For the Fall of the year is more than three months bounded by an equinox and a solstice. It is a summing up without the finality of year’s end.



Little One, people like to make comparisons. It’s the best way to help view this world we live in, and I above all am guilty of doing so (as you know from reading this so far). 

But there is one comparison that is continually being thrown in my face that I’m not incredibly fond of these days. It’s ironic, because I have even made this comparison in the past. But now, getting further down the road, I realize it’s not an equal or proper comparison at all. It’s apples to oranges, really.

“The wait is your labor. This time spent is your pregnancy.” 


I used to think it was true. But now, nine months in to this journey. I am still without you. I continually sit and wait.

And Lo, it’s not like pregnancy at all. 


If I were pregnant with you, I’d be able to feel you. With a slight movement of your tiny foot or hand, I would feel it in my bones that you rested safe within me. Every twinge would be a perfect little sign from your soul to mine that your physical body is okay, that I am doing what is right as your mother. 

There would be finality to this part of our relationship. I would be able to count down the weeks until we meet: a date would grace my calendar for a reunion: the only type of reunion you can have to someone that you’ve already known so very intimately for nine months prior. 


People would know by looking at me. They would see my watermelon swollen stomach and smile with that knowing smile. They would ask questions, wonder about genders and want to feel that special kick- just because, though they are strangers, they also like that feeling of physical closeness. 

I don’t have that. 


It’s not your fault, and it’s not really anything to be faulted anyway. It’s just not a comparison that makes sense. 


I have no idea when you’ll be here, and that reality is hitting me now more than ever. There is no date of finality gracing my calendar. There is no such thing as counting down the days until we meet. 

The worst part however, is that there are no tiny kicks to let me know you’re there. And I feel my faith slipping lately, as hard as I try to not let it. With every week that goes by without any progress, I feel that ache of not knowing if you’re out there or not- of not having you safely in my arms or my body. I am jealous that other women get this luxury, to know exactly where their children are from the moment they came into the world. 

There are so many positives to adoption, sweet baby. I don’t want you to ever think that these negatives make you not worth it. You are worth it, one hundred percent. 


I know I am being selfish for wanting these things that I cannot have. But it’s not about the big belly, it’s not about missing the feeling of you growing inside of me- it’s a motherly instinct to want you here, now. It’s the pain of not knowing how or when that will happen. It’s a primal need to know where you are and that you are safe and coming home to me soon. 

And I don’t have it. I never will, not until you are tucked safely into my arms with papers signed that legally make it the truth. 


As much as I wish it didn’t, it bothers me. I wish I had finality. I wish I had a date, time and place for your arrival. 

But more than anything, I wish I knew you were okay, and that I’m doing the right thing. 


Should I be posting places I’m not posting? Should I be driving cross country putting up flyers? Should I be signed up with agencies? Am I missing the opportunity to meet your first family with every misstep, every place I don’t make a move? I wish I could know in my heart I’m doing this right. 


But it’s our first time in this journey, and I know I’m a novice. But I don’t want to mess this up. I want to do everything right by you. I want to be the best mother I can be, from the very start.


And when I feel myself slipping and feel my faith dissipating, writing to you here helps. Sitting in your nursery helps. 


And when I get upset about the lack of certainty in this journey, I remember what it feels like to write to you and to sit in your nursery. I think back to the past nine months, and I realize again how far we’ve come. It may seem like we’re running in place, but really we’re running a marathon. I can only hope that we’re nearing the finish line soon. 


Until the date is on the calendar, I’ll be searching for you Lo. 


With faith and love forever, 





Keep your face to the sunshine and you cannot see the shadow. It’s what sunflowers do.

Sunflower fields forever

Little One, when I was little I had trouble sleeping. I attribute it to having multiple surgeries at a very young age- I would go in to the hospital, and wake up unable to move. I was terrified to go to sleep for fear that I’d wake up in the hospital. So when my Mom worked nights as a nurse, my Dad struggled to get me to drift off to sleep. He’d kneel down next to my bed, stroke my hair and try to get me to relax. One of our nightly rituals was him talking me to sleep, and often times he used (what I didn’t know at the time what it was, but with adult eyes I now know) meditation.

