I have known since I was a little girl that one day I would adopt a child. I can’t fully explain why, but I have always felt an unrelenting pull toward adoption, a quiet, unwavering knowing that there was a child I would not give birth to who was simply—and undeniably—mine. It was a certainty as clear to me as any truth I’ve ever known. I didn’t always understand it, and I certainly didn’t have all the answers, but the feeling was there, constant and unshakable, in all its complexity and ambiguity.
Over the years, I slowly became more familiar with what adoption actually looked like—the process, the expectations, and the emotional demands it would require. In our teenage years, my best friend placed her baby for adoption, and I witnessed firsthand both the heartache and the beauty intricately woven together in that choice. Meeting my husband nearly eight years ago added another layer to my understanding: he and two of his brothers had all been adopted. They shared the same birth mother but each had a different birth father. Their adoption story was extraordinary—nothing short of miraculous—but it also carried the hard truth of adoption: where there is love, there is loss.
My husband lived twenty-one years never knowing his birth mother. When asked how he would describe their first meeting, he said simply, “Emotional and confusing, but hopeful.” Months before she passed, I, too, was fortunate enough to meet her. In June 2018, the three of us sat together in a small booth at a local pizza café. I watched in awe as my husband interacted with the woman who had given him life, seeing the reflection of his features, his gestures, his expressions mirrored in hers. That quiet connection, the tangible link between generations, is something I will never forget.
Although adoption had long been a topic of discussion in our marriage, we began seriously exploring private and agency adoption about six months after my husband’s birth mother passed. By the summer of 2019, we had applied with a local private adoption home study provider. By November, our paperwork was complete, our home study finalized, and our search for our child officially underway.
Within the first month of sharing our adoption announcement online, we were contacted by dozens of women. Most turned out to be scams, and some disappeared after only a brief exchange. By the end of December, however, we were in consistent communication with a young woman who was just weeks pregnant. She soon told us she wanted to place her baby with us. In March 2020, we flew to meet her and her family. We cried together during the ultrasound, spent late nights talking with her, and fell in love with this unborn baby girl.
Then, just two months later, everything fell apart. I logged onto Facebook to find a message from a woman I had never met, claiming the expectant mother had decided to place her baby elsewhere. In the days that followed, dozens of similar messages arrived from families in the same situation. Many of us had been contributing financially, hoping to support this mother. Our dream had become a nightmare. My husband and I clung to each other, weeping. The next morning, we closed the door to the nursery we had already prepared, not ready to face what we had lost.
It wasn’t until October that we had gathered the courage to continue our adoption journey. Private adoption was no longer an option we were willing to pursue. After countless hours of research and conversations with thirty to forty agencies across the country, we applied with an agency that felt right. By March 2021, our paperwork, training, and updated home study were complete. Two months later, we were matched with a baby boy due in October.
We spent the following months fully immersed in preparation. We set up the nursery, gathered baby essentials, and rearranged our schedules in anticipation. On Thursday, September 9th, we learned our son had been born. After the heartbreak of a previous failed adoption, we were finally on the brink of becoming parents. But soon after, the birth mother began distancing herself, and communication faltered. Then, the news arrived: she had decided to keep her baby.
The despair was crushing. For the second time, we felt our dreams slip through our fingers. My husband and I clung to each other, weeping, unable to imagine moving forward. But just two days later, our agency called with unexpected news: a birth mother was in labor, and she had chosen us. We were stunned, overwhelmed, terrified, and grateful all at once. Could this be our baby? Would this adoption succeed where two others had not?
We flew immediately, arriving late Tuesday night. Sleep eluded us as we waited anxiously for the call to go to the hospital. On Wednesday, September 15th, we finally made our way to the nursery. My husband held my hand tightly as we waited, hearts racing. When the nurse rolled our baby boy to us, we simply knew. Tears filled our eyes, and no words were necessary. He was ours. The long, painful journey, the years of waiting, the heartbreak—it all led to this perfect, miraculous moment.
The past two and a half years have been messy, challenging, and yet profoundly sanctified. God, in His perfect and often mysterious timing, gave us just enough to keep holding on. He met us in every moment of despair, guiding us toward this blessing. Adoption has given me two of life’s greatest gifts: my extraordinary husband and our perfect son. And without the selfless, loving sacrifices of our sons’ birth mothers, we would not have the family we do today. For that, we are endlessly, immeasurably grateful.
