Our family’s adoption journey began in 2014, sparked by a single, transformative book. At that time, my husband, Eric, and I were raising our two biological sons. Throughout our marriage, we had often talked about adoption as a way to grow our family. I was fully invested in the idea—but was Eric? That Christmas morning, my curiosity was answered. I unwrapped a heavy paperback filled with detailed adoption information, woven together with moving personal stories. It was Eric’s way of telling me, without words, that he was ready to step into this journey alongside me. From the pages of that book, our adoption adventure began—unknowing of the heartache, growth, and deep, unexpected joy that lay ahead.
Within a week, I immersed myself in research, exploring every facet of adoption and foster care—international adoption, domestic infant adoption, adoption through foster care, and foster-to-adopt pathways. I devoured every adoption book our local library had to offer. Learning felt productive and empowering, even as we hadn’t yet decided which path we would take. Soon, Eric and I felt drawn to international adoption. The thought of traveling overseas, stepping into an orphanage, and meeting a child with a life so different from our own felt thrilling. We longed to embrace a new culture, learn about another country, and fall in love with a child whose only shared bond with us was humanity itself.
As our excitement grew, so did our expectations. We lined up meetings with international adoption agencies—but time and again, obstacles arose. Some agencies required a higher age or more financial resources; others could only match us with older children or sibling groups. We were hoping to maintain our children’s birth order and felt conflicted at the thought of bringing home older children. One by one, countries were crossed off our list, leaving us unsure of what our path would be.
After two years of persistent research and countless agency meetings, we shifted our focus to domestic infant adoption. I had read story after story emphasizing the vital role of birth parents in an adoptee’s life. While it might seem counterintuitive to “share” your child, I wanted our future daughter to know how deeply she was loved by the people who gave her life. This understanding grew into a heartfelt desire for her to have a sense of connection to her biological family—a gift we were determined to honor. We selected a small, eclectic adoption agency nearby. Their initial meeting came with a long list of requirements and fees we couldn’t immediately meet. So, in May 2017, we organized a massive yard sale, bolstered by friends who donated everything from clothes to appliances. The proceeds covered our home study, an essential first step.
By August 2017, after weeks of paperwork and visits from social workers, our home study was complete. We were officially added to the waiting list in September. I became obsessed with the agency’s waiting families page, checking daily to see which prospective parents were chosen by expectant mothers. Families came and went, sometimes quickly, and we longed for any sign that our daughter was out there waiting for us. In our impatience, we planned a vacation to Florida. In February 2018, while out to dinner with relatives, the agency director called with a potential match: a mother who had given birth to a baby girl exposed to cocaine—the only drug we had selected “no” for in our preferences.
We had only two hours to decide if we were willing to be considered. That evening, I put our sons to bed with their grandparents and walked with Eric through the muggy wetlands near our home. We prayed, talked, and poured out our fears. Our hearts were full of hope but clouded by uncertainty. Ultimately, we felt a deep lack of peace and called the agency back to decline. We didn’t know it then, but this decision would mean a two-year silence from the agency.
Vacations became our refuge. In 2018, we visited Mexico, Florida, Pennsylvania, and took annual beach trips. One impulsive, whirlwind Disney World trip brought a missed opportunity: an email about two young sisters requiring a fast response arrived while we were boarding a plane. We missed it by an hour. Each near-miss left us questioning our choices: had we made the right call? Were we always in the wrong place at the wrong time? Why did other families get chosen while we waited?
As our two-year mark approached, it was time to renew our home study. During this period, we sold our first home and packed away the nursery we had prepared for years. In August 2019, our home study was renewed at our new home, complete with an extra bedroom. Yet the crib remained the only piece of the nursery actually set up, and eventually Eric stored it in the basement. The once-hopeful room became a quiet place for storage, a subtle reminder of dreams deferred.
Then, a call arrived that would reignite hope. An expectant mother had already selected us. We met her at a Mexican restaurant in a town unfamiliar to us. Her openness and honesty melted our nerves—she shared her struggles, battled addiction, and asked every question we could imagine about parenting. Within that meeting, her heart aligned with ours, and she confirmed she wanted us to parent her daughter. Just five days later, a voicemail revealed she had her baby a month early and needed us immediately. Three hours later, we arrived at the hospital. When she placed her tiny five-pound newborn with a full head of dark hair into Eric’s arms, I watched him fall in love instantly.
We stayed in a small room with her in the hospital, soaking in every second of those four precious hours. But then, heartbreak arrived. A nurse informed us the mother was having second thoughts. We were asked to leave. I can still hear Eric’s calm, concerned voice fade behind muffled hospital sounds. At home, my parents held me as I cried, grief washing over me in a way I had never experienced. Our dreams felt shattered, layered on top of the uncertainty and isolation of a global pandemic.
Quarantine became an unexpected time for healing. With nowhere to go, the grief that surrounded our little family bubble allowed Eric and me to reconnect in ways we hadn’t anticipated. Counseling helped us lean into one another, restoring a strength we hadn’t realized we were missing. I fell more in love with Eric during that quiet, reflective winter than ever before.
The following months tested us further. We were matched and un-matched repeatedly, even once with an adoption scammer. Meanwhile, the first birth mother continued to reach out for emotional support. Though it hurt, I communicated with her, grateful to bear some fraction of the pain she endured rather than her having to carry it alone. By June 2020, she wavered, then reversed her decision. By August, exhausted and emotionally spent, we contemplated stepping away from adoption entirely. We reflected on why we entered the process: to expand our family and honor expectant mothers with care, respect, and love—even if the outcome wasn’t guaranteed.
Then, on October 2, 2020, the call came. I was helping my youngest son with first-grade remote learning when the agency told us: a newborn girl, two days old, had chosen us. Both her parents had already signed and were waiting at the hospital. My mind raced, my heart pounded, and Eric rushed home. Within moments, our boys were with my parents, and we were on our way.
We entered the hospital with cautious hope. Would this story end differently? Holding hands tightly, we followed a social worker to the maternity unit, to a door that read, “It’s a girl!” One of the most natural, effortless conversations followed, and soon we were led upstairs to the special care unit. Eric held her first. Tears filled his eyes, unguarded love spilling out immediately. When I held her, she gazed at me with content, trusting eyes, and in that moment, our family was whole.
The next 72 hours—marked by the legal termination of parental rights—were a mix of worry, attachment, and awe. Every moment was precious. When the final hour passed, a message from her birth father arrived: “Signed, sealed, and delivered! Congratulations, Aubrey and Eric!” Eric held our daughter and slowly sank to his knees, while I wrapped my arms around them both. Tears of gratitude streamed down our faces. After years of waiting and a year packed with disappointment, we were finally entrusted with the joy of parenting another family’s beautiful baby girl.
Our daughter came home on October 4, 2020, greeted by family and an overflowing sense of love. My mother ran out the front door, practically opening the van before it had stopped. After years of setbacks, heartbreak, and uncertainty, our daughter was worth every moment of our long, winding journey. Today, we raise her to know she has two families: one that gave her life, and one that was asked humbly to parent her. Our role is to love her, guide her, and honor both sides of her story. That book from 2014 remains on a shelf, a symbol of where our journey began and how it ultimately led us to our daughter.
