“I have always been a planner. For as long as I can remember, I had a vision for my life - a clear, step-by-step blueprint. I would be married by 24, have kids by 26, and ride off into my happily ever after. But by the time I celebrated my 30th birthday, I had to face a new truth: the plan was officially off the rails.”
If you’ve picked up this book, chances are you’re somewhere on your own winding path, whether through infertility, adoption, grief, or simply navigating life when it doesn’t go the way you thought it would.
Life Without a Plan: Finding Joy Through the Unexpected is not a guidebook or a checklist. It’s a raw, honest account of love, loss, heartbreak, and hope. It’s about learning to let go of the life I envisioned and embracing the one that unfolded instead. It's about redefining what it means to build a family, to be a mother, and to find joy, even when things feel impossibly hard.
Inside these pages, you’ll walk beside me through doctor’s appointments, dashed hopes, adoption meetings, quiet heartbreaks, and the moments of unimaginable beauty that came when I least expected them. You’ll meet a young woman whose selfless decision changed my life forever. And you’ll feel, I hope, seen and less alone.
Thank you for being here. Whether you’re grieving, healing, hoping, or celebrating, may you find a piece of yourself in these words, and a little light for the road ahead.
With love and gratitude,
“We cannot direct the wind, but we can adjust the sails” – Dolly Parton
I have always been a planner. For as long as I can remember, I had a vision for my life a clear, step-by-step blueprint. I would be married by 24, have kids by 26, and ride off into my happily ever after. But by the time I celebrated my 30th birthday, I had to face a new truth: the plan was officially off the rails.
Instead, I got married at 32 to the most incredible man I’d ever met and somehow, life was turning out better than I could have imagined.
From the moment I met my husband, I knew he was the one. I could see our future; the life we would build, the children we would raise. When we vacationed on the Sunshine Coast, I told my coworkers before I left that I would come back engaged. And I did.
Then we married in July 2019, and I confidently told everyone I would be on maternity leave by May the next year.
We quickly found out that the universe had other plans for us.
In February after our wedding, we decided it was time to seek answers and only a month later we got the results that we had feared.
Zero. That was the word that echoed in my ears. Not low. Not difficult. Zero.
That meant no IVF. No biological children. No little redhead with my freckles and my husband’s deep brown eyes.
Even though I had braced myself, medical conditions made this a possibility, it still felt like a loss. A deep, raw, invisible grief. I felt numb. I felt alone. I felt broken.
Being around friends with children became unexpectedly painful. I loved those kids, but managing my own emotions became a daily, exhausting
exercise. So, my husband and I planned a quick escape: a trip to Los Angeles to watch an NHL game and spend a few carefree days at Universal Studios.
But once again, life had other ideas. Just days before our flight, the world shut down. It was March 2020, and the pandemic had arrived. What followed were weeks of waiting and uncertainty. All procedures were suspended. We were stuck in limbo. I cried almost every day, waiting for a call from the fertility specialist, any sign of forward motion.
It slowly began to dawn on me that this wasn’t just a delay. This was a full stop, and one we had no control over. COVID had brought the world to a standstill, and with it, our path to parenthood. We were no longer navigating a private, personal journey, we were now at the mercy of systems: the overwhelmed medical system, the bureaucracy of the ministry, or the waitlists of an adoption agency, depending on which road we eventually chose.
Every path now felt like it belonged to someone else. We couldn’t make plans or take steps forward without someone else’s permission or availability. We had no way of knowing how long we’d be waiting, or even if the answers we were hoping for would still be available when the world reopened. The loss we had just begun to process was compounded by an even more suffocating truth - we weren’t just grieving a dream, we were also being forced to put that grief on hold.
One afternoon, while I was sobbing at my desk again, my husband walked into my home office and said, “Let’s call. Let’s just try.”
I did. The voicemail at the doctor’s office said they were closed due to COVID19. I left a tearful message, practically begging them to meet with us virtually.
Miraculously, the next day, they called back.
We met with a doctor in the beginning of May 2020. He suggested exploratory surgery in the hopes that we could pursue IVF. But it would involve multiple surgeries, and in the chaos of a global pandemic, fertility doctors weren’t exactly top priority. That same day, something shifted in me.
I couldn’t keep waiting for doors to open. I needed to find another path to motherhood, one with fewer "what-ifs." I contacted a few private agencies to learn about adoption and opened a file with the Ministry of Children and Family Development.
But as I combed through profiles of children available for adoption, I saw few under the age of four. The odds were slim. Our dream of a baby quite possibly needed to shift.
That night, we needed to escape the weight of what we’d just learned. The truth was too raw, too big to hold all at once. So, we didn’t try to solve anything, we just ran to where the world felt quieter. We climbed into our sideby-side and drove down to the river, the hum of the engine the only sound between us.
We sat by the water, the cool air on our skin, the stars beginning to stretch across the sky. There weren’t any grand conversations or comforting words, just the shared ache of not knowing what came next. But somehow, sitting there together in that stillness, we felt a little more grounded.
Later, we went home and played cribbage, the familiar rhythm of the game offering a brief and welcome distraction. Then we curled up with a movie, holding each other close, not because it fixed anything, but because it reminded us we weren’t facing this alone. We didn’t talk about the future that night. We didn’t have to. We just let our silence speak the promise we both understood: whatever came next, we’d walk through it together.
“When something bad happens, you have three choices. You can either let it define you, let it destroy you, or you can let it strengthen you.” Dr. Seuss
When we first started talking about alternatives, sperm donation came up. It seemed like a potential middle ground, a way for us to still experience pregnancy, to still grow our family in a somewhat familiar way. But for my husband, something about it didn’t sit quite right. It wasn’t about pride or rejection. He just couldn’t picture us going down that road, and I knew it came from a place of deep thought and care.
I respected his feelings, truly. But it still broke my heart.
For me, the idea of not carrying my own child felt like yet another door closing. Another dream slipping through my fingers. And this time, it wasn’t just about infertility, it was about identity, legacy, and biology all tangled up in grief. I wasn’t just grieving the loss of a baby I’d never have; I was grieving the version of motherhood I’d always imagined.
But none of this was something we had caused. It wasn’t his fault. It wasn’t mine. It just… was.
After many long talks, late-night tears, and quiet moments of reflection, we decided to stop all further medical testing. We were emotionally and physically drained, and it was time to shift our focus from “what could have been” to “what could still be.”
As we turned our attention toward adoption, I dove headfirst into research and quickly realized just how many paths there were.
There was international adoption, adoption through the foster care system, and private adoption. Each route came with its own rules, timelines, costs, and emotional tolls.
It was overwhelming, to say the least.
But I was determined. This was no longer about what we couldn’t have, it was about finding our child, wherever they were, however they would come to us.
