DIVERSE PERSPECTIVES. DIVERSE INSIGHTS.
ADORED embraces the power of written and visual storytelling and invites adoptive families and trusted authorities to share their insights and perspectives.
POV:
BLOG ABOUT IT!
A Missed Opportunity?
Aging brings a unique blend of satisfaction and regrets. On one hand, there is more time to pursue personal interests and resources to enjoy them. There's a freedom from worrying about others' opinions. Yet, societal beliefs often impose limitations on what is deemed possible or appropriate as one grows older.
One of my deepest regrets is not persevering through the process of adoption. For many years, I dreamt of having four children to nurture and love. When I realized that I couldn't have biological children, I felt a whirlwind of anger, shame, and shock. My husband and I spent thousands on fertility treatments, each failed attempt a crushing disappointment that took months to recover from before we found the courage to try again or consult another physician.
Eventually, a candid conversation with a fertility doctor changed our path. He pointed out the futility of further treatments and highlighted the need for adoptive parents. This revelation led us to explore adoption. However, our journey was fraught with obstacles. The first agency turned us down because we hadn't been married long enough. The second agency's costs became a burden, especially after our expenditures on fertility treatments, even with the available tax credit.
In the midst of this, I unexpectedly became the primary caregiver for my ailing parents, a grueling journey that spanned nearly three years. By the end, I was emotionally exhausted and felt too old to pursue adoption.
Rachelle
I often wonder how different my life would have been if we had adopted. The emptiness in my womb persists, and I envy friends who boast about their grandchildren. To cope, I immerse myself in activities involving children. My work as a child therapist and the joy of spending time with my 11-year-old niece bring immense satisfaction. I am eternally grateful for the bond we share, even though I sometimes spoil her more than I should. Now, at 61, I am left with lingering questions. What is too old to adopt? Is it too late for me? Is grandparent adoption a possibility? Could I become an adoptive grandmother? To younger couples considering adoption, I offer this advice: make a decision that will not leave you with regrets. Reflect on your desires, seek guidance, and pursue the path that aligns with your dreams and values. It's important to navigate the challenges of adoption with resilience and hope, so you can look back on your life without the weight of missed opportunities.
Darryl
A Sister Adopted. A Sister Forever
It was March 26, 1969 — a Wednesday. I can remember few other dates with such specificity, but I remember that one.
That was the day we picked up my baby sister.
I was 4, and my mom and dad sat me down to prepare me for my role as big brother so that I would understand what was about to happen. I understood the judge’s questions when asked whether I wanted a baby sister. Oh, I wanted her all right. And I understood and questioned why the process took so long.
My parents gave me the privilege of naming her: I chose her first name, Dad her middle name. I thought of the pretty girl with long black hair in my kindergarten class; her name was Stephanie. Dad added Diane, and that’s what he would call her when she wandered into mischief.
I was so happy to have a in-house playmate and sometimes handled her a little rougher than I should. Not long after she arrived in our San Fernando Valley home, I was caught dragging her down the hallway. There was much for me to learn about being a big brother. First lesson: no dragging little sister down the hall. To me, that playful gesture meant, “Welcome to the family!” To my parents, it meant, “Please don’t give the new baby rug burns before the county comes to follow up on her placement.”
I don’t know when my parents told Stephanie
she was adopted, but all I knew was she is
my little sister. Several times when Stephanie
didn’t get her way, she would cry out,
“I want to go to my real parents!”
I can’t imagine how that made my parents feel, but they were thick-skinned.
Adoptive parents are the most "real." They choose a child to be their son or daughter, and my parents made no distinction between us. They kept on loving her, without neglecting me in the process. She grew up witty, precocious and popular. She even celebrated “half birthdays” — six months exactly to your next birthday. She would later have three children — a boy and a girl born on the same date two years apart, and a boy born nine years later. I was surprised to learn years later that she had never told her children that she was adopted. They were in disbelief. I guess that’s how well an adopted sister can blend and bond into the family — smoothly, seamlessly. Then, on September 25, 2011, another date became etched in my memory. My dad called early that morning and simply said, “Stephanie died.” I collapsed on the floor and wept uncontrollably. My baby sister? HOW COULD THIS BE? I have never felt a greater sense of robbery, as the bond you build with an adopted sister is no different than with a biological one. I had imagined us growing old together, not her dying of a heart attack at 42. My beautiful baby sister was gone, and I was an only child in the worst way possible. It remains the single greatest hurt of my life. Somehow I felt better prepared for the loss of my mom in 2016, and my dad in 2024, because they were 76 and 84, respectively. But Stephanie was just beginning to learn who she was. Grief doesn't play fair, so I break down ocassionally without warning. I still love my little sister; I just wish I had told her often enough. I’d give almost anything to have her back, and I’ll always appreciate how adoption blessed my life. I love you, Stephanie.
