The real person smiles in trouble, gathers strength from distress, and grows brave by reflection.

Little one, the past few weeks have been a huge mix of emotions. The highest of highs and the lowest of lows. I’m not going to get into it right now, but this journey has been a rollercoaster.

Going through the past week has prompted me to reflect quite a bit. I went back and read some of our old entries, the very first ones in January and February. I have to say, it was a bit painful to read and tears were shed- but it helped.

I realize when reading those words that were written only ten and eleven months ago, it feels like a lifetime has passed. And it has. A lifetime of experience, anyway. Reading back I can see the hope we had in the beginning that everything would work out like clockwork, the images in our head that we’d have a baby born in June and that we’d get the storybook ending. I see the trust I had in this before. I see how crazy naive we were back then.

But that is not an entirely bad thing, Lo. Being naive and not knowing the outcome gave us the strength to even pursue this, and now that we’re in it- we’re in it until you are here. Besides, a storybook ending really is not our style.

And when I look back and read all of that, how we were taking baby steps and thinking it was all going to work out great, it makes me both happy and sad. Happy, because with reflection comes knowledge and perspective. We’ve come so very, very far in this journey. We’ve gone through things we’d never dream we’d have to go through, and we’re still fighting. We thought we’d have a bouncing six month old on our laps for Christmas this year, and that life would just go on like nothing happened. But as you know, that is not how this story panned out. Oddly though, that part doesn’t make me sad.

What makes me sad is the amount of hope and trust we had when this all started. I feel like with the experiences we’ve had as of late with failed matches, with scams, with hurt…it feels like the hope and trust we once had a mountain of in our hands is now slipping through our fingertips like sand. I’m clenching my fingers tight to keep any semblance I have left, but it just keeps pouring out.

That is the saddest part of all.

We’re not losing hope or faith in you, sweet baby. We’re not losing our sense of you being in our family. That we will never lose. We’re losing our trust. Every connection we make, I have to guard my heart. If I let myself feel attached and get invested, I ultimately end up getting hurt as I have every time. So to guard myself, I try to look at it objectively, logically, without emotions.

But I’m not a robot, baby. I cannot help but fall and let myself feel every ounce of hope, trust, faith…and then it all comes crashing down on my head again. It’s like filling a balloon with your entire self: your love, your hope, your faith, and someone just keeps popping it with a pin and letting all the air out. I’ve repaired it so many times, and I promise myself I won’t let it get filled up again, but it does. I can’t help it.

I can’t help it because it’s so personal, so close to my chest. It’s you in that balloon, sweet baby, because it’s you in my heart.

When I think back to the person I was earlier this year, I barely recognize that person. She was excited about this, she was learning new things every day about adoption and taking each day as it comes. When I put that person that I was next to the person I am now, it’s easy to spot the difference. Now I am tired. I am running myself ragged. I am hurt. I am healing. I am trying to take each day as it comes- but it’s harder than it has ever been.

I knew this journey would be hard, but I don’t think my head or my heart were prepared for it being this hard. This doesn’t change anything with us wanting to adopt, with us fighting for you as hard as we possibly can. It just means that your Dad and I are far stronger than we ever knew, far braver than we’d ever realized, and so in love and in this together than anyone could ever imagine.

I love the saying that it is always darkest before the dawn. We didn’t know this journey would get this dark, we didn’t know it would take this much out of us. But we’re strong, and so are you sweet baby. Your soul will find a way to get to us, no matter what. You are meant to be with us.

That is what this is all about, and all it’s ever been about, Lo. It’s about you. It’s not about our desire to be parents, our wants or needs. It’s about you, your life, your future.

I wish I had all the answers. I wish I knew why things happened when they happen. I wish for a lot of unfathomable things, especially lately. I just hope you’re not unfathomable. I hope that someone can open up their trust to us as we will to them. We’re ready. We’ve been ready for months now. Our hearts are still hurting from all the pain we’ve experienced lately, but we’re not broken. We’re ready with our arms wide open, but we need the other side. We need someone who is going to open their arms up and trust us just as we will trust them, and clasp our hands tight to form a circle of love around you.