I understood that there are many older children in foster care waiting for permanent, loving homes. Children who have already experienced so much and are desperately in need of stability. That reality weighed heavily on us. We knew we had to think deeply and honestly about what we were prepared to take on, emotionally, physically, and as a family. We kept reminding ourselves of one core principle: we needed to find a home for a child, not a child for our home. If we weren’t equipped to meet the needs of a child with a traumatic past or complex medical challenges, then we weren’t the right family—and trying to force it wouldn’t be fair to anyone.
Still, I couldn’t deny what my heart wanted. I longed for the baby phase. The 3 a.m. wakeups, the midnight feedings, the diaper changes, the first smile, first laugh, first steps. All the “firsts” that come with welcoming a child into your life from the very beginning. It wasn’t about romanticizing the hard parts; it was about longing to experience the fullness of motherhood from the start.
I know that motherhood is not something owed to anyone. It’s not a right or a guarantee; it is a profound privilege. And I did not feel entitled to it. But I also knew that there are babies who need homes, too. Young mothers, in complicated or painful circumstances, who love their children deeply but are not in a place where they can parent. If we were to pursue adoption, I wanted to explore that path; to open our hearts to the possibility of being a safe, nurturing home for one of those children. Not to fill a void in ourselves, but to build something real, something rooted in love and readiness.
So, on May 13th, we met with a representative from a private adoption agency. She was warm, compassionate, and incredibly informative — walking us stepby-step through what it would look like to adopt a child through the Domestic Newborn Program.
By the time we left that meeting, we both knew: this was the path we wanted to take. There was something incredibly powerful about a birth parent choosing us to raise their child, a decision rooted in love, courage, and hope.
Over the weekend, we went camping and had deep conversations about adoption, especially the emotional and financial realities. When we got home, we didn’t hesitate. Four days after our initial meeting, and less than two months after receiving our test results, we emailed the agency and officially began our adoption journey.
No one can prepare you for the realities of finding out that you and/or your partner cannot have biological children. It’s a grief you can’t prepare for. One layered and complex, full of emotions you didn’t know you’d feel.
And once you decide on adoption, you quickly realize there’s no clear emotional roadmap for how to navigate this new chapter. There’s also a silence that surrounds infertility and adoption; a societal quietness, as if these experiences should be hidden away. But they shouldn’t be. They are real. They are valid. And they are deeply human.
Our family was going to grow in a way we hadn’t expected. But that didn’t make it any less beautiful.
I promised myself that I would be open about this journey, all of it. The highs and the lows. The confusion and the clarity. Because we should not have to whisper about infertility or adoption. We should be able to speak. To share. To connect.
This journey may not be the one we planned, but it was quickly becoming the one we were meant for, and I was determined to share it.
"There is a great deal more to preparing for an adopted child than fixing up a nursery or having money in the bank for a college education." Joyce Maguire Pavao
When the binder arrived in the mail, it felt like someone had just dropped a mountain on our doorstep. We were asked to gather reference letters, complete criminal record checks and ministry prior contact checks, get medical evaluations, and prepare our home for a safety inspection. There were pages of detailed questionnaires that dove into every corner of our lives from our childhoods and parenting philosophies to our finances, communication styles, and personal habits. Nothing felt off-limits.
And to top it off, COVID-19 had just begun. That made things even trickier. coordinating doctors, signatures, and submissions remotely. Despite the hurdles, we managed to complete and submit everything in just under a week. By June 1st, we had paid the Phase One fee and officially stepped into the process.
In hindsight, I wish I had taken time off work. Trying to do all of this while working full time was overwhelming and one afternoon, during a work meeting, I had to turn off my camera and cry.
I cried because I was exhausted and running on little to no sleep, my mind spinning with everything we had to do just to try to be considered as adoptive parents. I cried for the unfairness of it all. Cried at the thought of all the mothers who never have to think twice about their ability to conceive. For the children removed from homes that should have protected them, while we were here, hearts wide open, trying to prove we were worthy of a chance.
People told us we should keep our plans quiet until everything was finalized. But we knew from the beginning that we would need support. And I am so glad we shared early on. I leaned on friends and family constantly, especially my mom, who heard me cry over the phone more times than I could count.
To make things a little lighter, we created a sign where we could check off each step in the process and took a photo with it. I’ll never forget the smile on my husband’s face, it reminded me why we were doing all of this in the first place.
On June 4th, we had our first homestudy visit with our social worker. She came to our house for a walkthrough and helped guide us through the rest of the process. From then on, due to COVID-19, the visits were virtual. We set a goal to read two to three chapters of the education material per week and discuss them during our calls.
I was determined to get it done as quickly as possible. We read chapters before bed, in the car, even while camping. Alongside that, we baby-proofed the house and started building our profile book. I dove deep into researching what made a profile stand out to birth parents. I included personal touches, like letters and notes from our family, to show just how much love was waiting for a child in our home.
By August 14th, we had completed the homestudy and paid the Phase Two fee. On August 28th, 2020, our profile went live.
Over the September long weekend, we went camping with my brother and his wife. I insisted on packing the car seat and baby bag, just in case. While we were there, my sister-in-law mentioned she’d had a theta session where she was told that a very special little girl would soon be entering her life. My heart nearly burst with hope. Perhaps this was foreshadowing?
That fall, emotions were everywhere. I cried when friends announced their pregnancies. I declined baby shower invites. I took longer than I should have to meet a good friend’s baby. And while those reactions felt shameful at the time, I now know they were normal. I just didn’t have anyone telling me that.
So I decided I would be that someone, not just for me, but for others.
That’s why I started an Instagram account dedicated to our journey. What began as a place to document our experiences quickly became a source of connection and community. Women began reaching out, some asking for advice, some looking for books to read, others simply wanting to meet for coffee and talk about what they were going through.
One message came from a young birth mom in the U.S. We ultimately weren’t a match as we lived in different countries, but we were able to have a meaningful conversation and bring each other a bit of comfort. And that, in itself, was enough.
This chapter of our lives was messy and exhausting. But it also marked a shift, a point where our story stopped being just about us and started becoming part of something bigger.
“Patience is not simply the ability to wait – it's how we behave while we're waiting” – Joyce Meyer
The adoption process began to consume every part of me. I became obsessed with always having my phone nearby. My ringer had to be on, just in case the call came. Every ring sent a jolt through me, wondering if this would be the moment our lives would change. But the silence became deafening, and I realized I could not live like this. I needed to find a way to function again. So, I tried to shift my energy and threw myself into hobbies that could help ground me. Cooking became a refuge, as I not only embraced my love for it but also began meal planning, shopping with intention, and experimenting with new recipes. Flower arranging became another source of comfort, as the wildflowers around my community are gorgeous, and I found joy in picking and arranging them into weekly bouquets. Gardening, too, became my outlet, especially during our first greenhouse season, which allowed me to pour my energy into something tangible and rewarding. And finally, I embraced the joy of collecting baby items. It felt like I was preparing for a child we didn’t yet have, but it gave me a sense of purpose and a small connection to the dream that was still so far away.
