The lies breathe down my neck…sometimes it’s impossible to bear their weight.
It’s hard to write about adoption. It’s a tangled web of attachment, parenting snafus and mistakes and privacy. My daughter’s story is her’s alone—and it’s not fair for me to broadcast across the universe about learning to navigate her PMS or what brings her pain and what she can sit through. This is none of your business.
But if I don’t say anything then it’s an incomplete picture. If I don’t write about these hard things then it’s an unrealistic picture of adoption and how it irrevocably changed and shaped our family. How it changed me. So it’s not your business, but I do want you to know something.
Like how I battle shame for the way I sometimes have to give myself a pep talk as she walks in the door. Or feeling guilty when my sister called me out on the fact that as soon as Glo wakes up in the morning, the first words out of my mouth are commands for her to go do something so she would stay out of my way. Whereas, when my other two wake up, they’ll crawl into my lap and we’ll spend time snuggling. Because that doesn’t make me feel like the world’s largest slime ball and it’s super easy to talk about it to every other person on the planet.
There’s a line between being honest and over-sharing.
So I don’t write much about our adoption because so much of this isn’t any of your business—it’s private matters worked out in my heart between me and my God, between my daughter and myself, and between her and her God. She’s got a lot of trauma to work through and a lot of her story with which to come to peace.
I don’t feel like I rescued her. I know logically and in a very tangible way, we saved her life. And I know she is for loving and that she’s mine. I also remember standing outside the door to our hotel in Africa, leaning my head on the door crying in defeat. We’d been there for three weeks and our quiet, friendly, accommodating child had transformed into this needy, destructive, dramatic human I didn’t recognize—and all I wanted was a giant red button to reset the whole thing, to make a different decision that led us to a different place. Those are my weakest and darkest moments. The moments when I wish we had never entered into this.
Our family is knit together and she is mine and I am hers. It’s in my bones. My body and heart would break if anything happened to her—and I know that I know that I know I am her mom. The end.
But there are moments I think back to before I had kids and I wish my biological children away because I’m tired of piles of laundry and 90 requests in the first hour of the day and I just want to sit on the couch and drink my coffee and not have to be “on” for anyone else; or I crave the days when my time was my own and I could be as selfish as I wanted with what I did and how I did it…But when I think about life pre-adoption there’s this small voice, the cynic inside, who whispers that I really do mean it with Glo. That I really do resent her and the way she upset my life.
And a knife twists, and I submit to the lie that I’m a terrible mom and so I stay quiet and let the guilt and shame eat away. I can’t tell you this because you’ll tell me everything I already know—that I’m broken and wrong and hateful. You’ll see her and see a great kid and assume I’m exaggerating about how hard it is to choose love.
And there probably is a biological imperative that makes staying with your kids that look and sound like you a tad bit easier—
Someone once told me it would feel different when Kyler gives birth than when Gloria gives birth…I’m scared they’re right. I’m scared that blood matters more than choice. I’m scared that Gloria will turn 18 and walk away from us and I’ll breath a great sigh of relief. I’m scared that I’m checking the boxes of what a good mom is, without actually feeling the feels of a good mom. I am going through the motions, but have completely separated myself from her. I’m on one side of the wall and she’s on the other.
But then the still small voice, whispers–not the cynic, the other one. The one who is lovingly tender as I walk out my life with fear and trembling. The Spirit presses in, reminding me that I too am created and beloved, I am for loving and that I am good. I am reminded of the power of the light, that by writing and speaking–even of the darkest and hardest parts, they begin to lose their power. Shame and guilt give way to grace and humility. I confess my hardness, and am softened.
So, I’m exposing these lies to the light. Here, now I am showing you the darkest parts of me. I am letting the lies have their moment in time and space—and as I write these words, tears drip down slowly, and my heart grows softer and more tender towards myself and towards my daughter. There is grace and love here. There’s a chance for hope and life to speak into these dark places.