When I came across Second Chance Adoptions’ new Facebook page, I couldn’t shake the feeling in my gut. They were asking for help spreading the word, and I found myself wondering why the original page had disappeared. I don’t know the full story or what led to that change, but something about what I was seeing felt deeply unsettling.
One of their recent posts featured a little boy—I’ll call him Micah—being quietly “rehomed.” There was no mention of court oversight or a clearly defined process. Instead, there was a short bio listing his favorite things—Sonic the Hedgehog, dinosaurs, pepperoni pizza—followed by instructions on how to pursue a private adoption. It was jarring. What should have been handled with care, protection, and dignity instead felt overly simplified, almost transactional in nature.
Micah’s adoptive parents described him as witty and active, but also shared that he struggled with attachment and hadn’t bonded with his adoptive mother. Their solution wasn’t centered around therapy, trauma-informed care, or additional support. Instead, they were seeking a new home, ideally with a different family dynamic. While I understand that some situations become incredibly complex, it raised deeper questions about what happens when a child’s needs exceed a family’s capacity—and what support is available when that happens.
This pattern isn’t unfamiliar. It reflects a broader belief that if the environment changes, the child will eventually adjust. But what often goes unaddressed is the deeper reality—trauma, disrupted attachment, and the need for consistent, specialized care. Without addressing those root issues, changing placement can reinforce the instability the child is already struggling with.
This isn’t something hidden in the past. It’s happening in real time, in public spaces, where individuals with the right qualifications and resources can pursue private placements. While these efforts may be framed as offering a “second chance,” the lack of visible oversight, structured transition, and safeguards raises important concerns about how these decisions are made and who is ultimately being protected.
I’m not writing this as an outsider. As an adoptee, I’ve lived through the complexities of adoption in ways that are difficult to fully explain. While my story was never shared publicly in this way, I was told more than once that if options like this had existed when I was younger, my situation may have turned out differently. That kind of statement doesn’t just pass—it stays with you. It introduces the idea that belonging can feel conditional, and that stability may depend on factors outside of your control.
Private rehoming situations often exist in spaces where regulation and oversight are limited. When processes happen outside formal systems, important safeguards—like thorough screening, legal protections, and structured transitions—may not be as consistent or clearly defined. Many of the children involved have already experienced trauma, loss, or multiple placements. Some struggle with attachment, trust, or behavioral challenges rooted in those early experiences. These realities don’t signal failure—they signal a need for deeper support.
When those needs go unmet, and the response becomes relocation rather than intervention, the child is left carrying the emotional consequences. Without intentional care and continuity, that can increase their vulnerability and reinforce feelings of instability or displacement.
Within adoptive families, dynamics can also become complicated, especially when multiple children are navigating conflict and adjustment. Without awareness and support, it’s easy for patterns to develop where one child is consistently viewed through a negative lens. Behaviors rooted in trauma can be misunderstood, and over time, this can create an environment where the child feels not only misunderstood but unsafe.
I’ve seen how those dynamics can affect not just one relationship, but the entire family structure. When conflict isn’t approached with care, understanding, and support, it doesn’t resolve—it deepens.
Adoption is often presented as a resolution—a moment where a child’s story finds stability. But in reality, it’s only the beginning. It requires preparation, ongoing support, and a willingness to navigate complexity over time. When systems prioritize placement without ensuring that long-term support is in place, families can find themselves unprepared for the challenges that follow. And when disruption happens, the burden often falls on the child.
That’s where situations like this become especially concerning. When transitions lack structure, when support is limited, and when decisions are made quickly, the process can begin to center adult needs rather than long-term wellbeing for the child.
Children like Micah don’t simply need a new environment. They need stability, support, and access to professionals who understand trauma, attachment, and development. They need caregivers who are equipped and supported—not left to navigate these challenges alone. And if a placement truly cannot be sustained, the transition should be handled with care, oversight, and intentionality, allowing space for adjustment and prioritizing the child’s emotional wellbeing.
Because at the core of this issue is a simple truth: children are not problems to be solved—they are people to be understood.