Despite staying busy, I was deeply unhappy. Everything was ready the nursery, the paperwork, the profile book and yet we were still waiting. It was my sister-in-law who helped me understand what was really going on: I was grieving the loss of control.
For someone like me, that realization cut deep. I have always been someone who thrives on structure. I make to-do lists for my to-do lists. I find comfort in being able to plan, to prepare, to make things happen by sheer will and determination. It is how I move through life; order and effort equal results. But
this process doesn’t work like that. Adoption requires patience, surrender, and the ability to sit in limbo for days, weeks, even months on end with no answers, no updates, and no guarantees.
I couldn’t control when the phone would ring. I couldn’t control whether or not a birth parent would choose us. I couldn’t control how long we’d have to wait, or whether we’d even become parents at all. And that loss of control felt like freefalling through the unknown, with no way to steady myself.
I had done everything I could possibly do. We had followed every instruction, checked every box, poured every ounce of our love and hope into that profile book. And still, the decision would never be ours. We could only hope that someone, somewhere, would see our story and choose to place their child in our arms.
It was torture for a Type A planner. I felt exposed and powerless. Like the train had left the station, but I had no idea where it was going, or if we’d ever reach a destination at all. And beneath all of that was the aching fear: What if we did everything right, and it still wasn’t enough?
The waiting wasn’t just hard. It was humbling. It brought me face to face with a kind of vulnerability I had never known before. The kind that strips you down and forces you to confront who you are when nothing is certain, and nothing is within your grasp.
So, I clung to the small things I could control like cooking, gardening, flower arranging, organizing the nursery. They became my lifeline. Not because they solved anything, but because they gave me a sense of agency, a sense of purpose. A way to keep moving forward when everything else stood still.
In mid-September, our social worker reached out about a higher-risk adoption case. The birth mom had received prenatal care, but had a history of substance use early in her pregnancy. There were concerns about a possible overdose, which raised red flags for us.
I consulted with a physician who recommended we pass, especially due to potential risks for the baby. My husband agreed, and I contacted the agency to decline. However, the social worker soon updated us, clarifying that the overdose had occurred earlier in the pregnancy and the birth mom had been sober since then.
My husband was out of cell range on a fishing trip, so I reached him through the resort's main office. After some back-and-forth, we decided to move forward with the case. He was excited, though clearly overwhelmed. I wasn’t ready to face the next few days alone, so my sister-in-law stayed with me overnight.
Knowing our profile was being shown while a birth mom was in labor was surreal. I could feel myself getting hopeful, even though I knew the outcome wasn’t guaranteed.
Days passed. Then a week. Then more. Updates were inconsistent. The uncertainty was agonizing.
Finally, the baby was born. We waited, breath held, to hear what the birth mom had decided. And then we got the news: she had chosen to parent. We were crushed but happy for her. We hoped she and her baby would have a safe and beautiful life together. For us, it was back to waiting.
In January, I was on a walk with friends when I received another message from the agency. A teenage birth mom was considering an adoption plan for her healthy baby who was already a few months old. The situation was unique, but we were overjoyed at the opportunity and immediately agreed to have our profile shown.
But just a few days later, we received the news that she had changed her mind and decided to parent.
It was heartbreaking. Again.
At that point, our social worker shared that many birth parents had recently reconsidered their decisions, even within a few days. It had been a turbulent time in the adoption world.
I started to question everything. Why was it so hard for us to become parents? Why did it feel like the door kept slamming shut? It was emotionally exhausting.
Shortly after, another opportunity came our way. A new birth mom and dad, nearing the end of their pregnancy, were considering adoption.
This time, I didn’t hesitate. I immediately emailed the agency to say yes, even before discussing it with my husband. It was strange, this sense of calm washed over me. In the past, the idea of our profile being shown always left me anxious, heart pounding with worry. But now, it felt different. There was no anxiety, no racing thoughts, just a quiet certainty. Perhaps it was the feeling of being ready, or that we had arrived at a point of acceptance. For the first time in a long while, I felt an unexpected peace, as if everything was falling into place.
And so, we waited again, this time with quiet hope, no longer bracing for disappointment, but trusting that whatever was meant to be would unfold.
"The longer you have to wait for something, the more you will appreciate it when it finally arrives.” – Susan Gale
I was in a meeting when I saw a familiar name flash on my phone screenour adoption agency. My heart immediately began to race. When I answered, the tone on the other end sounded somber, and I braced myself for bad news.
But then came a request for a video call. That’s when I knew. My hands were trembling as I moved to my desk. On the call, our social worker gently asked if I could add my husband on speaker so he could hear too.
That’s when we heard the words that would change everything: the expectant parents had chosen us. They said they felt a deep connection with us and would be honored if we raised their child.
I burst into tears. Even though I had a feeling this call might come, hearing it out loud was overwhelming. We were going to be parents, and soon.
Once the call ended, I rushed to my best friend’s house and she recorded the moment I shared the news with my mom. It was all so surreal.
The birth parents said they were drawn to the closeness of our family. They noticed it in the pictures, the stories, and even a letter from my mother. The fact that she was already planning a Christmas stocking for the baby touched them deeply. They also liked that my husband shared similar interests with the birth grandfather, like hockey and fishing.
That night, we signed the official acceptance forms and placed an order online for a stroller and car seat, hoping everything would arrive in time. I didn’t sleep a wink. Instead, I updated our registry and mentally prepared for every possible scenario.
By February 20th, we had paid our final agency fee.
Although the due date we were given was March 17th, I couldn’t shake the feeling that we wouldn’t have that much time. There hadn’t been a dating ultrasound early in the pregnancy, and I suspected the timeline might not be accurate. Something in me just knew things would move quickly. So I packed our bags right away and placed a playpen by the front door; ready to grab at a moment’s notice. That quiet, gut-level knowing whispered that our baby might arrive sooner than expected.
Sure enough, just one week later, we got the call.
On February 24th, I got a text from our social worker: “Do you have a moment to chat? I have an update.” I froze. It took me seven whole minutes to gather the courage to call back.
The update? Birth Mom had been induced.
I could have collapsed. My heart was racing, adrenaline surging through every part of me. With the phone on speaker, one arm holding my niece who I was babysitting, and the other grabbing my bag, I started packing in a daze. Everything felt both chaotic and crystal clear. I was moving fast, but time seemed to slow around me.
