The parking lot buzzed with life—a bouncy house, a face painter, and an array of food options ranging from pizza to cookies, chips, and veggie trays. It felt like a children’s birthday party, and in a way, it was. This special day marked the first “official” day in a new forever home for two children, aged 3 and 5, who were not biologically related but now shared the same loving family. The adoptive parents, brimming with gratitude and joy, handed my sister a helium balloon with the words, “You are the best,” to show their appreciation.
This wasn’t just a celebration for the children but also for the family who had endured a long, arduous journey to get to this moment.
Recently, I attended what is often called a “Gotcha Day” celebration. It commemorates the adoption of children from foster care. My sister, a dedicated foster care social worker, invited me to this event. She hesitated, worried it might stir up painful memories for me, but I was curious—curious to meet the family and understand their story. Above all, I wanted to honor the parents’ incredible milestone.
At first, I couldn’t help but feel sad. The familiar pang of “Why not us?” hit me hard. Why do some people get to bring babies home, raise them, and eventually adopt them? Why was our journey so different? Despite my preference for adopting a newborn, it never happened for my husband and me. And here was this couple who had done it—twice, in fact. They even parented another child who was later reunited with their birth mom.
But as I spoke with the parents, a new perspective emerged. Their journey wasn’t the fairy tale I had imagined. It reminded me of why my husband and I eventually stepped away from fostering. The road they traveled was filled with emotional, financial, and bureaucratic challenges. It demanded fortitude, hope, and an unwavering commitment to their children.
One of their children, born with fetal alcohol syndrome, faced significant health challenges. She required a feeding tube, and no daycare would accept her because they didn’t know how to care for her needs. These parents didn’t back down—they rearranged their work lives, creating a setup where they could both work from home to ensure she received the care she needed.
They shared with me the complexities of maintaining a relationship with the children’s birth families. The visits often left the children in tears, regressing emotionally. It broke my heart to hear how much these kids endured, and yet I was in awe of the parents’ resilience as they worked tirelessly to help the children heal and thrive.
This experience brought me clarity. It wasn’t our path, and I understood why. I couldn’t have handled a medically fragile child or overhauled my career to meet such demands. More importantly, we had already navigated the foster care system once, and that experience was enough for us.
In the end, my sadness faded into gratitude. I felt thankful that these two kids now had a loving, permanent family. Thankful that their parents were free from the endless cycle of foster care bureaucracy. Thankful that even the daycare eventually embraced the child’s unique needs, allowing the parents to focus on creating a life filled with joy and stability.
This journey wasn’t ours, but witnessing theirs was a poignant reminder of the beauty of resilience and the power of unconditional love.
