Londynn has had a lot of bad dreams in the last few months.
She always wakes me up when they happen and often we talk about them at night
before she goes to bed. Very rarely is she dreaming of things that are realistic.
Most of the time she is dreaming of things like a shark bite or a dinosaur
breaking into our house. I can try to be logical and say “do you think a
dinosaur could ever really break into our house?” But the point isn’t really
whether or not her dream is something that can be real. The point is that her
fear is real. Even though her mind knows that dinosaurs will never break into
our house, in those middle-of-the-night moments, the feeling is very real to
her. In fact, at times her dreams have been so frequent that she is worried
about falling asleep for fear that she will have a dream that will scare her.
We’ve learned a lot about felt safety through our training on children from trauma. Just
because a child is safe, doesn’t mean
she always feels safe. She gets stuck
sometimes in that space between what she knows and what she feels.
This has been challenging for me at times to try and explain
to many well-meaning people. I get lots of “is she so happy now?” questions.
From an outsider’s perspective, this story has a happy ending. Our adoption is
finalized. We are finished with caseworkers. We even have a new birth
certificate now. Cue all the happy tears.
But this story is not over. It’s beautiful. It’s redemptive.
But we still have a lifetime of wading through the messiness of it.
I have a friend who has a miracle child. This little boy was
not expected to live. We all grieved and prayed with them through the second
half of their pregnancy as they prepared to say hello and goodbye in the same
day. But, a miracle happened, and their son lived. Everyone celebrated his
life, and it was truly a gift. But the miracle of him being able to breathe
hasn’t negated the fact that there have been many challenges in raising a child
with special needs. It is a beautiful story, but that doesn’t mean it isn’t
hard. Their family will have challenges forever because of his special needs. They
can be both happy for the gift he was given and grieved for the hard he will have
to endure. They are thrilled that they get to raise him, and sad that he won’t
be able to do all of the same things his siblings can do. It’s both/and.
In some ways I feel like that’s our story. She is forever
ours and that is a gift to us. She has stability and finality here, and that is
a gift to her. But these truths don’t negate the first six years of her life. That
gift doesn’t all of a sudden mean the questions she gets asked regularly (or
that we get asked in front of her) don’t have an impact on her emotionally. Having
a forever family doesn’t take away the challenges that she will face because
she looks different than her siblings. It is both beautiful and hard, for all
of us.
One night I sat on her bed and wept with her, because
sometimes there just aren’t words to make it better. Once in awhile there are
questions with no good answer, and I just have to say “I don’t really know, but
I’m sorry.” We know this is good, but
it doesn’t always feel good.
Every one of our biological kids have told friends and
classmates about our story, and their new forever sister. Two of them have
stood in front of their classes this school year to share their good news. And
while that makes me swell with pride to see the understanding and compassion
they have gained, it makes me sad that she continues to hear them talk about
how she “hasn’t always been here.” I’m both proud and sad. It’s complicated and
messy. When the others ask questions around the dinner table about funny things
they did as babies, I watch her. It’s a delicate balance to love each of these
kids and their stories and what makes them unique, well. My mom guilt kicks in
often. I love remembering funny baby stories with my kids. But I’m sad that
funny baby stories could make L feel like she isn’t as much of a part of our family.
I know that this
is beautiful, but it doesn’t always feel beautiful.
This theme has been running through my life in ways beyond
adoption, and I am thankful for how God uses my own struggles to give me a
greater sense of compassion and understanding for my daughter.
For the longest time, I would feel panicked when one of my
children would get sick. My mind knew that it was only a bug that was going
around, but my body would feel very anxious and fearful. This stress was a
natural result of the trauma that we went through over six years ago with Adri
and it still rears its head at times.
Similarly, when something hurts my feelings and I know the comment
was unintentional and only meant to be in jest, my head and my heart aren’t
always on the same page to begin with. I get stuck in the space between what I
know and what I feel.
As an adoptive mama, I’m learning that I have to be
sensitive to the feelings, no matter if they come from an illogical fear. Her
past is what has made these things feel real to her. So my role is to meet her
where she is and lead her to the place that is true, so that she doesn’t get
stuck in the fear. I have to do this, over and over.
And from a personal place, I am learning to navigate my own
space. Being there is inevitable. When I get the stomach bug, I know that I’m
not actually going to die but I always feel like I am. When my head knows a
situation is going to be okay, but my heart doesn’t feel it, what do I do? How
do I respond?
Sometimes I stay there, and I sulk. Or I feel sorry for
myself. Or I feel terrified, or angry that the world doesn’t understand me. And
that’s a miserable place to be.
So I’ve learned that I have to make sure I have people who
can see things more clearly, with less emotion, than I can when I’m stuck – and
give them permission to point me in the right direction. Some of the things are trivial and some of the things are heavy, but in either situation, community is important when it comes to dragging me out of my funk.
And most importantly, I have to cling to Jesus and know that he doesn't change even when my emotions are on a roller coaster. When my soul is unsettled or sad or fearful, I have to make
sure that I am not anchoring myself to my circumstances. I have to hold tightly
to him until I make my way back to what is True.
That’s where I want to be stuck.
It is the same prayer I have for Londynn and all of my kids – that Truth
would be planted so deeply that when our hearts fail us, we would still be able
to be led back to something that is greater than our hearts.