This isn’t about condemning adoption. When approached with integrity, preparation, and support, it can be deeply redemptive. I’ve seen that firsthand, and I respect the families who walk that path with humility and commitment. But when practices emerge that raise ethical concerns, we have a responsibility to pay attention.
Awareness matters. So does accountability.
When something doesn’t sit right, we should be willing to ask questions, seek understanding, and, when necessary, speak up—not out of judgment, but out of a desire to protect those who are most vulnerable.
At the end of the day, the goal should never be simply to place a child. It should be to ensure they are safe, supported, and truly seen.
To those who are fostering, adopting, or considering it, please know this comes from a place of care. Adoption can be beautiful, but it also requires honesty, preparation, and long-term support. When those pieces are in place, children have the opportunity not just to be placed—but to heal, to belong, and to thrive.
And that’s what they deserve.
When I came across Second Chance Adoptions’ new Facebook page, I couldn’t shake the feeling in my gut. They were asking for help spreading the word, and I kept wondering—why was the old page gone? I’m not privy to the information as to why it disappeared, and I don’t know the full story. But what I do know is this: something about their approach feels deeply unsettling.
If you keep scrolling, you’ll come across one of their most recent posts—a picture of a little boy, whom I’ll call Micah, being quietly “rehomed.” There’s no court order. No formal oversight. Just a sweet little bio listing his favorite things—Sonic the Hedgehog, dinosaurs, pepperoni pizza—along with detailed instructions on how to adopt him privately. It reads less like a thoughtful adoption profile and more like a classified ad for a used car.
Micah’s adoptive parents paint him as witty and active, but they also say he hasn’t bonded with his adoptive mom and has a hard time being around his younger sibling. And their proposed solution? Not therapy. Not trauma-informed support. Not even basic post-adoption services. There’s no visible effort to mend the attachment or build understanding—no sign of love, empathy, or a willingness to fight for him. Instead, they’re actively seeking a new adoptive home—this time with no other young children, preferably with a single dad.
It follows the same tired narrative we’ve seen too many times before: “If we just find someone new, maybe he’ll finally attach and bond like he’s supposed to.” But instead of addressing what’s actually going on—his trauma, his disrupted attachment, maybe even a need for deeper therapeutic or psychiatric support—they’re giving up. They’re preparing to pass him off like a problem too big to solve.
This isn’t fiction. And it’s certainly not a relic of the past. This is happening right now—in plain sight—for anyone with a completed home study and a few thousand dollars in legal fees. And while the agency is quick to assure the public that this isn’t a “trial run,” they also make one thing clear: there won’t be any visits. No time for Micah to meet or gradually transition to a new family. No thoughtful adjustment period. Just a permanent handoff to strangers. No questions asked.
I’m writing this not as an outsider looking in, but as someone who’s lived through the complexities of adoption. While my face and story were never shared online like Micah’s, I was repeatedly told by my adoptive family that if programs like this had existed when I was a child, they would’ve taken that route.
That kind of admission doesn’t just sting—it lingers. It’s a chilling thought, knowing that your presence in a family felt so conditional. And let’s be honest: there’s nothing okay about this. It’s deeply disturbing.
The Dark Reality of Private “Rehoming”
While some may not immediately label this as human trafficking, the truth is—rehoming adopted children through private, unregulated channels carries many of the same red flags. These situations often happen outside the legal system, with no government oversight, no court involvement, and no safeguards in place to protect the child.
And who are these children? Many come from foster care or international adoptions. They’ve already experienced significant trauma, instability, and loss. On top of that, many of them struggle with conditions like FASD (Fetal Alcohol Spectrum Disorders) or RAD (Reactive Attachment Disorder). In simpler terms, they have deep challenges related to bonding and trust. But instead of seeing this as a call for compassionate, trauma-informed care, adoptive families sometimes view these diagnoses as hopeless. They don’t want to—or feel they can’t—invest the time, energy, or resources needed to support the child’s healing. Their sense of safety and belonging is already fragile, worn thin from being moved from place to place, and now it’s treated like something optional.
