There are moments when I think about adoption and wonder if it would be better to halt it entirely—at least until we get it right. I know that may sound extreme, but it comes from a place of pain and deep reflection—a reflection shaped by the many layered, often conflicting emotions adoptees carry: grief, displacement, identity loss, and the ache of being wanted but not always understood.
When I say that, it’s not coming from a place of theory—it’s coming from lived experience. I know what it’s like to be adopted into a home where I didn’t always feel fully seen for who I was—or understood for what I truly needed as an adoptee. I know what it’s like to have your story reshaped, your pain minimized, and even your name changed—as if that alone could rewrite who you are—in the name of “rescue.” That’s why part of me wrestles with the idea of halting adoptions altogether, because I’ve seen the damage it can do when the system prioritizes appearances over actual care. It’s hard to support something that, for me, has carried so much trauma, even when I know that’s not the case for everyone.
And I wonder, where did I go wrong? I carried that question for years, not realizing that maybe it wasn’t about me at all—but about being placed in a family that never truly knew how to love me well. Still, I know this: not every adoptee has my story. Some grow up in homes filled with unconditional love—love that’s not transactional—alongside understanding and the kind of support every child deserves. I’ve met so many amazing people whose adoptive families embraced their culture, honored their grief, and made space for their questions instead of shutting them down. Their experiences don’t erase mine, just like mine doesn’t cancel theirs. Adoption is complicated—it’s not all trauma, but it’s never free of it either. Even in the most beautiful stories, there’s still loss. And that’s why I think we need to hold space for all of it—the good, the hard, and everything in between.
That contrast—the difference between stories like mine and those that unfold with more support—is exactly why we need to keep looking deeper. I’ve noticed a recurring pattern that deserves more attention: adoption is often 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. This is why “placement” can’t be our finish line. Too often, once the papers are signed, the system steps back, as if the hardest part is over. But for the adoptee, that’s often when the real work begins. The grief, identity questions, and trauma don’t disappear just because a child is now in a home. If anything, they often surface more intensely. And when adoptive families aren’t prepared to hold that weight, the child ends up carrying it alone. That’s not success. That’s abandonment wrapped in a good story. If we truly want to protect children, we have to center their voices, not just in the process, but in the years that follow.
In a recent counseling session, we talked about how trauma, especially the kind that comes with adoption, shapes how we move through the world. For people like me, that trauma began early—being separated from my biological mother at birth, passed between multiple caregivers in the orphanage, often overlooked because there weren’t enough nannies to go around. Then came adoption, and with it, a whole new environment—new country, new culture, new expectations. And layered on top of that was the realization that I was different from my siblings—not just in how I looked, but in how others reminded me of it.
It’s not just the big things that trigger. It’s the little things, too. A friendship that fades. A family conflict. Even something as small as someone not wanting to be friends. Suddenly, I’m spiraling, convinced I did something wrong, that I’m unlovable or too much. And while those feelings might seem irrational on the surface, they’re rooted in real pain—feelings of unworthiness and disconnection that trace all the way back to my earliest experiences, even the ones I can’t consciously remember: being given up, ignored in the orphanage, moved around, or not fully accepted by the very family that was meant to offer me belonging. Everyone experiences insecurity, no matter how loving their family is. But for trauma survivors, those feelings are magnified. They don’t just hurt in the moment—they settle quietly in the background, shaping how you move through life and whispering beneath the surface of everyday things. And if no one helps you make sense of those echoes, they start to shape how you see yourself and the world. That’s why love alone isn’t enough. A child needs someone who’s willing to walk through the complex parts with them, not just celebrate the good. Someone who won’t flinch when grief or anger shows up. Someone who sees the story behind the reaction and doesn’t take it personally. It’s about truly doing life with your child—being present, being engaged, invested, and willing to walk with them through every season. That’s what makes the difference.
