Hey there friend!
Let's talk about how much things can change.
If someone had told me nearly fifteen years ago, when our family was just beginning its adoption journey, what our life would look like today, I would have probably laughed. Or cried. Or both. The person I was back then… I almost cringe thinking about her. She thought she knew everything about how to be a good adoptive parent.
The truth is, I had no idea.
It feels vulnerable to admit that, but maybe you understand. Maybe you’ve had moments on your own journey where you look back at a past version of yourself with a strange mix of embarrassment and compassion. The things I was so sure of then have been quietly, gently replaced over the years. They've been replaced by a deeper understanding—an understanding that came from listening, really listening, to other adoptive parents, and most importantly, to adult adoptees themselves. Their wisdom has been my greatest teacher, showing me what our kids truly need, the importance of supporting them in their identity and their love for their first family, and the profound humbleness that comes from knowing you will always have so much more to learn.
This isn't just my story; it's a story many of us in the adoption community live. It’s a journey from fear to family, from insecurity to connection. And it’s a story worth sharing.
The Moment on the Field
A moment on a hot July afternoon brought this whole evolution into sharp focus. It was a flag football game, and our son was playing with his whole heart. On the opposing team was an extended family member from his biological family. To be technically accurate, he's our son's mom's second cousin, but who needs complex labels like that? In our world, "family" is just fine.
Fifteen years ago, this scenario would have sent a shockwave of anxiety through me. The old me would have seen only complication and rivalry.
But then, our son caught the ball. As he tucked it under his arm and started sprinting down the field, a single, clear voice cut through the usual sideline chatter, punctuated by the loud blast of a game horn. I looked over to the other team's sideline, and there she was—his biological mom's cousin, standing right there with the rest of the parents of the other team. She was shouting, "Go, Charlie! Go! Go!", blaring the horn that was usually reserved for her own son's team. She was actively, enthusiastically cheering him on, urging him toward the end zone.
He scored. It was a triumphant, glorious moment. His own teammates swarmed him in a flurry of high-fives and pats. But then, the huddle parted. His 11-year-old family member, the one on the opposing team, walked deliberately across the field, crossing the invisible line that separated them. And in front of everyone—parents, coaches, and all the other players—he gave him the biggest hug, actually lifting him off his feet in a burst of pure celebration.
Let’s be real: this isn’t typical. In the middle of a competitive game, for a player from the other team to not just congratulate, but to physically lift up his opponent in shared joy? It was stunning. In that moment, the final score didn't matter. The color of their jerseys didn't matter. For them, the label of adoption was irrelevant—they were just family. What mattered was joy. For these two boys, in the beautiful, uncomplicated clarity of being eleven, connection was infinitely more important than competition. They were just excited to celebrate with family.
Watching them, my heart just... swelled. If you had told the me of fifteen years ago that this moment would happen, I would have said, "No way." That "me" was so worried about not being enough, terrified that someone else’s love for my child would somehow diminish my own.
The Evolution of a Family's Heart
But time, and listening, worked their magic. My narrow sense of motherhood began to stretch and expand. I learned—from the lived experiences of adult adoptees and the wisdom within the adoption community—a fundamental truth: a child’s heart doesn't have a limited capacity for love.
There isn't just a place for one mom. There is a place for two. And it's not just about two families—it’s about an entire team. A whole, wonderful, sprawling family thinking about, caring for, and loving our boys. This isn't a competition over a child's heart; it's a collaboration in nurturing it. It’s a beautiful, intricate network of relationships all centered on the well-being of this these amazing boys we all love.
When we, as parents, embrace this, we give our children an incredible opportunity: the freedom to be their whole selves without having to compartmentalize their hearts.
For so many of us, the initial fear of open adoption is real. Yet, as countless families in the adoption community have shared, leaning into openness often leads to an even deeper closeness with our children. It demystifies the past and empowers our kids to walk more confidently into their future. It replaces fear with connection.
From Fear to a Field of Joy
When I look back at the woman I was, the one who was so afraid, I have compassion for her. But I am so incredibly grateful that I was willing to listen and to let my definition of family expand beyond anything she could have imagined.
That moment on the football field was a symbol of how far we’ve come. The cheering from the sideline, the joyful hug—it was proof that love isn't a finite resource to be guarded. It multiplies. It was a testament to the powerful idea that our son doesn’t have to choose between families; he gets to be loved and cheered for by all of them. How amazing is that? To know there is an entire family thinking about, caring for, and loving our boys from near and far.
If you are just starting your adoption journey, or if you find yourself wrestling with the same fears I once had, please hear this: be gentle with yourself. It’s okay to be scared. And it’s essential to listen—to the adoptee voices that are generously sharing their experiences, and to the community around you.
The journey of openness in adoption is an ongoing one. It’s a continuous process of learning and evolving. But as I saw so clearly on that flag football field, the potential for beauty, connection, and profound love is worth every single step.
You’ve got this, and we’ve got you.
Comments
Post a Comment