Instead of receiving the trauma-informed care they desperately need, they’re passed off—quietly and informally—like possessions that didn’t “fit.” This leaves them even more vulnerable, putting them at risk of abuse, neglect, or deeper emotional harm.
I don’t say that lightly.
Back in 2013, Reuters released a chilling investigation exposing online message boards where adoptive parents were quietly transferring their children to new families—completely outside the child welfare system. These weren’t formal adoptions. There were no background checks, no court approvals, no accountability. Just strangers connecting over the internet and handing over children like items being exchanged.
These unregulated “rehomings” created the perfect environment for predators to gain access to vulnerable children. And tragically, many of these cases ended in abuse, neglect, and lifelong trauma.
Today, it’s 2025—and it’s still happening. But instead of hidden forums, it’s playing out on Facebook. The posts may look polished and public, often tied to Christian organizations or adoption advocacy groups, but the core issue is the same: children are being transferred without formal oversight or protection.
Just because it’s happening in the open doesn’t make it safe. In fact, the public nature of these posts can be even more dangerous because they give the illusion of credibility. The warm language, the high-quality photos, the talk of “second chances”—they all make the practice seem well-intentioned. But underneath it all, it’s still a system that prioritizes adult convenience over child protection.
Commodifying Children Is Not the Answer
Again, I want to be clear—I’m not speaking for all adoptees. But over the thirty-one years of experience, I’ve seen that adoptive parents will more often than not side with their biological children over their adopted ones. Within the sibling dynamic, there’s an unspoken bias that can surface when conflict arises—especially between siblings. And when things get messy—when there are bonding challenges or behavioral issues—it’s often the adopted child who ends up carrying the blame.
So we have to ask some hard questions:
- What are the adoptive parents doing to foster real connection and reconciliation between the children?
- Is the adopted child being scapegoated—unfairly blamed for every conflict or disruption?
- Have the parents already decided the adopted child is simply “difficult” and incapable of change?
- Are they responding with patience and support—or with judgment and rejection?
- Do the biological kids get the benefit of the doubt, while the adopted child is held to a different standard?
- Are the parents engaging in triangulation—aligning with one child to isolate or undermine the other?
- Have they sought trauma-informed care to understand what’s really going on—or are they just trying to manage the symptoms?
When adoptive parents form a firm belief about their adopted child (like “they’re just difficult” or “they’re always causing problems”), they begin to interpret everything the child does through that belief—even when it’s normal behavior. A normal tantrum becomes “manipulative.” Sadness is labeled as “attention-seeking.” A struggle to adjust becomes a “problem that needs to be removed.” And sometimes it’s not even overt. It shows up in subtler ways—less eye contact, less patience, less warmth. Grace is extended to the biological children, while the adopted child is met with suspicion or frustration.
So of course, it’s not hard to understand why the adoptee is struggling with attachment and bonding.
This kind of dynamic plants deep seeds of shame. The child begins to believe they are the problem. That love is conditional. That they have to work harder just to feel like they belong—and that even then, it could all be taken away.
It’s heartbreaking, but it’s real. And unless it’s acknowledged and addressed, it doesn’t just harm the child—it reshapes the entire family dynamic. In my case, it destroyed parent-sibling relationships, and sibling-to-sibling relationships.
What This Reveals About Our Adoption System
As an adoptee myself, I’ve seen the shadows in a system that too often prioritizes placement over healing. For many of us, even non-adoptees, Facebook pages and posts like the one about Micah hit especially hard. They echo a painful reality we know all too well—that love can feel conditional, stability can be taken away, and our worth is tied to how “well” we behave.
So when I see Facebook pages that look like ads for children, it’s jarring. It feels like trafficking—because, in many ways, it is. These agencies have figured out how to game the system, and what’s even more disturbing is how closely it mirrors the tactics of a pyramid scheme.
If you’re not familiar with pyramid schemes, they often survive—despite being illegal—by hiding behind a “product.” They sell hope, promising success, opportunity, transformation. But underneath, it’s built on exploitation and false promises. This rehoming adoption model works the same way. The child becomes the “product.” Their personality traits, interests, and smile are packaged into a post. The promise? A better fit. A fresh start. A second chance.
