There are moments when I think about adoption and wonder if it would be better to pause it altogether—at least until we learn how to do it well. I know that may sound extreme, but it comes from a place of lived experience and deep reflection. It’s shaped by the layered, often conflicting emotions many adoptees carry: grief, displacement, identity loss, and the ache of being wanted, but not always fully understood.
When I say that, it isn’t theoretical. It comes from knowing what it feels like to be adopted into a home where I didn’t always feel fully seen for who I was or understood for what I needed. I know what it’s like to have your story reshaped, your pain minimized, and even your name changed, as if that alone could redefine who you are, all in the name of “rescue.” That’s why part of me wrestles with the idea of halting adoption altogether, because I’ve seen the damage that can happen when systems prioritize appearances over actual care. It’s difficult to support something that has carried so much pain in my own story, even while knowing that isn’t true for everyone.
For a long time, I found myself asking, Where did I go wrong? I carried that question for years before realizing it might not have been about me at all, but about being placed in a family that didn’t fully understand how to love me in the ways I needed. At the same time, I recognize that not every adoptee shares my experience. I’ve met people who grew up in homes filled with steady, unconditional love—families who honored their culture, made space for their grief, and stayed present through hard questions instead of shutting them down. Their stories don’t erase mine, just as mine doesn’t cancel theirs.
Adoption is complicated. It’s not all trauma, but it is never free of loss. Even in the most beautiful stories, something has still been given up. That’s why we have to hold space for all of it—the good, the hard, and everything in between.
That tension is exactly why we need to look deeper. Too often, adoption is celebrated as a success the moment a child is placed, without asking whether that home is truly equipped to meet their emotional, cultural, or developmental needs. Placement cannot be the finish line. In many ways, it’s only the beginning. For the adoptee, that’s often when the real work begins—grief, identity questions, and trauma that don’t disappear just because a child now has a home. If anything, those realities can surface even more clearly. And when families aren’t prepared to walk through that with their child, the weight can quietly fall back onto the child alone. That isn’t true stability—it’s a gap we have yet to fully address.
In a recent counseling session, we talked about how early trauma shapes the way we move through the world. For people like me, that trauma began at the very beginning—being separated from my biological mother, passed between caregivers in an orphanage, and often overlooked simply because there weren’t enough adults to meet every need. Then came adoption and everything that followed: a new country, a new culture, new expectations, and the growing awareness that I was different—not just internally, but in ways others made sure I noticed.
The impact of that doesn’t always show up in obvious ways. Sometimes it’s the small moments—a friendship that fades, a conflict that lingers, or a simple sense of rejection—that trigger something deeper. Suddenly, I’m questioning myself, wondering if I did something wrong or if I’m somehow too much or not enough. While those reactions might seem disproportionate on the surface, they are rooted in something real. They trace back to early experiences of disconnection and uncertainty, even the ones I don’t consciously remember.
Everyone experiences insecurity, no matter how loving their upbringing is. But for those who have experienced early trauma, those feelings can run deeper and linger longer. They don’t just exist in the moment—they settle quietly in the background, shaping how you interpret relationships and how you see yourself. Without guidance and support, those internal narratives can take hold in ways that are hard to untangle.
That’s why love alone isn’t enough. A child needs someone who is willing to walk through the complex parts with them, not just celebrate the easy ones. They need caregivers who don’t withdraw when grief or anger surfaces, but who remain present and curious. Someone who sees the story behind the reaction and doesn’t take it personally. It’s about doing life with your child in a way that is engaged, consistent, and willing to grow alongside them.
Understanding a child who has experienced trauma requires recognizing that their behavior is not always about the present moment. It’s often connected to past experiences that shaped how they feel safe—or unsafe—in the world. What they need most is not perfection, but presence. Someone who can say, “I’m here. I see you,” even when they are struggling to trust that.
And that’s where reform becomes essential—not just within families, but within the systems that support them.
There have been meaningful efforts to improve adoption practices. Legislation like the ADOPT Act of 2023 has aimed to increase transparency and accountability, and there has been growing recognition of the need for pre- and post-adoption support. That progress matters, and I’m grateful for it. But policy alone can’t address everything. It can’t create emotional availability, humility, or the willingness to stay when things get hard. Those things can’t be legislated—they have to be cultivated.
Adoption, at its core, is about parenting. It’s about showing up consistently, building trust over time, and creating space for a child to process their story honestly. Systems can require training and evaluations, but they cannot ensure that someone will remain present when the reality of adoption becomes complex. That kind of commitment has to come from the heart.
Because of that, I don’t believe eliminating adoption altogether is the answer. I’ve seen families who truly understand what it means to show up for their children—families who lean into the hard conversations and create environments where their children can thrive. Those stories matter, and we need more of them.
At the same time, we can’t ignore the parts of the system that still fall short. We can’t measure success by placement alone. We need to prioritize preparation, ongoing support, and a willingness to listen to adoptees—not just when their stories are easy to hear, but when they challenge us to do better.
There was a time when I couldn’t see anything good in adoption. All I could see was the pain. But over time, I’ve done the work to hold both truths at once—the brokenness of the system and the beauty that can exist when it’s done well. I’ve seen birth parents make incredibly difficult, loving decisions, and I’ve seen adoptive families step in with humility and care. Both can be true.
And if I’m honest, I still don’t have all the answers. I still wrestle with the question of whether the system, as it stands, serves everyone well. Because in many ways, it feels like a tension that doesn’t resolve easily. Close adoption, and some children may lose the opportunity for stable, loving homes. Leave it unchanged, and some adoptees may carry harm that could have been prevented.
So maybe the answer isn’t to eliminate it, but to rethink how we approach it entirely—how we talk about it, how we structure it, and how we support the people at the center of it.
I think about the women I walk alongside in my work—those who are considering adoption and genuinely need that option to remain available. My role isn’t to push an outcome, but to support them in making a thoughtful, informed decision with dignity and care. It’s about ensuring they don’t feel cornered, but instead feel supported in whatever path they choose.
That’s the tension I’m still learning to hold—the weight of complexity, the importance of choice, and the responsibility to keep showing up with honesty and compassion.
Every single day.
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