They didn’t save a baby; a brave mother chose them. Now they are raising a son with open doors, hearts, and eyes, proof that love grows deepest when it makes room for every root. She was born into the era of closed adoptions, tidy myths, and “clean slates.” As she grew, those ideas felt wrong. Her closest friend was a transracial adoptee, and through that friendship, a quiet seed took root: one day, she would adopt. College turned that seed into questions. Who is adoption really for? Where do birth mothers fit in? Can a child feel loss they cannot remember? Working with a multicultural affairs director, she learned about privilege and systems, and how good intentions need humility and listening. Those office lessons shaped her more than any textbook.
Life moved forward. She married Aaron, had a son, then miscarried. The desire to adopt never left; if anything, it deepened. They agreed adoption would be part of their family, even if they had biological children. When their daughter Josephine arrived, with red hair and perfect timing, they used those months to study adoption honestly. They read the complex stories and the hopeful ones. They didn’t want to “save” a baby, or erase a child’s history, or cause harm they didn’t understand. They wanted truth, respect, and connection. They applied to two agencies, then chose to work only with one in Alaska, where they were stationed.
They expected their future child to be Alaska Native. That truth came with responsibility: people who look like them had taken land, language, and culture; now they might raise a Native child. They set their foundations. If the birth parents wanted openness, they would honor it. Their child would know their roots and have access to their first family. They would follow the birth mother’s choice rather than center their own. They would seek cultural mirrors, traditions, and relationships that reflect their child to themselves. They would love with honesty about grief, because every adoption begins with separation.
Four months after going active, the phone rang. A mother had chosen them. She was due in two months. Shock, tears, and a “shut up” to the social worker said in pure disbelief, then preparation. Fourteen months after Josephine’s birth, she was back in a hospital, holding a second perfect baby. They met their son alongside his first mom. She was gracious, brave, and central to the story. He is Warren, and he is joy. They spent a week together in the NICU, first mom, adoptive mom, baby, bonding, texting, promising to keep the bridge strong. Back home, Warren grew round and giggly. The families stayed in touch, planning a first birthday visit. Openness turned from theory into daily life.
Some days the learning is tender and practical. Her older child asked for darker skin like his brother’s. That opened kid-level talks about race, history, and how skin tells stories. They teach that white skin moves through the world differently, and that their family must work to honor every color, every culture. Those talks will never be one-and-done; they will be a lifelong thread. They also hold a larger view. Adoption is not a cure; it’s a response to bigger upstream problems. Why do some mothers have fewer resources and supports? Why are gaps in health, income, and safety so wide? They don’t have all the answers, but refuse to look away. Inside their home, the work is clear: respect the first mom, protect the bond, center their child’s identity, and keep doors open.
Outside their home, the work is to listen, learn, and push for systems that honor families before they break. Most mornings she watches Warren and imagines his future, kind like his first mom, strong like his name. She breathes a quiet thanks for the seed that never left her, now grown into the air she lives on. The myths she grew up with are gone. In their place is something harder and better: a family built on choice, truth, culture, and shared love across households.