But behind all the polished photos and grant opportunities is a system that makes it easy for adoptive parents to walk away—and for agencies to keep profiting. There’s little to no legal oversight. No therapeutic transition. No real accountability.
It becomes an exploitation loop—one where the adults get options and the child carries the consequences. Families quietly opt out. Agencies stay in business. And vulnerable children are left with the trauma, the confusion, and the message that they weren’t worth sticking around for.
It’s easy for the public to believe that once a child is adopted, their story ends with a happily ever after. But adoption is complex. It demands preparation, honesty, and lifelong support. When adoptive families aren’t equipped—or when the system fails to follow up—the child pays the price.
There’s a Better Way
Children like Micah don’t need to be passed along to strangers on the internet. But if you scroll through Second Chance Adoption’s Facebook page, you’ll find other kids just like him—posted with profile pictures, bios, and carefully worded captions. It’s deeply unsettling.
What these children actually need is wraparound support—the kind that comes from professionals trained in trauma, attachment, and child development. They need people who not only understand the weight of their experiences, but who are committed to doing what’s ethically right.
Second Chance claims to have licensed clinical social workers and counselors on staff. But something’s clearly off. Either they’re ignoring the ethical standards of their profession, or they’ve convinced themselves that what they’re doing somehow serves the best interest of these children.
Children don’t just need a new placement. They need families who are supported—not left to figure it all out on their own. And if a disruption truly becomes necessary, it should be handled through formal legal channels—with the child’s safety, emotional wellbeing, and mental health as the top priority. There should be a trial run, visits, a transition period, and a gradual adjustment for the child—not another jarring move that reinforces their belief that they’re unwanted.
Because the goal should never be to simply “place” a child. Children need more than placement—they need to heal, to feel safe, to form lasting connections, and to thrive in environments where love and stability are not conditional.
We often wonder why so many children who come through the system end up struggling with the law later in life. We’re quick to offer prayers and hope that God will turn their lives around—and yes, they absolutely need Jesus. But transformation doesn’t start there. It starts in the home. It starts with us.
How are we, as parents, being the vessel? How are we loving these children through the hard nights, when the police are knocking at the door? How are we showing up when it’s messy, inconvenient, or heartbreaking?
This is why we have to do better. And we can.
When you come across posts or pages like this, don’t scroll past. Don’t look away. Speak up. Ask the hard questions. Report what feels wrong. Because silence only allows the harm to continue.
And when we stay silent, the message we send to children like Micah is this: you’re not worth fighting for.
And that, to me, is unacceptable.
And before I close, I want to speak to those of you who are walking this road—those who are fostering, adopting, or considering it.
If you’re reading this and are in the process of adopting, fostering, or have adopted, please know that I believe adoption is a beautiful and redemptive thing—when it’s approached with care, ethical guidance, and the necessary support. I’ve seen it done well, and I deeply respect the families walking that path with open hearts. I also work with several trusted adoption agencies here in Austin and the surrounding area, and often refer clients to them because they uphold the integrity children deserve. While unethical practices like these are rare, when I do come across them—like in the case of Second Chance Adoptions—I won’t stay silent. Awareness matters. And the only way we make things better is by naming what’s broken and choosing to do things differently.
Because when adoption is handled unethically, it shifts from being a loving, redemptive act to something that mirrors commodification, trafficking, and systemic failure. We have to name the moment where good intentions collapse into harm. That collapse begins when adoptive parents are left to struggle without meaningful support and ultimately feel forced to give up. It continues when agencies facilitate private rehoming without legal or therapeutic oversight, bypassing every safeguard meant to protect the child. And it becomes most devastating when children are no longer seen as individuals with needs and stories—but are reduced to bullet points, photos, and placement opportunities, treated more like products than people.
But awareness is only the beginning—action is what will truly protect these children.
Disclaimer: This post reflects my personal views, lived experience as an adoptee, and publicly available information. My intent is not to defame or accuse, but to raise awareness about ethical concerns within the adoption system and to advocate for vulnerable children who deserve safety, support, and dignity.
Leave a Reply