Eight years ago, my husband and I stepped off a 14-hour plane from Hong Kong with our newly adopted baby boy. As we left customs and immigration, I remember standing behind those double doors at DFW arrivals with bated breath.
On the other side of those doors stood more than 20 people ready to welcome our new son home to Texas. It was the moment I had been working towards and dreaming about for two years.
And the airport moment was everything I’d dreamed of: balloons and signs and new siblings and six new cousins for this precious little boy who had no clue what all the fuss was about. I cried happy tears and tears of relief that we were home.
And then . . . we drove home as a new family of five.
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From Homecoming to Coming Home
We got home on a Friday night and picked up our favorite donuts Saturday morning. We went to church two days later, like normal. That following Monday, I drove my kids to preschool.
Everything was the same, and yet nothing was the same at all.
The paperwork was over. The waiting was over. The anticipation was over. Fundraisers and grant applications were a thing of the past. I wasn’t working anymore as we made the decision for me to stay home with him and build attachment.
I remember spending those first few months at home with our little guy just going through the motions of life. I’d zone out in Target aisles and spend hours scrolling my phone. The house was a mess. While it was easy to blame that on having three young children, the truth is that I spent most of those early days trying to numb out. I cried a lot, blaming exhaustion, but knowing full well it was more than that.
Despite all this, I never doubted our decision to adopt. I knew we had followed God’s leading for our family, and we were so grateful to the hundreds of people who rallied behind us to bring him home. We were completely overjoyed he was here. Friends brought meals and hand-me-downs, and everyone wanted to know how he was doing. He was thriving and learning and wonderful . . . all while I was falling apart inside.
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Time to Ask for Help
And then one day, a close friend asked how I was doing. And not in a casual way — she truly wanted to know. It came pouring out of me. I felt so confused as I explained to her how I felt. I loved my son and was so thankful for all he had already added to our family, but something wasn’t right. And she encouraged me to do the thing I had been dreading: Ask for help.
Two months after we walked off that plane, I finally woke up and realized I couldn’t keep going this way. Thankfully, I was able to get in quickly to see a counselor who helped me identify what I was going through. I had never heard of it, but I had something called post-adoption depression.
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Coming to Terms with the Diagnosis
Post-adoption depression is a thing. And it’s far more common than you think. The National Library of Medicine estimates that 10 – 32 percent of adoptive parents experience post-adoption depression.
After several months of weekly sessions, I crawled myself out of a hole, but it was not an easy road. I walked into that office thinking I was crazy or that something was really wrong with me. I hadn’t been pregnant and hadn’t given birth. Heck, I didn’t even have a newborn! And yet, I had been through a similar emotional roller coaster, and my body was reeling from the stress of it all.
The symptoms of post-adoption depression and postpartum depression are similar and should not be ignored. These can include:
- changes in eating and sleeping patterns
- feelings of guilt or regret
- hopelessness
- problems focusing
- fatigue or exhaustion
If you have any of these feelings, I encourage you to reach out to your physician today. Your doctor can help you assess your symptoms and refer you to a counselor or psychiatrist who can help.
Just like you wouldn’t try to treat a broken leg at home, please don’t try to ignore this or fix it yourself. Therapy is truly a wonderful experience, and I’m grateful every day that I listened to my friend and sought out professional help for post-adoption depression.