He would push my hair out of my face, and whisper to me, “Imagine you’re in a sunflower field. All the bright sunny flowers are everywhere – as far as the eye can see. The breeze gently sweeps through the field and the sunflowers wiggle, and the wind blows your hair. The sky is big and blue, the clouds are fluffy enough to sleep on.”  It would go on for hours and hours. Eventually, my mind would be fully immersed in that sunflower field, and I would feel relaxed enough to give in to sleep.

I cherish that memory, Lo.

This week was a rough one, sweet baby.


We thought we were so much closer. We had a lead. We met her in person. It all seemed so perfect..until her name glared on one of the scam boards.

An emotional scammer- not looking for money, just craving attention- had us sucked in and made us more hopeful than we’d been in a long time. We were all excited at the possibility of having you here by October, the due date she gave us. She sent us sonogram pictures. She told us we were chosen. And then it all came crashing down.

And I feel like ever since that fateful email that it was all a sham- that all our dreams were false- I feel a bit numb. I feel like I can’t even cry. I feel like it’s going to take a lot for me to trust that this will work, to trust another contact or lead. We’ve had our hearts broken twice now, once with a fall through and once with a scam. The scam hurt far, far worse. The fall through was meant to be, it was fate. The scam was all smoke and mirrors (we don’t even believe she was actually pregnant) and for no purpose other than someone elses selfishness. How could anyone do that? How could someone be so mean and hurtful? And she was not only scamming us, but at least six other hopefuly adoptive couples. Why would someone do that?

Because they are hurting, too. Badly.

It’s sad, and I feel terribly bad for this person. She needs help that we cannot provide for her. She needs to find peace.

And it hurt. A lot. Depths of your soul, how am I going to make it through this alive kind of pain. But for you sweet baby, for you I refuse to let it overcome us. I’m a fighter when it comes to you. I won’t give up. Not now, not ever.

Your Dad and I went to a local sunflower field on Saturday. After this week of the highest of ups and the lowest of downs, we needed to step off the rollercoaster and plant our feet somewhere familiar. To us, the most familiar place is nature. 

Driving up the road, out of nowhere we saw it, a gold mine- a sea of yellow beauty. The kind of beauty that only comes from nature, or God, or whatever diety you believe in. It’s not beauty from a photoshopped magazine. It’s beauty one rarely sees with their naked eye.

It gave me hope, that beauty still exists in this world. That faith, hope, and love are alive and well and on their way back into our lives.

And as I trunched through the waist high field of sunflowers, nothing but yellow petals for what felt like miles, I finally felt free.


We’re going to focus on the positive. It would be easy to throw our hands up and say, “Well, this is too hard. We’re not good enough for this. It’s just not meant to be. We’ve just been hurt too much already.” But kid, I’m not, nor have I ever been, a fan of easy. Life is hard. Adoption is hard. But the outcome…my God, baby, the outcome is going to be worth every single heartache we’ve ever had. I will not give up on you. Not now, not ever.

I will not give up on everyone else either. Your first Mom is out there. I cannot be doubtful when she comes into our lives. I cannot second guess giving her my love, just because one other sick person misused it. I refuse to let that person win. I will let your first Mom win though. I will love her with everything I am,  for your benefit and your sake. And I will not lose my faith in humanity or the good in people.

Sometimes, sweet baby, people hurt. They don’t know why all the time, but they will try to take it out on you. First of all, you’re better than that. Don’t let it get to you. Secondly, know that it’s not personal. It’s not about you or what you stand for- it’s about their pain and suffering. People that hurt other people are in a bad place, and they need understanding and love more than anyone else in this world. That doesn’t mean that responsibility rests on your shoulders- a lot of times it is outside the realm of what you can give. So my only advice when encountering someone that is in so much pain that they use it against you for no reason is this: respect yourself enough to give them space, and respect them enough to know it’s not about you.

So that is what we’re doing, Lo. We’re letting go of the hard feelings, and looking to the sunshine, just like the sunflowers taught us to.


I’m no longer afraid of sleep. My parents helped me get over the fear. And though this experience has been a life lesson, we won’t let it get us down. We won’t be afraid of this proccess- because in the end it means having you here in our lives forever. And that is all that matters.


The good thing about faith, Little One, is that the sun always rises tomorrow. It hasn’t let us down yet.


With my petals outstretched to the sun, ignoring the shadows but looking for you,


Love always,