Some people hold tight to dates. They circle them on the calendar, feel them coming weeks in advance, and ride the wave of emotions when the day finally arrives. Others would rather forget. Forget the reminders of pain, or loss, or a season they’d rather not relive. That’s part of why there’s so much debate over whether adoption anniversaries should even be celebrated.
Me? I’m not great with dates. Honestly, I forget the happy ones too. (To this day, I can’t ever remember if my wedding was the 12th or the 14th of April, and my husband will never let me live that one down.) Even if I wanted to, I wouldn’t have an adoption day of my own to remember. My grandparents never finalized it, so there was never a court date to cling to. Growing up, I didn’t know anyone who marked “guardianship day,” so the idea of celebrating adoption anniversaries didn’t even exist for me until I was older.
I stumbled across it while reading about adoption from the perspective of birth mothers. That’s when I first realized something: while my birth daughter left the hospital with her adoptive family right away, the actual adoption probably wasn’t finalized until months later. That was news to me, another piece of the process my agency never explained. But that’s a story for another day.
What stopped me in my tracks back then was a term I saw floating around.
“Gotcha Day.”
I understand the heart behind it. Adoptive parents overflowing with joy, finally able to say, “We gotcha!” But for me, it landed heavy. Like the word didn’t match the weight of the moment. Because adoption isn’t just one thing. It’s joy and grief. Gain and loss. Celebration and heartbreak. All tangled up together.
I didn’t really have to confront that tension until our daughter’s adoption was finalized. She was almost five when we stood in front of the judge. Old enough to remember it, even if she didn’t quite understand.
“Why do we have to go to a judge for me to be adopted?” she asked. We were the only family she had ever known. We were already home.
Thankfully, she has a bold little personality, and she wasn’t nervous, she was excited. Excited to walk through the metal detectors. Excited to meet the judge. Excited when he ordered us to take her out to dinner afterwards. And in true four-year-old fashion, she looked right at him and asked, “Well, can I pwease have you phone numba jus in case dey don’t so I can caw you?” The judge laughed, looked at my husband, and said, “You’ve got your hands full with this one.”
He wasn’t wrong.
That night, we celebrated her adoption the way she wanted, with Taco Bell. We didn’t say “gotcha.”
In the months that followed, she asked questions. About her story. About her birth parents. About the day in court. Sometimes she wanted to talk, sometimes she didn’t, but we made sure the door was always open. I know from my own experience as an adoptee and a birth mom what silence can do. I wanted better for her.
At one point she asked, “When is my adoption day?”
I told her, “Your adoption was one day, we don’t have to do it again.”
She thought for a second, then grinned. “Can I at weast eat Taco Bell again?”
That’s when it started. She wanted something to mark the day. Not presents or big fanfare, she just wanted it to be hers. Everybody has a birthday, but not everybody has an adoption day. That made it special to her.
Over time, she started calling it her “adoption day,” and we honored that. We explained that some people celebrate, some people don’t, and she could decide what it would mean for her. She didn’t like the phrase “Gotcha Day” either, and I didn’t push her to explain why. Instead, she chose what felt right: Adoption Day Anniversary. That’s what we’ve called it ever since.
And honestly, that’s how we’ll keep it. Because it’s her story, not ours. We won’t force her to celebrate if it feels heavy, and we won’t hold her back if she wants to dance. There’s room for both joy and grief.
March 31, 2022 marked five years since we stood in that courtroom. Our little girl who once asked the judge for his phone number is now almost ten, quick-witted as ever. She still chooses to celebrate. She also still feels the sadness that comes with her story. And we honor both.
This year, when it looked like her dad might be away for work, she broke down. The thought of him missing it was too much. And wouldn’t you know it, God worked it out. His schedule shifted. He’ll be home.
So we’ll tell her story again, like we do every year. I’ll cook her favorite dinner, bake her favorite dessert. We’ll talk about her birth parents, how much her late father loved her, how much her birth mom still loves her, how deeply we love her too. We’ll turn up the music, probably her favorite country playlist, and we’ll dance. Because this year, like every year so far, she chooses to celebrate.
