A few years ago, I found myself in a place of profound despair, seeking help from a counselor to navigate the overwhelming waves of depression that engulfed me. At that time, my 5-year-old daughter, Mia, had just received a diagnosis of PCDH19, a rare and severe form of epilepsy that has no cure and poses significant risks. Grappling with the implications of this diagnosis for her and our family felt insurmountable. During one of my sessions, the counselor suggested that perhaps I should consider “rehoming” her, reasoning that if I placed Mia with another family, my burden would lighten. I never returned to that counselor.
This suggestion was a reference to the controversial practice of rehoming, where some parents relinquish their adopted children when faced with challenges they feel unequipped to handle. Often, this occurs when families are unprepared for the severe psychological issues stemming from past trauma or when they lack access to necessary support services. Disturbingly, rehoming typically happens without oversight from agencies, leading to dire consequences for the children involved.
While I’m sure the counselor’s advice was intended to be supportive, it felt deeply offensive to me as a mother. The notion that I could abandon my child to ease my own suffering is not something I could ever entertain. It also reflects a broader misunderstanding that family bonds, whether biological or adoptive, are everlasting. In my heart, there is no distinction between Mia and my biological children.
Before Mia entered my life, I often found myself in our empty nursery, praying for the daughter I knew would one day be mine. I immersed myself in books about inspiring women to share with her, envisioning the strong individual she would become. I had been a mother in spirit long before I ever held her in my arms.
When Mia arrived, she was a child carrying profound emotional wounds. Her behavior was challenging—she screamed, hit, and expressed her anger in ways that were often difficult to manage. Our first therapy session was memorable for all the wrong reasons; Mia walked in and defiantly gestured to her counselor. Despite the difficulties, she was my child.
As her condition worsened and she began experiencing seizures, I faced an unimaginable fear—the fear of losing my child. Countless nights were spent by her hospital bed, listening to the beeping machines and praying for her recovery. This was not merely a duty; it was the instinctual need of a mother to be present when her child was suffering. When our caseworker suggested we might want to consider stepping back, I realized I had been Mia’s only mother for a year and a half. My husband and I formally adopted her and her younger sibling shortly thereafter, fully aware of the uncertain path ahead.
What my previous counselor failed to grasp is that for our family, adoption is a lifelong commitment. Yes, adopted children can present tremendous challenges, and at times they may change our lives in ways we never anticipated. However, this necessitates that families receive support rather than being seen as temporary arrangements. When rehoming is considered a valid option, it can lead to a system where children are shuffled between homes, rather than being provided with the care they desperately need.
The idea of returning a child to the state due to difficulties is akin to treating a child as disposable. My biological son is no less valued than my adopted children. All of them are mine, and the suggestion to do otherwise is deeply hurtful.
Months after finalizing Mia’s adoption, we received her genetic testing results and the confirmation of her diagnosis. Even amid the chaos, when asked if I regretted adopting her, my answer was a resolute no. Regardless of the obstacles that lie ahead, she is my daughter.
Every morning, as I wake Mia, I pause at her door, praying that she is still alive and that the seizures haven’t taken her from me. This pain is a constant companion, and while the journey ahead is uncertain, I am committed to walking it with her until the very end. For those navigating similar paths, it can be helpful to explore resources like NHS’s information on intrauterine insemination and consider options such as home insemination kits from Make a Mom to aid in your journey.
In summary, rehoming children, particularly those with special needs, is not a viable solution. It is essential to embrace the commitment of adoption, recognizing that every child deserves a loving and permanent home, regardless of the challenges they may present.
Keyphrase: Rehoming adopted children
Tags: “home insemination kit”, “home insemination syringe”, “self insemination”