I called my husband at work and told him to come home immediately. My voice was shaking, caught somewhere between tears and laughter. “This is it,” I said. “It’s happening.” We had talked about this moment so many times, imagined it in a thousand different ways, but nothing could’ve prepared us for the reality of it.
I moved through the house like a whirlwind, mentally checking off our list of essentials while trying not to fall apart. Our friend came over to help us pack the car and lent us a car seat, since ours still hadn’t arrived. I was so grateful because it was one less thing to worry about in the middle of the storm brewing inside me.
We pulled out of the driveway that evening, our hearts pounding and our minds buzzing. Every part of me was electric with anticipation, but underneath the excitement was a layer of deep, almost paralyzing nervousness. What if something changed? What if the birth parents changed their minds? What if we didn’t make it in time?
Little did we know, a storm, much like the one that was brewing inside me, was also brewing outside. The snow started to fall just an hour outside of town. At first it was light, almost magical, like the beginning of a movie scene. But within minutes, it turned into a full-on snowstorm. Visibility dropped to almost nothing. The windshield wipers couldn’t keep up. The road ahead was a blur of white, and we knew we had no choice but to stop for the night.
We pulled into a small roadside hotel and unloaded just what we needed. I lay in bed with my mind racing. The room was quiet, but inside me, it felt like everything was thundering. I was scared. I was overjoyed. I was in awe. Sleep barely came, but we were up and back on the road by 6 a.m., ready to meet the child who would change our lives forever.
Just outside of a small town about halfway to our destination, we got the call, the baby had been born early that morning via emergency C-section. Baby was small but stable, and was in the NICU for monitoring. The social worker had booked us a room nearby.
We arrived later that day and went with the social worker to meet the birth parents. We were incredibly nervous, but they were kind and welcoming. There was a gentleness in the room, a quiet understanding that this moment was significant for all of us.
During the visit, something extraordinary happened; something I hadn’t anticipated would mean as much as it did. We learned for the first time that the baby was a girl. But it wasn’t the social worker who told us. It was her birth mom.
We had been so careful leading up to that day. The social worker had been meticulous about not revealing the baby’s gender, because we had been clear from the beginning, we wanted to be surprised. It felt like one thing we could hold onto in a process that had already asked us to surrender so much. We wanted to discover that truth in a way that felt intimate and meaningful. And it was.
Her first mom looked at us with a softness in her eyes and said, “You are going to love her.”
Just like that—her.
I felt the tears come immediately, and I wasn’t alone. Her first mom teared up too. It was such a simple sentence, but in that moment, it held so much weight. She was the one to give us that piece of our daughter’s story, her daughter, and my daughter; mother to mother. She was the one to say it out loud first. I had dreamed of being a mom for so long, and now, the woman giving me that chance was placing that truth gently into my hands.
You are going to love her.
And she was right. We already did.
They asked us about the name we had chosen, and we shared it with them, our hearts racing. Then, with a deep sense of gratitude, we asked if they would like to choose her middle name. Their faces softened with surprise, and we could see how much it meant to them to be a part of this decision. In the end they chose names that carried deep significance to both of their families. Names that would honor their daughter’s story and her beginnings. These names are a tie to her first family, to the love and sacrifices that would always be part of her, no matter where life takes her.
The next day we received word that we could visit the NICU. We disinfected, signed in, and entered expecting to see her in an incubator, but she was lying peacefully in a bassinet. She was absolutely perfect.
I wanted so badly to hold her, but we made sure to ask if it was okay with the birth parents first. We were asked to wait. It was tough, but we stood by her, held her hand, and talked to her for an hour before leaving.
Later that evening, we visited the birth parents again. They told us baby would be moved into their room that night, and we would likely get to hold her the next day. We were hopeful.
When we arrived the next morning, a nurse was teaching the birth parents how to swaddle a baby. When the nurse asked us to wait, the birth mom quickly spoke up and insisted we come in and I will never forget what she said, “Those are her parents.”
Sunday morning, just as we sat down to breakfast, a message from our agency appeared: the birth parents had requested the day alone with their daughter. The words hit me like a punch to the gut. I felt my chest tighten, a heavy knot forming in my stomach. We had dreamed for so long about holding her, being with her every moment, yet now, we were being asked to step back, to wait.
Determined not to let the waiting consume us, we decided to go for a hike. The fresh air and the steady rhythm of our footsteps helped take my mind off the silence and uncertainty. The wildness around us, the rustle of the trees, the distant call of birds offered a small comfort. Still, even with nature’s embrace, the hours stretched endlessly before us. Every minute seemed to slow to a crawl, dragging the day out like an unbearable weight.
I kept glancing at my phone, hoping for a message, a sign, anything to break the silence. My mind spun into a whirlpool of ‘what ifs.’ What if this was a sign they were reconsidering? What if we were about to be the ones to walk away with empty arms after all the waiting, all the hoping? The fear was suffocating.
Time became an enemy, each moment passing with agonizing slowness. The hotel room felt too quiet, the absence of a baby overwhelming. I wanted to reach out, to do something, anything, but I knew this was their time, and we had to respect it.
That night, just as I was beginning to lose hope, a message came from our social worker. Baby was doing great. The birth parents simply needed some time. Time to process, to rest, to feel secure. Those words, simple as they were, washed over me like a wave. A fragile thread of peace settled in my heart.
I finally exhaled, allowing myself to believe that tomorrow might be the day everything we’d been waiting for would begin.
Monday brought a gift, the birth parents went for a walk and left us alone with their baby for two precious hours. The moment the door closed behind them, a wave of emotion swept over us. At last, we were together, a unit of three, quiet and close in that small hospital room. We couldn’t stop holding her, tracing her tiny fingers and marveling at the soft rise and fall of her chest. Every breath she took felt like a miracle, a promise fulfilled.
Yet, beneath the joy, there was a bittersweet ache. We knew she was medically ready to leave the hospital, to come home with us, but we had to wait. The birth mom wasn’t ready to be discharged yet, in part because her family didn’t know she’d had a baby, and she needed that time to prepare herself. She stayed in the hospital as long as she could, holding onto those last moments with her daughter.
When the birth parents returned, the air between us was thick with unspoken feelings. We exchanged letters, carefully written expressions of gratitude, hope, and love. Reading their words felt like looking into a mirror. Our letters echoed each other’s sentiments about how the stars had aligned, how this connection was meant to be. It was clear we were all part of the same story, bound by something bigger than ourselves.
In those quiet, shared moments, I felt a deep sense of peace; a confirmation that this journey, with all its twists and turns, had brought us exactly where we were meant to be.
Tuesday arrived. Home day. The morning felt thick with nerves and anticipation, so we went for a long walk, trying to steady our racing hearts and calm the whirlwind of emotions inside us. Every step was heavy with the weight of what was about to happen. At 12:15 p.m., our social worker met us and officially signed the Transfer of Care. I couldn’t hold back the tears. Tears that were a mixture of joy, relief, and the sheer magnitude of becoming parents finally washing over me.
