I always knew adoption was part of my story someday, but the road that led me here looks nothing like I ever imagined. Not even close. If I had known what was waiting for me, that younger version of myself would have never been brave enough to say yes to this journey.
I won’t sugarcoat it—those first days with my boy were brutal. They were exhausting, overwhelming, messy, terrifying, and far more complicated than I ever expected. I cried every single day for months. I questioned myself constantly, and I questioned God too, asking if I was truly capable of doing this for a lifetime. If I’m honest, some of those questions still linger.
I vividly remember day two, calling everyone I loved and telling them this just wasn’t for me. I couldn’t do it. I didn’t want to figure it out. I didn’t want to push through or fight any longer. It felt like too much. Yet every night, without fail, God would meet me there. Sometimes gently, sometimes unmistakably. He reminded me He was right beside me—in the fire, not watching from a distance. He hadn’t left me. This was His plan. My job was simply to trust Him.
So I leaned in and kept going through the hardest days with my boy. And there were far more hard days than easy ones. Endless hours in therapy sessions. Teacher meetings. Daily phone calls to my people for weeks and months saying, “I quit.” So many tears—again and again.
And yet, here we are, crossing the three-year mark. He now brings so much life into my world—love, hope, laughter, grace by the truckload, and a depth of perspective I didn’t know I needed. He is kind beyond his years. He notices needs and meets them without being asked. He is sacrificial in ways I still struggle to understand. He loves fully, with his whole heart, and would give anything to make sure the people he loves feel seen, valued, and safe.
Recently, it was just the two of us in the car when he told me he found one of his old journals. He said he threw it away because it made him sad to see who he was when he first came to me.
“I’m so sorry I was so difficult,” he said, apologizing over and over.
Tears filled both of our eyes. I reached for his hand and told him, “You didn’t know, son. None of that was your fault. You didn’t know how to trust me. You didn’t know how to love or be loved. Your trauma ran deep. Please don’t apologize. I never want to forget that boy because he reminds me of God’s grace in our lives. He tells the story of how brave you are and how far you’ve come.”
“Yes ma’am,” he replied softly, head bowed—because if I had to guess, those words still don’t fully feel true to him.
Abuse and deep trauma strip people of dignity, value, and worth. They leave hearts torn open, convinced it was all their fault and that they’ll never be worthy of being fully loved or fully known. And yet, those are the ones I believe are most worthy of love.
Without even knowing what I need, my boy somehow always offers the exact perspective my heart needs. Recently, he shattered me at the dinner table on an ordinary Tuesday night when he thanked me for dinner.
“I’ve been thinking a lot about the nights I went to bed hungry,” he said. “I’m just really thankful to know I’ll have a meal every night.”
I couldn’t even lift my head. Tears poured down my face, and he immediately worried he had said something wrong.
“No, no, son,” I told him. “You just don’t understand. Who you are and how you live has taught me to trust that no matter how hopeless things feel, my rescue is always coming. It’s never late. It’s always right on time. You’ve taught me that with God, things seem impossible—until they aren’t.”
Once again, all he could say was, “Yes ma’am,” because he still doesn’t see what I see. He doesn’t yet recognize how brave, strong, and deeply important his life is—to this world and to me.
My boy went to bed countless nights not knowing if or when his rescue meal would come. And I can’t help but wonder how many of us are going to bed tonight asking the same question—waiting for our own rescue. Wondering when God will show up and answer the prayers we’ve been begging Him to hear.
Here’s what I know: God has not forgotten you. He has not abandoned you. You are not alone in the waters that feel like they might drown you. There is another in that fire with you. I don’t know when your rescue will come. I don’t know when the impossible will happen. But I do know this—it will come. It just may not look the way you expected.
That very thing that feels like it’s breaking you apart might one day be the thing that holds you together.
How do I know?
Because this boy once broke me wide open—and now, he’s the very thing holding me together.
