The Process

We didn't start with a country in mind. The process began with a mandatory introduction class through the government agency — and it was only after that, once they understood our situation (our age, how long we could realistically wait), that we were told which agency and which continent's program actually fit us.

From there came mandatory classes — some material we could read online or in books beforehand, some only presented in the sessions themselves — plus real-life case examples to prepare us for what could realistically come up. The home study process included, among other things, a review of our financial status.

One of the most eye-opening parts of the mandatory classes wasn't about paperwork at all — it was about psychology. We learned that bonding doesn't start at birth; it starts in the womb, through the biological mother. And what happens in the gap between birth and the moment a child enters an orphanage — whether there was any exposure to the outside world, any continuity of care, or an abrupt separation — can shape a child differently, even before you ever meet them.

Honestly, this was more serious than I had anticipated. My first thought wasn't even about my own son yet to come — it was sadness. Sadness for every child who has already had to go through this basic, but deeply impactful, moment of separation before anyone even has the chance to hold them, love them, call them theirs.

The years of waiting weren't entirely silent, though. Throughout that time, we received photos, videos, and small updates about him — glimpses of who he was becoming, even from afar. In return, we sent our own photos and clothes for him, small ways of reaching across the distance, of letting him have something of us before he ever knew who we were.

The wait itself stretched on: around a year for approval, then roughly two more years before we were finally presented with a child's file. And then COVID added another two years on top of that before we could actually go and pick him up.

On top of the waiting, there was another layer of fear specific to us. The continent we were adopting from only permitted adoption by its own local citizens, or by North American or European citizens. Our path forward depended entirely on my husband's European citizenship, and that sat with me the whole time — was I truly part of this process, or was I only there because of who I married? It's a strange, quiet kind of doubt to carry through years of waiting. There was a point during those long, uncertain years where we genuinely thought it might not happen at all.