An hour later, we got the message that the birth parents had left the hospital. It felt like a door closing behind them; a goodbye filled with unspoken hopes and deep respect. We gathered our things, our hands trembling, and walked over to pick up our daughter.
After a quick diaper change and an ID check, the nurses helped us buckle her into the car seat. The moment we lifted her into our arms and strapped her in, it hit me how surreal it all was. Here we were, walking out of the hospital with this tiny life; a baby who had only hours before been surrounded by the warmth and familiarity of her birth parents. The overwhelming sensation of finally becoming parents was intense, but beneath that joy was a quiet ache. We were now the unfamiliar hands trying to comfort a baby who was just taken from the only world she had ever known. The soft rhythm of her birth mother’s heartbeat, the scent of her home, the gentle voices that had soothed her through those first months.
Later that evening, as we drove home, she suddenly began screaming. She was hungry, unsettled, confused. We had to pull over on the side of a busy highway. There, with cars rushing by, we fumbled to change her diaper, whispering soft reassurances, trying to calm her tiny, terrified body. It was one of the most vulnerable moments of my life; holding this fragile baby, not yet bonded to us, struggling to comfort her as she grieved the loss of her first home. The weight of that responsibility felt immense.
After that, we drove on to a relative’s house where we could rest, exhausted but holding onto hope.
The next morning, we set out early and finally arrived home around 6:30 p.m.
As we stepped through the front door, we were greeted by pink balloons and decorations the sweetest surprise that reminded us she was already deeply loved, not just by us, but by our entire family and circle of friends.
Even before we opened the door, we could feel that love. Our driveway, which would have been dangerously icy from the winter weather, had been carefully covered in lava rock by our neighbors a quiet act of kindness, done without fanfare, simply because they knew we were coming home that day with our daughter. Inside, family members had slipped in ahead of us to clean, leaving behind a few thoughtful gifts and fresh flowers that filled the house with warmth. Every corner of our home radiated care and welcome.
Our baby was finally home. And despite the long, emotional journey, my heart had never felt so full.
“All those clichés those things you hear about having a baby and motherhood all of them are true. And all of them are the most beautiful things you will ever experience.” Penélope Cruz
The days that followed our arrival home were quiet and sacred, a gentle stretch of time suspended from the world. We were learning each other. Learning how to be a family. I thought I had prepared myself for this part, but nothing could’ve readied me for the depth of it; for the quiet transformation of becoming a mom.
In the earliest hours of morning, when the world was still asleep and the sky hadn’t decided yet whether to be gray or golden, I would hold her close and just breathe. The weight of her in my arms felt like both a miracle and a mystery. How had this life, this little girl, become mine?
Or maybe the better question was, how had I become hers?
There’s something no one tells you about becoming a mother through adoption. It’s not a singular moment; it’s not the court date or the paperwork. It’s a hundred quiet moments that build on each other. It's when you realize her cries are a language only you seem to understand. It’s when her tiny hand reaches for you and not anyone else. It’s when you stop feeling like a guest in your own story and begin to feel like home.
She didn’t arrive with memories of me. I hadn’t been there for her first breath, her first cry. But from the moment I held her, I began writing new firsts: first night at home, first smile meant just for me, first time she reached up and called out “Mama.” Each moment stitched a thread between us. Not erasing what came before, never that, but weaving something new, something ours.
I had read about attachment. I had studied what it meant to nurture a child who came to you through loss. I knew the importance of presence, of consistency, of love that says “I’m staying,” even when the child can’t ask for it in words. But living it was different. It was more sacred, more humbling, and far more ordinary than I expected. And in its ordinariness, I found something extraordinary.
Because of the pandemic, and because we knew how vital the early days of bonding were, we made a deliberate choice: for the first six weeks, it would mostly just be the three of us. If we had visitors, they could hold space with us but not care for her. Only my husband or I would feed her, change her, soothe her when she cried. We wanted her to learn quickly and deeply that we were her safety. We were her anchors.
That decision came with some guilt, and sometimes I questioned whether it was too much. But I kept coming back to the reason: we had waited so long for this. I needed her to know that we were hers, and she was ours.
We wanted her to know that we were her people. That she could rely on us.
But being her person meant learning things I never knew I had to learn. Like how to make a bottle in the dark without turning on a light, so as not to wake her too much during those middle-of-the-night feeds. It meant fumbling quietly in the kitchen, measuring formula by memory, moving like a ghost through our house lit only by a sliver of moonlight.
It meant learning how to sit in just the right position to support her tiny body and tilt the bottle correctly, all while fighting off sleep because our old wooden rocking chair was anything but comfortable. I quickly took to propping my phone up and watching quiet episodes of a show while I fed her, a quiet ritual that helped me stay awake without rousing her.
She only napped for twenty minutes at a time. And the moment I’d try to lay her down, she’d wake up. So I held her while she slept, for hours each day. I didn’t clean. I didn’t nap. I didn’t "sleep when the baby sleeps." I simply held her. At the time, I struggled with the lack of productivity. Now, I would give
anything to go back and savor those fleeting, heavy-lidded moments of stillness with her.
She wouldn’t do skin-to-skin with us. As much as we tried, gently placing her on our bare chests, hoping for that magical calming we’d heard so much about, she would only cry harder. It was disheartening at first. I worried it meant we were missing a crucial bonding moment. But instead of giving up, we adapted. We found our own way.
When she needed sleep and couldn’t settle, I’d wrap her tightly in my arms, lie down with her, and press my forehead to hers. I would breathe deeply and slow, steady, grounding breaths, and wait. Her tiny hand would find my chest, and within seconds, she’d relax into sleep. That became our skin-to-skin. Our ritual. Our thread of connection.
Some nights, I fed her in silence. Other nights, I distracted myself with a show on my phone because I couldn’t doze off while feeding—our rocking chair wasn’t comfortable enough for that. But that chair... it held more than just the two of us.
Years earlier, before we knew children might not come easily, I was helping the widow of a dear friend sort through belongings. He had been like a second father to me, someone I met as a teenager in a volunteer program called Katimavik, and who remained a constant in my life through phone calls and visits. After he passed, I went to his wife’s house to help her organize and part with some things. That’s when I saw the old wooden rocking chair.
She told me it had rocked generations: her as a baby, then her children and grandchildren. She was ready to let it go. But something in me that I didn’t fully understand at the time, knew I wanted it to stay in the family. I asked if I could keep it, and months later her son delivered it to my door.
I had cushions made for it and used it during our homestudy, reading adoption education materials late into the night. I sat in it to cry, to hope, and to dream. And then, one day, I sat in it with my daughter in my arms, rocking her to sleep
and singing softly into her ear, just as I imagined they once did for their children and grandchildren.
