I am a white woman, and although I did not give birth to this young man, he has been my son for 14 years. He has lived in my home, laughed at the same dinner table, slept under the same roof, and grown up alongside my own biological children. From the moment he became a part of our family, I loved him as fiercely as if I had carried him in my womb. I have watched him grow, stumble, and rise again, just as any mother would, and every day my heart swells with pride for the person he is becoming.

But this love has not been without its trials. I have watched him be treated unfairly, his character questioned, his intentions misjudged—not because of who he is, but because of the color of his skin. I have seen the world place invisible barriers in his path, judge him harshly for mistakes he did not make, and treat him as less than he is. I have seen his shoulders bear burdens that no child should ever carry, and my own heart aches with the knowledge that I cannot take away the weight of the world from him.

Yet in the face of these injustices, my love has only deepened. I will stand for him, fight for him, and protect him to the very limits of my ability. If someone threatens him, if someone tries to harm him, there is a part of me that wishes I could shield him from it all with my own hands. I would bear their anger, absorb their cruelty, if it meant that he could continue to walk through life safely and freely. I know I cannot shield him from everything, but I will not stop trying.

I will never know what it is like to live in brown or black skin, to face the world as he does. I will never fully understand the fear that can accompany every interaction, the caution required just to exist, the quiet resilience demanded by a world that does not always see him as he truly is. But I do know what it is like to love someone so completely, so fiercely, that your soul aches when they hurt, and your heart prays constantly for their safety. I know what it is like to be a mother in every sense of the word, even if the world cannot always recognize it.

Every day, I pray for him. I pray that his life will not be cut short by hatred or ignorance. I pray that he will be seen, heard, and valued for the remarkable person he is. I pray that the world will learn to meet him with fairness, compassion, and understanding. I do not expect miracles, but I cling to hope, and I cling to him.

And so, I continue to stand. I continue to fight. I continue to love. Because love does not measure by the color of skin—it measures by the depth of connection, by the willingness to protect and nurture, and by the unwavering commitment to see a child flourish in spite of the world’s failures. He is my son. He is my family. And I will never stop standing in his corner, no matter how hard the fight or how heavy the burden.