Compassion Over Convenience: The Silent Work of Advocacy

Louisiana CASA
Oct 7
4 min read

Each month, I receive a report from DCFS showing the number of children in foster care across Louisiana. It is a spreadsheet filled with lines and columns, numbers and parish codes, but behind every cell is a name, a story, a child. As of September 30th, there were 4,334 children in the Louisiana foster care system.

Every time I open that report, I stop for a moment before scrolling. I think about the babies who will never know the comfort of their first Christmas at home, the teenagers who wonder if this placement will be the last one, and the siblings who cling to each other hoping they will not be separated. The numbers change each month, but the heartbreak does not.

If you were to ask me what keeps me up at night as the state director, I might instinctively say funding sustainability, and it is true, that is always a concern. But if I could share my deepest concern, the one that sits heavier on my heart, is the shortage of volunteers. That is what frightens me most about the future. Not money. Not policy. But people, or rather, the absence of enough of them willing to stand in the gap for these children.

There are moments I wonder if organizations like CASA are slowly becoming a relic of another time. Not because the mission has lost its relevance, if anything, it is more urgent than ever, but because we are built on the willingness of ordinary people to do extraordinary things. We depend on individuals who choose to give their evenings, their weekends, and pieces of their hearts to children who have been through more than most adults ever will. It is a beautiful but fragile model, one that depends on compassion outweighing convenience.

When the pandemic hit, we lost nearly 300 volunteers statewide. We all experienced loss in those years. We lost senses of normalcy, of connection, and of capacity. People were drained, frightened, and grieving in ways big and small. And when the world began to open again, many found they no longer had the same emotional energy to take on hard things. The need remained, but the bandwidth did not.

In the years since, we have learned that rebuilding can be harder than starting fresh. The culture we live in today feels different. It’s faster, noisier, and more disconnected. We are trying to appeal to a generation that has been taught to protect its peace, to avoid discomfort, and to be selective with its time. And while those lessons hold value, they make it harder to inspire the kind of self-sacrifice CASA requires.

Our volunteers do not get to post their work on social media. There are no hashtags, no applause. Their victories are private. The moments that mean the most cannot be shared publicly because they involve real children and real pain. No one sees the late-night calls, the hours spent preparing reports, or the quiet tears shed on the drive home after a difficult court hearing. There are no likes or comments to validate the effort. But still, they show up. Week after week, month after month, they stand beside a child who may never fully understand what it cost them to do so.

But it matters. Deeply.

The truth is, being a CASA volunteer is not easy. We ask a lot. Volunteers go through rigorous background checks and extensive training, and for good reason, because the children we serve deserve the best. CASA volunteers sit for hours in courtrooms, often just waiting for their case to be called. They spend evenings writing reports, making phone calls, and attending meetings. They meet children whose lives have been shaped by trauma, neglect, and instability. It can be heavy. It can feel like too much.

And yet, it is also sacred work.

Through my travels across Louisiana visiting with our local programs, I get to see the very best of our people. Our CASA tribe is made up of our amazing staff, boards, and volunteers who quietly keep showing up. I ask the same question to every program I visit: What is your biggest challenge? The answer never changes. “We need more volunteers.” Every single program, every single parish.

Today there is approximately 4,334 children in foster care in Louisiana. Every one of them deserves a voice in court, someone who is there solely for them, who will listen, advocate, and stand beside them when their world feels uncertain. That is the power of CASA. But right now, we simply do not have enough voices.

I do not believe CASA is a dying model. I believe it is a calling that must be heard differently, more clearly, more urgently, and more personally. This work is not meant for everyone, but it is work that changes lives.

If you have ever felt that quiet pull, that sense that you are meant to do something more, this might be it. The children in Louisiana’s foster care system do not need perfect people. They need steady ones. They need advocates who will listen, who will show up, and who will remind them that their story is not over. If you have the time, the heart, and the willingness, your local CASA program needs you. Because when a child has a CASA, they have hope. And hope, more than anything else, is what keeps them going.

To learn more about becoming a CASA volunteer, please visit www.louisianacasa.org.