These weren’t just quiet days. They were formative. They were the bridge between longing and belonging. I wasn’t just becoming a mom, I was becoming her mom. And that has been the most sacred becoming of all. This chapter of our lives was not about milestones for anyone else to see, it was about the invisible threads forming between us. It was about learning her cries, discovering her quirks, and allowing the bond to build gently and with intention.
I used to fear I wouldn’t feel like a mother because I hadn’t given birth. But no one tells you how fiercely you’ll love a child who didn’t come from your body. No one tells you how natural it can feel to belong to someone you didn’t grow inside you—but are now growing around you, every day.
“Becoming hers” wasn’t about changing her name or signing the right documents. It was about becoming the person she looked for when she was scared. Becoming the arms that soothed her. The voice that sang her to sleep. The heart that carried hers without condition.
These were the days that built the foundation. The days where I began to understand that becoming a mom wasn’t a moment, it was a process. And I was right in the middle of it.
So the darkness shall be the light, and the stillness the dancing. - T. S. Eliot
In our province, a birth mother has thirty days after giving consent to change her mind. Thirty days to decide whether to continue with the adoption or to parent her child after all. It’s a law designed to protect her rights, as it should be, but for adoptive parents, those thirty days feel like holding your breath while trying to build a life.
From the moment we left the hospital, we were filled with a cautious joy. We had joint guardianship, meaning we shared legal responsibility with the agency. We were allowed to care for her, love her, and make decisions for her day to day. But we were not her legal parents. Not yet.
Still, that initial thirty-day window loomed the largest. In those early weeks, the possibility remained that her birth mom could change her mind, and she had every right to. But the fear of losing this tiny, beautiful baby who already felt like the very center of our world was overwhelming.
We were bonding. She was ours in every way that mattered emotionally, but not yet legally. Her tiny socks were in our laundry. Her cries became the background music of our days and nights. She fit into our arms like she had always belonged there. And yet, for thirty days, we whispered our love to her with trembling hearts.
Then came the moment I’ll never forget.
It was just before midnight. I was in the nursery, rocking my daughter in the dark, feeding her quietly. That old, uncomfortable rocking chair kept me from falling asleep, so I scrolled my phone to stay awake. The soft light glowed on the screen when a message came through from our social worker:
"I know it's late but figured you may be up feeding. I forgot to text earlier the 30 days is up. She’s all yours."
I stared at the words, my heart thudding. Then the tears came. Deep, releasing sobs that I’d been holding in for a month.
I held her tighter, overwhelmed by the relief. While the adoption wasn’t finalized, while we were still in the stage of joint guardianship, we had crossed a huge threshold. The thirty-day revocation period was over. The risk of a painful reversal was gone. There would be no call asking us to bring her back. No heartbreak of packing up her things and saying goodbye.
We later learned her birth mom had signed her consent within a week of the birth, but she still had the full thirty days to change her mind. We respected that time. We never took a single moment for granted. And when the clock finally ran out, it felt like a door quietly closing behind us, leaving us fully present in the life we were now building.
Eight months later, an envelope arrived in the mail. Plain, ordinary, unassuming. Inside it was something extraordinary: her birth certificate.
I opened it slowly, unsure what to expect. And there it was, our names. Her first name. Her two middle names, chosen with such care. And our last name. My husband’s last name. The name I had taken when I married him. The name we had dreamed of passing on for years.
Seeing it in print felt surreal. It was a full-circle moment, our family, officially recognized in ink and paper.
But along with the joy came an unexpected wave of emotion. A quiet ache. Guilt, even. I had taken her first last name from her. A name that tied her to her first family, her roots, her beginning. I knew she would always have questions. And when she asks, we will tell her what her first last name was. We will show her how we honored her birth story, how her middle names were chosen to tie her to the people who brought her into the world.
Still, that document in my hands was the dream we had wished for. A reminder of how far we had come. Of how fiercely we had hoped and waited and opened our hearts to this little girl. She carried our name now, but more importantly, she carried our love. A love that didn’t begin with a name, and wouldn’t end there either.
We must let go of the life we have planned, so as to accept the one that is waiting for us. - Joseph Campbell
After years navigating the tangled paths of adoption and fertility, I felt an ache; a longing for something more, something I could hold onto biologically. In the fall of 2022, we made a decision to move forward with Intrauterine insemination (IUI). After what felt like an endless search through donor profiles and crushing disappointments, where every promising match slipped away at the last moment we finally found a CMV-negative donor. We purchased enough for three procedures. It was a small victory, but it felt enormous. A glimmer of hope in a long, dark tunnel. My heart swelled with cautious optimism as I imagined what might come next.
Only days later, we received a message from our daughter’s birth mom: she was pregnant again and asked if we wanted to parent the child. Just like that, we found ourselves potentially expecting another baby due in June 2023. We decided to keep the donor specimen safely in storage for the time being, but the shock of this news left us stunned. Our plans felt fragile, tangled between hope and disbelief.
The very next day, a call from my doctor landed like a thunderclap. My AMH bloodwork came back with a harsh reality: my egg reserve was in the 15th percentile which was far below average. The recommendation was IVF, an expensive and daunting path that was simply out of reach for us. I told my doctor we would need to pause our fertility plans, a sinking feeling settling deep in my chest.
Then, just as quickly as hope had surged, we were brought back down to earth. In early November, the birth mom sent a message that she had
miscarried. Though I had braced myself for this possibility, knowing there’d been no ultrasound confirmation, the news shattered me.
The pregnancy wasn’t ours to grieve, yet every emotion felt so raw and real. We weren’t the parents carrying the baby, but in some inexplicable way, it felt like we were grieving the loss of something we never had the chance to fully claim. I struggled with the complexity of that feeling. How do you grieve for something that wasn’t yours, that you never had the chance to bring into your world? It was a loss for us, as hopeful parents who had imagined what could have been. But even more so, my heart broke for that poor woman, who was now navigating the painful and unimaginable loss of her child. The deep sadness of it all left me feeling helpless, as I witnessed her pain from afar while trying to make sense of my own grief.
Days later, I faced another medical hurdle: the HSG test, part of our fertility workup. Then came another conversation that shook me; my husband, grappling with fear and exhaustion, shared he didn’t want a second child. His worries about added stress and the impact on our health hit me hard. I understood his fear, but the uncertainty it stirred in me felt like a storm.
After many sleepless nights and long talks, we found clarity. We agreed to try IUI, setting a boundary to protect our hearts: three attempts, and then we would stop. We would fully embrace the family we already had, with love and peace.
