I guess it’s the bittersweetness of it all.
The part where your heart is so full it could burst, and yet at the same time, there’s this tiny tug – a whisper of grief for all the moments slipping by too quickly.
I’ll never forget the nerves that came with that first phone call to our adoption agency. I had no idea that pressing “call” would be the beginning of the most life-changing chapter of our lives. I was shaky and hopeful, terrified and ready. All of it. All at once.
Most mornings during that season, you’d find me outside with a mug of coffee clasped between two anxious hands, chatting to my husband about how I didn’t think we’d make it. How I didn’t think we’d be “good enough” to be adoptive parents.
“I’ve got depression.”
“I’ve got anxiety.”
“There are other couples who are richer, more qualified.”
I told myself every story I could think of to soften the blow just in case it didn’t happen. Just in case we weren’t chosen. Just in case we failed the screening.
And that screening? It’s no joke. Medicals. Counseling. Police checks. Mental health reports. Character references. It felt like putting our entire lives under a microscope. And if you’ve ever struggled with mental health, you know how vulnerable it feels to put that down in writing – to hand over your diagnosis like a résumé and hope someone still believes you’re capable of being a good mom.
But every step we completed, every drive out to Wellington to sit in that little office with our wonderful social worker, brought us closer. Closer to her – though we didn’t know who she was yet.
I still remember the butterflies. The nervous laughter in the car. The songs playing on Spotify that now feel sacred because they take me right back to that moment. That sacred in-between when we weren’t quite parents yet, but our hearts had already made room.
And then, we met her.
It’s strange how a moment can feel like yesterday and a lifetime ago all at once. I remember the smell of her blanket. The way she looked at me for ages, taking my face in, before she fell asleep peacefully on my chest – still her favourite spot to nap.
She’s asleep on me as I write this. Her little breath warm against my skin. It’s a moment I wish I could bottle up and keep forever. Because I already know – this part won’t last.
That’s the ache no one tells you about. The ache of watching them grow. Of celebrating their milestones while quietly grieving the versions of them you’ll never meet again. The newborn who needed you every second. The baby learning to sit. The toddler with the infectious giggle. They all live in your memory, and every new stage is beautiful and hard, magical and fleeting.
Motherhood is joy laced with longing. It’s knowing that the “firsts” come with “lasts.” It’s messy, and sacred, and a little bit heart-wrenching in the best way.
So I sit here, breathing her in, letting the moment stretch just a little longer.
And I guess that’s the bittersweetness of it all.
Her Story 