Understanding a child who’s been through trauma means realizing their behavior isn’t always about defiance or attitude, it’s about survival. Their reactions might not line up with the moment because they’re carrying fears and stories that go way back—stories written long before they ever met you. What they need most isn’t someone who takes it personally, but someone who meets them with empathy. Someone who can say, “I’m here. I see you,” even when they’re pushing you away. This isn’t about being the perfect parent—it’s about being willing to repair, to learn, and to sit in the discomfort. Because when a child is told to “just be grateful” or has their pain dismissed, it only buries their wounds deeper. And sometimes, the people who were supposed to bring healing unknowingly become the reason you need it even more.
And that’s exactly why reform matters—not just in homes, but in the systems that shape them.
There have been some recent efforts to make adoption more ethical. The ADOPT Act of 2023, formally known as the Adoption Deserves Oversight, Protection, and Transparency Act, is one example—it aims to increase transparency and protect families from shady intermediaries in private domestic adoptions. Other bills have focused on providing more pre- and post-adoption support. It’s progress, and I’m very thankful for it. But legislation alone isn’t enough. You can’t legislate love, presence, or humility. You can’t write policy that forces people to be emotionally available, to truly listen, or to parent with compassion. That part takes heart work, not paperwork. Because at the end of the day, adoption comes down to parenting—not just providing a home, but building connection, offering understanding, and creating space for healing and the freedom to grow into who they truly are. You can mandate home studies, training hours, or legal clearances, but you can’t force someone to show up when it gets hard. And like anything else, when people are pushed without real transformation, they resist—or worse, they perform. And children feel that. They always feel that. Real change has to start in the heart.
So no, I don’t believe banning adoption altogether is the answer. I personally know families who do get it—who love their kids fiercely and show up, time and time again, for the hard conversations. I’ve seen those stories, and I’m incredibly thankful they exist. We need more parents like that in the world. But we can’t keep pretending the system works just because some stories turned out well. We have to stop measuring success by placement alone and start requiring preparation, honesty, and real support. We need to listen to adoptees—not just when it’s comfortable, but when it’s messy, when it’s honest, and when it’s hard. Adoption can’t be redemptive if it’s built on silence. The kind of healing adoptees need doesn’t come from good intentions alone—it comes from being heard, believed, and supported through the hard truths.
And I’ll be honest, there was a time when I couldn’t see anything good in the adoption system. It felt like all I could see was the harm. But over the years, I’ve done the heart work to hold both the brokenness of the system and the beauty that can emerge when adoption is done well, because I have seen the success stories. I personally know people on both sides: birth parents who made the heartbreaking decision to place their child for adoption and have watched them thrive, and adoptive or foster parents who have stepped in with humility and love, and their children are thriving too.
And if I’m being real, I don’t have all the answers. That’s why I find myself circling back to the question—what if we just stopped adoption altogether? But even as I ask that, I know it wouldn’t serve everyone. Because in that scenario, everyone loses. Shut down domestic adoptions, and children who might’ve found loving, healing homes lose out. But keep them open, and it’s the adoptee who might lose, depending on where they end up. That’s the unbearable tension. There are no guarantees. Just a system that rolls the dice with a child’s life, hoping they land somewhere safe.
So maybe the answer isn’t to shut it all down, but to radically change how we hold it—how we speak about it, structure it, and most importantly, how we walk with those at the center of it.
I think about the mothers I walk alongside in my work—women who are considering adoption and genuinely need that option to remain available. I advocate for preserving the autonomy to make a supported, compassionate decision, rather than removing options that could leave women feeling even more cornered or unsupported. We don’t want to implement policies that take away adoption as a path forward and unintentionally corner mothers into feeling like abortion is their only option. It’s a balancing act—honoring both lives, while making sure every woman is surrounded by care, dignity, and truth. That’s what I advocate for: helping each client discern what’s best, while honoring their story and seeking to honor God in the process. It’s not about pushing an outcome. It’s about making sure she has the freedom and care to truly choose.
That’s what I’m still learning to hold—the weight of complexity, the beauty of choice, and the courage to keep showing up. Every single day.
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