January 2023 brought a glimmer of promise; my bloodwork confirmed I was ovulating. On January 25, something extraordinary happened and I actually felt excited to get my period. For years, since 2018, my period had been a harsh reminder of hope deferred. But this time, it meant something different: the beginning of a new chapter.
But the road was rocky. On February 5, I had an early LH surge, missing the window for insemination. The following weeks brought spotting and negative pregnancy tests. We pressed on, hopeful but cautious. Our second attempt
on February 23 was thwarted by my body refusing to surge. Hope felt fragile, slipping through our fingers.
March 29 brought a promising ultrasound - multiple follicles, one at 19mm. We moved forward with our first IUI on March 30, but trauma struck. The procedure was so painful I passed out while paying at the front desk. My blood pressure spiked, and my body went into shock. Fear and disappointment swirled inside me, threatening to undo the fragile hope I’d built.
Yet, we tried again. On April 20, with my husband by my side for support, the second IUI went smoothly. For a moment, hope was real and tangible.
By early May, my heart was full of quiet anticipation. I was late, truly believing this could be our month. But on May 8, the call came; negative again. The final straw.
The heartbreak cut deeper than before. Knowing my low egg reserve stripped away the comforting illusion that I was choosing adoption. Now, I had to face the painful truth: my body might not be capable of giving us what we longed for biologically.
And though we had agreed to stop after three rounds, letting go of that dream was far harder than I expected. It wasn’t just a medical reality, it was the bittersweet loss of a future I had held onto for so long.
"Grief, I've learned, is really just love. It's all the love you want to give but cannot." – Jamie Anderson
At the time, we were both carrying a quiet but heavy fear, a fear that often went unspoken but hovered over every conversation about expanding our family. We had doubts that gnawed at us in the stillness of the night. I could see it in my husband’s eyes, the worry about what another child might mean, the weight of financial strain, the emotional toll we’d already endured through years of adoption and fertility challenges. He was scared. I was scared.
But even amid that shared fear, I felt a restless hope stirring inside me, a deep yearning to move forward, to try again, to open the door to the possibility of adding another little soul to our family. I longed for our daughter to have a sibling. Not just someone to share toys with or go on vacations with, but a built-in best friend. Someone to wake up with on Christmas morning, to play and argue with, to learn patience and empathy alongside. I wanted her to have someone who could truly understand her when my husband or I couldn’t, someone to be there through the growing pains, heartbreaks, and life’s beautiful chaos.
I imagined her one day navigating life’s hardest moments, including the day, far in the future, when my husband and I would no longer be here. I wanted her to have someone to grieve with, not just for. I dreamed of family dinners, nieces and nephews, shared traditions, and a warm, expanding circle of love. I couldn’t imagine my own life without my brothers, and I wanted her to know that kind of bond. If she became a mother, I wanted her children to have aunties and uncles who would love them and help guide them.
I knew my husband wanted to protect us from the emotional strain, from the possibility of heartbreak, from the uncertainty of what another adoption or fertility journey might bring. His fears were real and rooted in love. He wanted to shield me from the pain he had seen weigh me down before. But despite his caution, despite my own doubts, I couldn’t let go of the hope that pushed me forward.
I believed we were ready. We were good parents already. I was willing to restart my photography work, to take on weddings and late nights, whatever it took to afford another adoption. I’d have driven our car into the ground if it meant making that dream possible. Our first adoption had been such a beautiful, meaningful journey, and I truly believed we could create another profile that would resonate with a birth parent. I believed we would be chosen again.
It was a delicate balance, holding our fears gently in my heart while quietly pushing ahead, trying to hold space for both of our emotions. But, there came a point where I had to sit with the reality in front of me, not the dream I was still chasing. Grief gave way to something quieter, something that didn’t ache as sharply, but still took up space.
The sooner we let go of holding on, the sooner we can hold on to the beauty of what's unfolding before us. Nothing was ever meant to stay the same forever. –Julieanne O’Connor
Letting go of the hope for a second child wasn’t a single moment, it was a gradual process. It came quietly, and often unexpectedly. It showed up in everyday life: in peaceful dinners, in morning cuddles, in watching my daughter’s world expand with curiosity and confidence. I started to feel something shift. A sense of peace began to take root, even amid the remnants of heartbreak.
We are often so crowded by our own pain, our own struggles, that we forget to recognize the blessings we already have. For over three years, I was consumed by infertility, adoption, and fertility treatments. The journey changed me in ways I did not fully realize. I felt resentment toward women who could conceive easily. I felt sadness instead of joy when friends announced pregnancies. Mother’s Day became a painful reminder, every “show your bump” post felt like a sharp jab. There was so much emphasis placed on birthing a child, as if parenting began only there, and it broke me over and over again.
But then, one evening while watering my garden, I had a lightbulb moment. The sun was warm on my back, and my hands were deep in the soil, and it just hit me: I am a mom. I have a wonderful husband. We are financially stable. I was elbow-deep in a garden I loved, spending my evening at peace. This was what I had always dreamed of. Maybe not in the form I first imagined, but still deeply, beautifully real. Some women would give anything to be where I am: a mom, a wife, stable, loved.
Acceptance is not giving up. It was making peace with what was, instead of being stuck in what could be. It was realizing that my daughter wasn’t missing something. She is whole, and so are we. We are not a family in progress; we are a family complete, just in a different way than I had once imagined.
Of course, acceptance does not erase the grief. There are still hard days, days when even though I was am happy with the family I have, I will also quietly grieving the family I thought I would have. It is such a strange feeling to carry joy and sorrow in the same breath. I do not know if I will ever truly "get over" it. Infertility has been one of the most painful things I have ever experienced; an ache that lingers. The feeling of my body not doing what it is “supposed” to do is excruciating and emotionally exhausting.
Sometimes, I think I will always wonder what could have been. What if I had a mini-me running around? What if I had a son who looked like my husband? Those questions will likely live quietly inside me forever. But something shifted again, during a family vacation, of all things. Two weeks of slowing down, being present, laughing with my daughter, reconnecting with my husband. I realized then that my life, as it is, is beautiful. It's not just enough, it’s perfect in its own way.
Infertility is a kind of grief that doesn’t go away, but it no longer defines me. I think the constant, aching want for another baby has finally quieted. I still believe the universe may have other plans. Maybe one day a child will come into our life who needs a home. Maybe through our daughters friendships or another unexpected connection. We still have so much love to give.
But for now, I am content. Genuinely content. I am pouring that love into my daughter and my husband. Because when I step back and look at what we’ve built together, I feel nothing but gratitude. I had a beautiful, fast, soul-affirming adoption experience. And I have the privilege of being a mom.
The grief didn’t vanish. But alongside it grew a deeper understanding that life doesn't always follow the plan you thought it would. And sometimes, that’s where the most unexpected kind of happiness finds you.
