It wasn’t because my son wasn’t all I thought he would be. He was cuter than the pictures, he was sweet and soft and innocent and bewildered. He was everything.

It was me. It was my heart and its hardness that surprised me. I was closed off somehow, unable to open my heart up and love the way I wanted to.

But here’s the truth that I learned over the next year: As their parents, we show our children the way to vulnerability. When their hearts are wounded deep from broken connections to birth parents, birth culture, orphanage nannies or foster parents, they’re caught deep in their own fortresses, built up so quickly in their short lives to guard against another heart-deep wound. And as their adoptive parents, we don’t come storming in to destroy those protections. We open our hearts and bleed for them.

I am so honored to be sharing a guest post over at Carissa Woodwyk’s space today. I met her two years ago at the Christian Alliance for Orphans Summit, and knew her voice was one I was waiting for. She’s an adoptee, and a therapist, and she speaks with such truth and grace about the adoptee experience. She’s hosting a guest post series on her blog for National Adoption Month, and my story is there today.

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