A few years ago, I found myself in an incredibly dark place when I sought the help of a therapist. Having faced numerous challenges throughout my life, nothing prepared me for the depth of despair I felt after my then 5-year-old daughter, Mia, was diagnosed with PCDH19, a rare and severe form of epilepsy that can be fatal and has no cure. The weight of this diagnosis was overwhelming as I struggled to understand its implications for her and our family. During my third session, the counselor suggested that I consider “rehoming” her, implying that the bulk of my stress stemmed from Mia’s condition. He believed that if I placed her with another family, my depression might lift. I never returned to that therapist again.
This suggestion referred to a controversial and distressing practice known as rehoming, where some adoptive parents relinquish their adopted children back to the system. This often occurs when families are unprepared for severe psychological challenges that arise from past trauma or when they lack access to the necessary resources to support their children. Unfortunately, rehoming usually happens without any oversight from governmental or social agencies, leading to devastating consequences for the children involved.
While I’m sure the counselor’s suggestion came from a place of concern, it was deeply insulting to me as a mother. The idea of abandoning Mia to alleviate my own suffering felt unimaginable. It highlighted a stark reality for some people: the belief that family ties can be easily severed, regardless of the lack of biological connection. To me, there is no distinction between my adopted children and the one I gave birth to; they are all my children.
Long before Mia entered my life, I would often sneak into the empty nursery we had prepared and pray for the little girl I envisioned. I read books about strong women to share with her, dreaming of the remarkable person she would become. I felt like her mother long before I even held her.
When Mia finally came home, she was emotionally fragile. She displayed her distress through constant screaming and physical aggression. The first time I brought her to therapy, she walked in and flipped off her counselor. Despite her challenges, she was still my daughter.
As her seizures began, I experienced a primal fear that only a mother can understand—watching my child flirt with death was terrifying. I spent countless nights at Mia’s hospital bedside, praying for her recovery. I wasn’t there out of mere obligation; I believed that a child in the hospital needs their mother by their side, and that was my role. When our caseworker suggested that we might consider stepping back from our commitment, it presented an opportunity to walk away. Yet, by that time, I had been Mia’s only mom for a year and a half, and my husband and I officially adopted her and her younger brother shortly thereafter, uncertain of what the future would bring.
What my former counselor failed to grasp is that, for our family, adoption is a lifelong commitment. Adopted children may present immense challenges, and sometimes they push us in ways we could never imagine. That means our families need support, not dissolution. When adopted families are not viewed as permanent, it allows the state to overlook the needs of children who are shuffled between homes instead of ensuring they receive the necessary resources.
When rehoming becomes an option, adoption workers, driven by quotas, may rush placements that are likely to fail. If families like mine are seen as temporary arrangements, professionals—therapists, educators, and even friends—may casually suggest returning a child to the system, as one might return an unruly pet to a shelter. However, my children are not disposable. I would never consider sending my biological son away due to the difficulties of parenting. My adopted children deserve the same unwavering commitment. They are all mine, forever, and it’s an affront to imply otherwise.
Months after our adoption was finalized, we finally received the genetic testing results, confirming Mia’s diagnosis. Even amidst the turmoil of that news, someone dared to ask if I regretted adopting her. Despite the chaos surrounding us, my answer remained a resounding no. No matter what trials or triumphs await us, she is my daughter.
Each morning, as I gently wake Mia, I pause at her door to pray that she’s still breathing and that her seizures have not overcome her while I slept. That fear lingers, perhaps forever, but I refuse to consider giving up my child simply because of the challenges we face. I am committed to this journey until the end, wherever it may lead.
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In summary, the notion of rehoming is not a viable option for me. Adoption is a profound commitment that requires support and understanding, rather than a quick escape from difficulties.