel the stares burning into the back of my neck. I could feel the judgment, even though no one said a word. People whispered to each other, and I could tell they were talking about me, talking about Nate. The leash. The leash they didn’t understand.

When we got to the checkout, the cashier gave me a smile, but I could see the hesitation in her eyes. I wondered if she was thinking the same thing as everyone else. If she, too, saw the leash and thought I was just trying to control my child.

Nate was tired by that point, fidgeting in my arms, so I tried to comfort him while unloading the cart. I felt my eyes start to sting, and I couldn’t hold back the tears anymore. I turned my head, wiping my eyes quickly, but they kept coming. The frustration, the exhaustion, the hurt of not being seen for who we were. I thought about what it would feel like if, for just one moment, someone looked at us and saw what I see in Nate: a little boy who has been through so much, but who is trying his best to be brave.

As I loaded the last of the bags into the car, I could still feel the sting of those stares. I buckled Nate into his car seat, my hands trembling slightly as I shut the door. I sat in the driver’s seat, staring at the steering wheel, letting the tears flow freely.

“You’re doing your best,” I whispered to myself. “You’re doing your best.”

I heard the sound of Nate’s soft giggles from the back seat, and it brought me back to the present. He was reaching for his toy truck, humming to himself. Despite everything, despite the judgment, my little boy was still full of joy.

I started the car and drove away from Target, my tears slowly drying. I thought about the times before Nate, before parenthood, when I had been so certain of what was right and wrong. It’s easy to judge when you don’t know the full picture. It’s easy to assume that what you see is all there is.

But now I understand. I understand that every parent has their own struggles, their own battles. I understand that every child is different, and some need more support than others. And I understand that a leash isn’t just a leash—it’s a tool. A tool that helps keep my son safe.

As we pulled into the driveway, I looked at Nate through the rearview mirror. His little face was pressed against the seat, his eyes wide with wonder at the world around him. I could see the innocence in his eyes, the curiosity, the excitement for the simple things. And it made me realize that he was doing the best he could, just like me.

That night, after dinner, my husband and I talked about the day. I told him about the stares at Target, about the hurt I felt. He listened quietly, nodding in understanding. Then, after a long pause, he said something that made everything click for me.

“You know, you’re not just his mom. You’re his protector. You’re giving him a safe space to grow, even if no one else sees it. And that’s what matters.”

And I realized then that it didn’t matter what anyone else thought. It didn’t matter if they didn’t understand. What mattered was that Nate was loved, that he was safe, and that we were doing everything we could to help him thrive.

A few weeks later, I found myself at the grocery store again. This time, Nate was wearing his backpack leash, just like always. But this time, something was different. There were no stares. No judgment. No whispers.

Instead, I caught a woman smiling at me from the other side of the aisle. She had a toddler of her own, who was holding tightly to her hand. She nodded at Nate, then at me, and gave me a small, encouraging smile.

“You’re doing great,” she said softly as she walked by.

It was such a simple thing, but it meant the world to me. A small act of kindness, a moment of understanding.

And for the first time in a long while, I felt like someone saw me. Saw us.

It’s easy to judge others when we don’t know their story. It’s easy to assume that what we see is all there is. But the truth is, we all have our struggles. We all have our battles. We all have our own stories. And sometimes, the things we see on the surface are only a small part of a much larger picture.

If there’s one thing I’ve learned from being Nate’s mom, it’s that we all need a little more patience, a little more compassion, and a lot more understanding. Because you never know what someone else is going through. You never know the struggles they’re facing, the challenges they’re overcoming.

So the next time you see a parent with a child on a leash, or with a child acting out, remember: it’s not about control. It’s about love. It’s about protection. It’s about doing whatever works to keep that child safe and happy.

And when you see someone doing their best, remember to offer a little kindness. It might just be the encouragement they need to keep going.

Share this if you believe in kindness, understanding, and loving without judgment. And like it if you think every parent deserves to be seen for the love they give.