I always knew I wanted to be a mother.
David and I tried for years, struggling with infertility, then multiple miscarriages that left me heartbroken and uncertain about our chances.
After countless failed attempts, we started considering adoption.
The idea of bringing a child into our home, giving them a safe place to grow and thrive, felt like a dream that could finally come true.
The process was long—endless paperwork, interviews, and the agonizing wait for approval.
Then, one day, we got the call.
A three-year-old boy from Ethiopia needed a family.
His name was Kofi.
He had lost both his parents in a tragic accident and had been living in an orphanage ever since.
David and I knew, in that moment, that this was the child we were meant to welcome into our family.
The first time we saw him, my heart broke and expanded all at once.
Kofi was small for his age, his dark skin a beautiful contrast to the pale walls of the orphanage.
His wide, curious eyes studied us, unsure of who we were or what our intentions were.
He didn’t speak much, only whispering his name when we asked.
I could see the pain in his gaze, the confusion of a life so young yet filled with loss.
Bringing him home to the U.S. was a whirlwind.
Kofi seemed nervous but curious about everything.
I remember how his small hands grasped the stuffed animal we gave him, like he was afraid to let go.
We didn’t know what to expect, but we were determined to make him feel safe.
I spent hours learning about Ethiopian culture, preparing foods he might recognize, and trying to make our house feel familiar to him.
At first, everything seemed fine.
He would sit in the living room and watch cartoons, though we couldn’t get him to speak much.
He smiled occasionally, but it never reached his eyes.
He’d barely touch the food I made for him, and most nights, he’d cry himself to sleep, curling up on the floor next to our bedroom door.
It wasn’t until a few weeks later that the problems started to feel like more than just adjustment issues.
One evening, I was in the kitchen making dinner when David came in, holding Kofi in his arms.
His face was pale, and Kofi was trembling.
My heart skipped a beat.
“What happened?” I asked, rushing over to them.
David set Kofi down, and the little boy immediately ran into the corner of the room, burying his face in his hands.
“He… he had an accident,” David said softly, his voice strained.
“He was in the bathroom, and when I asked if he needed help, he screamed at me.
Then he locked himself in.”
I was taken aback.
“What do you mean, he screamed?”
David looked at me, his face a mixture of frustration and confusion.
“He’s terrified.
I don’t know what triggered it, but when I tried to help, he… I don’t know, Lena, he just screamed like I was a stranger.
It was like he didn’t trust me.”
My stomach tightened.
It was the first sign of something deeper, something darker.
Over the next few weeks, it only got worse.
Kofi would withdraw into himself, retreating to his bedroom or hiding in corners when we tried to interact with him.
We tried everything—new toys, more attention, playing games to make him laugh—but the bond we thought we were building seemed to be slipping through our fingers.
Then came the worst day.
I had spent the morning making him his favorite meal, thinking it would be a nice gesture.
I was so excited to see him eat, to see him smile.
But when I placed the dish in front of him, Kofi froze.
His eyes widened with fear, his breath coming faster.
I gently asked him to try a bite, but he pushed the plate away and ran to the corner of the room.
David rushed in, and that’s when it happened.
Kofi, crying, shouted a word I had never heard before.
It was in Amharic—something from his past that I couldn’t understand.
David turned to me, his face pale.
“Lena… I think he’s remembering something.
Something from before.
I think he’s reliving the trauma.”
I felt my heart drop.
We had expected the transition to be difficult, but I had no idea the extent of the emotional scars Kofi was carrying.
The terror, the grief, the memories of his lost family—they had become a part of him, woven into the very fabric of who he was.
We immediately contacted a child psychologist who specialized in trauma, especially for adopted children.
Through therapy, we started to understand more about Kofi’s behavior.
He wasn’t just struggling with the move; he was processing the horrific loss of his parents and the instability of the orphanage.
His fear, his mistrust, the way he would lock himself in rooms or run away from us—it was all part of his coping mechanism.
The therapist told us it would take time, that we couldn’t expect Kofi to heal overnight.
The journey was going to be long, but it didn’t mean it wasn’t worth it.
She taught us how to be patient, to create a safe environment, and to reassure Kofi with consistency and love.
The next few months were a rollercoaster.
Kofi still had moments of fear, and there were days when he wouldn’t speak to us at all.
But slowly, he started to trust again.
He would reach for my hand while we walked to the park, or smile when I showed him a new picture book.
We learned to be quiet when he needed space, but also to stay close when he reached out.
One evening, a breakthrough happened.
Kofi crawled into bed with me, his little body trembling as he nestled against my side.
“Mama,” he whispered, his voice so soft I could barely hear it.
“Mama, stay.”
I felt my heart swell, and tears welled in my eyes.
It wasn’t just that he was starting to trust us.
It was that he was finally starting to see us as his parents, as the ones who would never leave him.
Adopting Kofi was the hardest thing we’d ever done.
There were moments when I thought we wouldn’t make it, moments when I was so scared for him and for our family.
But watching him slowly heal, seeing him take those small steps forward, made every struggle worth it.
Kofi may have come from a place of pain, but with love and patience, we were building a new life together.
And every day, he was learning that he was safe with us—that no matter what had happened before, he was finally home.