Because this is all about you, sweet baby.

It’s always darkest before the dawn. I’m hoping to see that sunrise soon, Little Darling.

With love, reflection, and a renewed sense of trust and hope,

Never ever ever ever ever ever giving up.

Love,

Mom

No matter how much you plan, it is tenacity, unyielding desire to success, and the ablity to cope with change that will eventually prevail.

Little One, today is a bit rough. Today is the day I thought you might be here. Today is the day we thought you might be due. That is until, as you know how your story plays out- that mother decided to parent.

We’re still excited for her, happy that was her decision. We hold no ill feelings towards her or her choices at all. That is how this part of the tale was meant to go. It’s how it was supposed to be, and we know that. I wish knowing that made it easier, but it doesn’t. It still aches, just a little. It still hurts to see the little tiny heart mark I made under the 11 on the calendar  by my work desk. It still hurts to think of that part of my brain that I’ve tried  very hard to surppress where the flowery thoughts flourish. Thoughts like maybe, just maybe, we’d be parents by Fathers day. It still stings when I think that maybe you won’t be here by Christmas the way we imagined, or that we’ll keep collecting items and filling an empty room for years. It makes my soul ache to think that it will take a long time for you to get here. Then there is that small quiet space inside my heart that whispers the words I don’t want to hear, that maybe you’ll never get here at all.

It’s difficult to pull myself together, but I have to do so and realize that this was not the mark of an end, but of a beginning. A new start for us, and for that mother. It’s like a caterpillar turning into a butterfly. It might seem like the end of the world now, but tomorrow we might grow wings and flourish and live a life so wonderful it never even crossed our minds or hearts that it could turn out that way. I know beauty lies ahead for us, that we’ll have your room filled with not just things for you, but with your laughter, your own hopes and joys. I know that one day your cry will bounce off the walls of that room and fill our hearts with a sense of belonging, replacing the longing feeling that resides there now. I know that years of magical Christmas mornings lie ahead- mornings where we wake you up with the news that Santa has arrived and brought an entire sleigh full of goodies, and those years will morph into ones where you’re the one tapping us awake to tell us that Santa came. I know that this may not be the last Fathers day that your Dad doesn’t get to celebrate with you here, but that it lies ahead, somewhere out there on our unknown timeline.

I know we’ll turn into a butterfly soon.

 

I remember writing to you months ago, saying repeatedly that I wish I had a time machine that could take me to this very day and let me know the outcome. But in retrospect, I’m glad that was never in the realm of possibility. It’s better to not know these things. Had I seen that this didn’t work out the way we’d hoped, would I have wanted to go through with it? I still think yes, but it would have caused more pain. I heard about it when the time was right for me to hear about it. Things always happen for a reason, and on a certain timeline. That is the hardest part of life, sweet baby. I don’t know if I will ever get over not knowing the when’s of this life. There are still times when I wish I knew exactly when you will be in our lives, but it’s for the better that I don’t have a clue. I have a feeling you’re going to surprise us and sweep us off of our feet, probably when we least expect it. Knowing would take away the magic, and trust me: we always opt for the magic of life than the knowledge of logic. There is a lot less of the former, so never take those magical moments for granted.

 

Behind the wound of you not being here yet lies a big abyss of wonderful- our hope. Our hope that you’re still out there, waiting for us to find you. That is what is keeping me going during tough days like this, knowing that it’s my job and duty as your Mom to find you out there and bring you home to us. I’m convinced now more than ever that I was put on this planet to do just that. I was meant to be your Mom, and when the right time and place collide it’s going to be amazing.

 

There is a Chinese proverb that reads, “An invisible red thread connects those destined to meet. Regardless of time, place or circumstance. The thread may stretch or tangle, but it will never break.” I know that read thread is already there in our hearts. We just have to wait for it to connect us. I’m not sure when the circumstances will be right, or if this will be our one and only missed connection or the start to many (we hope not), but either way we’ll find you.

I’m going to hold on to that string for dear life.

Waiting to grow butterfly wings,

Love,

Mom