When we first said yes to adoption, I had no idea what it would truly entail. Looking back, I think I was wearing rose-colored glasses when we brought our little girl home. I remember praying over her that second night, wholeheartedly believing that if we just loved her enough, her trauma would melt away. That the lying would stop, that the fear in her eyes would fade. I even believed she’d eventually get off her medications and that her ADHD would improve. I had no idea what it meant to foster a child from hard places.

Nearly two years later, we’re still walking through many of the same behaviors—and even more medication than before. The adoption process itself has been anything but smooth. We were originally told that since she had already been in the foster system for a year and a half, we would only need to have her in our home for six months before filing for adoption.

If only I knew then what I know now. Though if I’m honest, knowing everything ahead of time might have scared me off completely—so maybe it’s a blessing that I didn’t. Still, I’ve thought about writing a book someday, just to help others walking into this journey as blindly as I did.

After the termination of parental rights (TPR) last fall and completing our adoption classes (which told us very little we didn’t already know), we found ourselves... waiting. Again. Early this year, we were finally assigned an adoptions worker—but unfortunately, she ended up being wildly unprofessional and even crossed boundaries with our family’s privacy. I had to file a formal complaint with her supervisor, who assured me he’d take care of it.

Like much of this process, I had to be the one to push things forward—calling, emailing, following up—just to get paperwork submitted and the home study completed. Eventually, we got it all done and were finally given a date to sign the adoption paperwork in May. I was thrilled. Our girl was going to have a permanent family and a new last name (and a new middle name, which she chose herself). I even ordered her a few personalized gifts and prepared a gathering to celebrate.

However, just days before our signing, the supervisor called with bad news: there was an issue with the state paperwork, and the adoption would be delayed. I was crushed. He kept the signing date anyway, thinking it would only be a 2–3 week delay.

That was five months ago.

The delay? A critical ICWA (Indian Child Welfare Act) form had never been filed when she entered the system, most likely overlooked due to the fact that everyone knew she had Native American ancestry. Another major oversight. Another example of how deeply broken this system is.

I won’t go into all the fallout from that mistake, but it caused significant issues—her legal name change triggered problems with her school and medical insurance. We had to get a judge’s order just to keep everything functioning while we wait. It’s been exhausting and overwhelming. And all the while, her behaviors continued—lying, hiding things, and triggering more doubt in me than I’d like to admit. There were days I genuinely questioned whether we were meant to be her parents after all.

Today was one of those days that seems to never end... and also, somehow, one of the best ends to a day in quite some time.

It started with a familiar rollercoaster of emotions. I had left a voicemail yesterday for the county supervisor’s manager—because once again, no one was calling me back. This morning, she returned my call. I’ll call her Grace, because that’s exactly what she brought along with her.

She listened—really listened—then apologized and promised to take action. While on the phone, she emailed the entire team (social worker, adoptions worker, and supervisor), requesting a full update and a list of any obstacles in our way. For the first time in months, I felt like someone was actually advocating for us.

Later that afternoon, the social worker showed up unexpectedly to visit our girl. She’d never done that before, and I told her I would’ve appreciated a heads-up. It was clear the email had stirred some action.

Then came the most gut-wrenching and profound part of the day. Our girl had been lying again, and I had reached my limit. We sat down for a serious talk, and when I asked why she doesn’t trust me, she hesitated... then said she was afraid I might hit her.

I was stunned. I’ve never hit her. Yes, I’ve yelled at times—what parent hasn’t?—but never crossed that line. So I asked, “Are you afraid your teacher will hit you? He yells a lot more than I do.” Her response shook me:

“Oh nooo, he’s not allowed to hit me.”

So why me? Why would she think I might?

Her answer was the most honest thing she’s ever said:
“Because you’re my mom.”

In that moment, I knew—in her world, moms are the ones who hurt you. That’s what she was taught. She finally admitted that her biological mom had hit her (previously, she’d only mentioned the boyfriend being abusive). I pulled her into my lap, held her tightly, and I cried harder than I had in quite some time. I told her that moms are not supposed to hit. That I never will. She didn’t believe me. So I asked her what I could do to help her trust me.

“You can pinky swear.”

So I did. Pinky swear and all.

Minutes later as my husband walked in the door, my phone rang—it was Grace. She told me she’d been working on our case all day. While she couldn’t promise a quicker court date, she said the longest it should take would be November 7. That stung, but I appreciated her honesty. Still, my heart was burdened by the thought of waiting another 2 months.

Then she said something that stopped me in my tracks:
“I’m a God-fearing woman, and I believe this call was meant to happen today.”

I told her that I’d been wondering if maybe this adoption wasn’t meant to be. That maybe this was a sign. She cut me off and said firmly,
“No. That’s the enemy trying to ruin what’s good.”

And I broke. I sobbed. Because deep down, I knew she was right. She reminded me that the enemy works full time—just like we do. His job is to destroy the good things God is building.

Today, I saw God’s hand again—in a stranger named Grace, in a pinky promise, in the deeply honest words of a wounded little girl.

We still don’t have a court date. We’re still in limbo. But today, I feel more confident than I have in months. Not because the system got better, but because God showed up—right on time. As always, never early, never late.