“He is mine in a way that he will never be hers, yet he is hers in a way that he will never be mine, and so together, we are motherhood.” - Desha Woodall.
My entire life, I have been asked a simple question that I have always struggled to answer: Who is your hero? It seemed like an easy question, but for the longest time, I didn’t truly understand what it meant to be a hero. When I was younger, it was often a famous person I admired, and in my teenage years, it was one of my parents. But as I grew, I realized that the answer I had been searching for was far more personal, more profound.
Now, I finally have an answer.
My hero is a young woman who gave birth to a baby girl. She held her, fed her, did skin-to-skin, changed her diapers, and loved her with every fiber of her being for five days. And then, after those five days, she left without her baby. She signed away her parental rights and got in a taxi. Later that day, I walked out of the hospital with that precious little girl, her daughter.
This woman, my daughter’s first mom, knew she could not give her daughter the life she dreamed for her. In an act of unimaginable love and selflessness, she gave up her world, and in doing so, she gave me mine. She made me a mother when I could not become one on my own.
The feelings I have for her are impossible to put into words. It’s a love unlike any other. One of gratitude, admiration, and deep respect. She made me a mom, and in doing so, she allowed me to live a life I never thought possible. She chose me to have the title that she was supposed to have, and for that, my heart overflows with love for her, a woman whose strength she may never fully recognize.
People often say that we saved our daughters life by adopting her. But the truth is, she would have been fine. I have no doubt that her first mom would have found a way to give her a life full of love. There would have been hardships, yes, but love would have been there. And, eventually, she would have found a way to be the mother she deserved.
Before our daughter was born, I was drowning in the pain of infertility. I felt like a failure, both as a woman and as a wife. I had lost myself in the ache of wanting a child, and I was sinking into despair.
But now, I understand that a hero is someone who sacrifices something deeply personal for the sake of another. My daughter’s first mom made the hardest decision of her life, one that I’m not sure I could have made myself, and in doing so, she unknowingly saved my life in the process. She gave me the gift of motherhood, a gift that I will never take for granted.
“Tell me, what is it you plan to do with your one wild and precious life?” – Mary Oliver
If you had asked me years ago what my family would look like, I would have painted a very different picture. Maybe two or three children, close in age, loud dinners, chaotic mornings, and matching pajamas on Christmas. I would have told you we would get pregnant easily, that adoption would never have crossed our minds. I would have assumed everything would go according to plan.
But life had other ideas.
We faced heartbreak. We faced loss. We met incredible people. We waited through silence. We clung to hope, and we watched dreams shift and reshape in real time. We navigated medical tests and paperwork, crushed expectations, and second chances. We found resilience in places we did not know existed.
And then, our daughter came into our life.
Sometimes I look at her sleeping with her hair splayed across her pillow, or running barefoot through the yard with scraped knees and a wide grin, or crouched in the garden collecting worms like they are her dear friends, and I still cannot believe she is here. That she is ours. That we made it through.
Adoption did not erase the loss. Not mine. Not hers. Not her first family’s. But it wove our stories together in a way that has made space for healing. We talk often about her beginnings. We speak her birth parents’ names with love and gratitude. And as our daughter grows, so does our understanding of how adoption is never a one-time event. It is a lifelong unfolding.
She knows she is adopted. She knows that there was another woman who carried her into this world, and that her arrival was layered with both joy and heartbreak. And one day, when she is ready, we will tell her more. We will share the details, the questions we asked, the tears we cried, the deep and abiding love that surrounded her from the very beginning.
There are still unknowns. Still letters we hope to send and possibly receive. Still dreams of what continued openness might look like. But for now, we hold space for all of it. The love. The loss. The questions. The quiet knowing.
I have learned that family is not built by biology or shaped by timelines. It is built by love. By presence. By showing up again and again, even when things feel impossible. It is created in the quiet moments of rocking a baby to sleep. In the laughter that echoes down a hallway. In the knowing glance between two parents who once wondered if this would ever happen for them.
There was a time when I measured our family by what we were missing. But now, I see it differently. We are not lacking. We are living. Fully, deeply, and with open hearts. We are a complete family. Not because everything went according to plan, but because we allowed ourselves to embrace something different. Something imperfect and beautiful.
My daughter is everything I ever wanted, and more. She has taught me patience. Resilience. And the depth of love I did not know was possible. In the end, I realize that the family I have is more than enough. We have each other. And for me, that is what truly matters.
And as for that old wooden rocking chair, the one that supported my back through our homestudy nights and cradled our daughter in the early hours when I sang her to sleep, its story did not end with us. When we knew our family was complete, and when my father figure’s grandson had a baby of his own, I sent the chair back. Full circle. Now another generation will be rocked to sleep in it, and its story will carry on.
As for our story, it may not have followed the plan we first imagined. But it led us to a life we would not trade for anything.
And I will spend my life making sure she always knows. She was never our backup plan. She was always the plan, even when we did not know it yet.
This is our family. This is our joy.
This is life without a plan.
If one day you pick up this book and read these pages, I hope you feel the weight of love woven through every single word. This is our story, but more than that, it is your story; the story of how you came into our lives and how, from the moment we met you, nothing was ever the same.
You were never a second choice. Never a backup plan. You were always the wish we carried in our hearts, even before we knew your name. Even before we knew how hard the road would be. Every tear we cried, every moment of doubt, every long night of waiting, it all led us to you.
You have brought color to our world, light to our darkest corners, and joy we never imagined. You are strong and curious, bold and kind. You carry the stories of many people, those who brought you into the world and those who now walk beside you in it. And all of us love you in ways too big for words.
I hope you always know how wanted you are. How chosen. How fiercely loved.
You are the reason I believe in things unseen. You made me a mother.
I love you with all my heart,
To my daughter: You are the joy that fills our home. Every moment of our journey was worth it, just to hold you in my arms. I love you more than words can ever express.
To your birth parents: Thank you for the greatest gift of all. Your love, courage, and sacrifice have shaped our family in ways I can never fully explain. I will always be grateful for the love you gave, and I will make sure your daughter knows just how special you are.
To my husband: Thank you for walking alongside me through the darkest and brightest days. I couldn't have asked for a better partner in this life, and I am forever thankful for you.
To my family and friends: Your love and encouragement kept me going when I doubted myself.
To my mom: You’ve stood by me through every step of this journey, and I am so blessed to have you in my life. Thanks for always answering my many calls!
To our agency: Thank-You for your unwavering support and guidance throughout our entire adoption journey. Your dedication to helping families like ours has truly made all the difference, and for that, we will forever be grateful.
To anyone who has struggled with infertility, adoption, or the longing for something more: May you find hope, comfort, and the knowledge that your story matters. You are not alone.
And to the future: May we all find peace with what is, embrace what we have, and celebrate the unexpected joys that life brings.
