A few years back, I found myself utterly shattered when I sought the help of a counselor. Though I had faced challenges in the past, nothing compared to the overwhelming depression I was experiencing. My five-year-old daughter, whom I had adopted, had just been diagnosed with PCDH19, a rare and severe form of epilepsy that has no cure and can be life-threatening. The weight of this diagnosis was crushing as I struggled to comprehend what it meant for her and our family.
During my third session, the counselor made a suggestion that left me stunned: he asked if I had ever thought about “rehoming” her. He believed that most of my stress stemmed from Alyssa’s challenges and that if I placed her with another family, my depression might lift. I never returned to that therapist again.
This suggestion referred to the concerning practice known as rehoming, where some adoptive parents relinquish their children due to unmanageable behavioral or psychological issues—often stemming from prior trauma. Such situations often occur without any oversight from authorities, leading to devastating outcomes for the children involved.
I can only assume the counselor meant well, but it felt deeply disrespectful to suggest that I abandon my child to alleviate my own suffering. It highlighted a troubling perspective that some people hold: that family ties can be severed based on convenience. For me, there’s no distinction between the children I adopted and the one I gave birth to; they are all my children.
Before Alyssa entered my life, I would often sneak into the empty nursery and pray for my future daughter. I collected books about strong, inspiring women to read to her, envisioning the remarkable person she would grow up to be. I had already embraced my role as her mother long before we ever met.
When Alyssa finally came to me, she was struggling emotionally. Her behavior was challenging; she would scream, hit, and lash out. I remember the first therapy session vividly—my tiny girl walked in and flipped off her counselor. Despite the chaos, she was still my daughter.
When seizures began to plague her, a new kind of fear gripped me—the terror of watching my child flirt with death. I spent countless nights by her hospital bedside, praying fervently for her recovery. I was not there out of obligation; I was there because I believed a mother should be by her child’s side during such critical moments. As things worsened, our caseworker suggested we could walk away. That would have been our chance to abandon ship, but by that time, I had already been Alyssa’s mother for a year and a half. My husband and I officially adopted her, along with her younger brother, with no clear understanding of what lay ahead.
What my former counselor failed to grasp is that, for our family, adoption is unconditional and forever. Adopted children can indeed be incredibly difficult, often challenging us in unimaginable ways, but that is precisely why our families need support, not dissolution. When adoption is seen as temporary, it becomes easier for social workers to facilitate placements that are ultimately fated to fail. This is a dangerous mindset that views families as flexible arrangements rather than permanent units.
When the option of rehoming exists, it perpetuates a cycle where adoption quotas take precedence over the best interests of children. Well-meaning friends, therapists, and educators might suggest that we return our children to the system as if they were simply misbehaving pets. However, my children are not disposable. I would never consider sending away my biological son because parenting him is challenging, and my adopted children deserve the same commitment. They are all mine forever, and to imply otherwise is deeply hurtful.
Months after our adoption was finalized, we received Alyssa’s genetic test results, confirming her diagnosis. Even amidst the turmoil, someone asked me if I regretted my decision to adopt her. My answer was a resolute no. No matter what challenges we face, she is my daughter.
Every morning, as I wake Alyssa, I pause at her door and pray she is still breathing, that the seizures didn’t take her while I slept. This pain is likely to remain with me, but I refuse to abandon my child simply because navigating her condition is daunting. While I cannot predict where this journey will lead us, I am committed to staying on this path until the end.
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In summary, the experience of adopting a child with severe challenges reshaped my understanding of family and commitment. The notion of rehoming is not an option for us; we embrace our responsibilities as parents, regardless of the difficulties we encounter.