The Princess, The Queen & The Maternal Heir
“We are having a hard time finding an available girl within your target age range,” Mrs. Hill*, our social worker at the Families First Adoption Agency, said with a straightforward compassion that dropped another anxious pit in my stomach. How could that be? There are some 140,000 girls aged four to six in the U.S. foster care system.
I’d wanted to adopt ever since I was a teen. I don’t know why. I didn’t know any adoptive families or any adopted children. Birth two children and adopt two children. That was my heart-pulled, inexplicable and, perhaps, naive plan.
Fast forward, now my family was eight months into the pre-placement phase of an adoption process after the adoption application with all its gritty necessities—financial disclosures, background checks, fingerprint checks, social worker home visits that included conversations with our young biological son, letters from family and friends, doctors’ reports, and preparation training—was completed. Such scrutiny is necessary for evaluators to determine adopting parents’ ability to unconditionally care for the adopted child’s physical, emotional, medical, psychological, and social needs. Too bad it isn’t required before biological children enter a home.
Pre-placement was also the time when we scoured available national adoption databases almost daily to look for her on our own. We were careful to watch our local Wednesday’s Child television broadcast each week, hoping to find her. Along the way, I fell in love with many sweet but unavailable-to-us faces. Optimism can be blinding at times.
Netta Fei
I could barely digest the rest of Mrs. Hill’s message, though she continued to speak with hope. “There is a program I think you should consider. It’s out of Ethiopia and we have a sister agency in Minneapolis that is doing fantastic work there. Shall I send their information to you?” Why not? After updating our profile with new background and fingerprint checks, we were back into pre-placement. Waiting. Eleven months passed and I was just about to throw in the proverbial towel when the international agency called to offer us a match. Love rushing in. Breathe. Breathe. Four months later, we were in Addis Ababa, the capital and largest city of Ethiopia, a place of ancient culture, one of the poorest countries in Africa, and the heritage of our daughter by adoption. Aisha*, a beautiful brown, four-year-old girl with a flirtatious smile and big, almond shaped, carob-colored eyes. And scared stiff, like an ironing board. As expected, we spent time at the orphanage, meeting and playing with Aisha, and discussed with physicians and nannies her detailed care and assessments. What I didn’t expect was what happened on the day before we took custody of Aisha. A comfortable bus transported us, nine other couples, and agency staff four hours south—past lush greenery, curious hyenas, and round thatched roof huts—to the orphanage where our children entered the Ethiopia Ministry of Women and Social Affairs system. There awaiting each family was the person who submitted their child. There awaiting us was Gelila*, Aisha’s first mother. Gelila was a small young adult with chocolate-milk-colored skin, a lovely heart-shaped face, a tiny waist, and wide hips. At five-feet-four-inches, I towered over her as we hugged. We sat at a divine table across from one another, mirroring tears streaming down our cheeks as an interpreter aided our bond. With a soft, swift-paced voice, Gelila thanked us for coming for Aisha and described her agonizing sorrow in walking her daughter into the orphanage six months ago. She spoke of being the only earner in a poverty-level-income household that included her daughter, mother, and brother, and how she saw that reality equating to certain demise for Aisha. She smiled when sharing Aisha’ likes and dislikes and asked that we raise her princess with Godly principles and a warm care for Ethiopia. “What does Aisha think is happening to her?” I asked, my voice seeping out shakily through sniffles. Gelila’s reply was just as wobbly. “I told her that she is now going to her second family, the one that will take over from me and give her what she needs next in growing up to be a more beautiful and stronger girl.” The ritual hand-off, complete with the country’s traditional roasted coffee and popcorn ceremony, was a sacred necessity. For Gelila, discovering peace in her resolve to secure options for her daughter that were not available to her. For me, closing an inquiry—my prayer answering hers; hers answering mine—that sanctioned my imperishable inheritance of a child. Her, a queen at a complicated crossroad of motherly crisis, bestowing upon me, a pauper, the reign of her most precious jewel.