Adoption isn’t a rescue mission or a shortcut to “complete” a family; it’s a promise to keep choosing a child through the mess and the magic every single day. She never pictured adoption as part of their story, but after their second son was born, she felt a quiet nudge to make room for one more. People often asked why they would adopt when they could have “their own.” Her answer came from faith: family isn’t only blood. You do if love calls you to treat a child as your own. They began the process in 2018 after years of prayer. She learned quickly that adoption is hard work, paperwork, home studies, classes, fees, waiting, and more waiting.
In Toronto, they had to meet local requirements and those of South Korea, where their daughter would eventually be born. Korea’s program is careful and thorough; everything had to be current and complete within six months. It took nine months to assemble the file, which was sent to Seoul in October 2018. They were told a match might come in six to eight months. It didn’t. In the summer of 2019, their agency asked about an eight-month-old boy with epilepsy. They had three days to decide. She wrestled with the choice. If he had been born to her, there’d be no question, but now she had to choose, which felt unnatural. In the end, they said no, believing they didn’t have the capacity to care for his needs. Another family adopted him, but she still thinks of him and prays for him.
By late 2019, policies were shifting, and they had to update their file again. Then the world shut down. COVID stalled everything: matches, court dates, and travel. It felt like doors were closing as soon as they cracked open. Their file was nearly expiring in two years, and they faced starting over or walking away. She didn’t have peace about giving up, so in August 2020, they refreshed the paperwork. One Friday in October 2020, the agency asked for a video call. She braced for bad news. Instead, a photo of a little girl filled the screen. Was this a match? It was. They said yes. They chose Gwendolyn as her English name, kept the Korean name her birth mother had given—Areum—and added a Chinese name to honor their family’s traditions. Then came more waiting.
Canada’s process usually meant two trips: one to attend court and meet the child, and another to return for custody after immigration cleared. They received a court date for late May 2021, amid new COVID rules. In early May, they left their boys with family, flew to Seoul, quarantined for two weeks, and met Areum. The first visit was awkward. At fourteen months, she didn’t know them, even though her foster family had loved her for over a year. The second visit went a little better; toys helped. The court was brief but intense, with questions about how they’d honor her story and keep Korean culture alive at home. Approval came through.
The agency called forty-eight hours before their flight home. Immigration was moving faster than usual; finalization could come within weeks. If they left, re-entry might take six to eight weeks because of quarantines and visas. They stayed. One week became three. They waited in a small apartment and tried to be patient. At last, the call came. They could take custody. At the agency, the foster family handed over neatly packed bags of favorite toys, tiny clothes, feeding items, and a gift from the grandmother. The foster mother’s love was evident.
The goodbye in the hallway was raw and quiet. The social worker asked them to go ahead; they stepped into the elevator with their daughter and tear-streaked faces, grateful and grieving at once. They flew home the next day. On the plane, as the city fell below them, she cried for all that Areum was losing- language, country, familiar faces—and promised to guard every thread connecting her to where she began. At home, reality set in. Adoption is not only joy. It starts with loss, and healing takes time. There were hard days: no trust for dad at first, sobbing until she threw up, sleepless nights. There were small wins: a hand reaching for hers, a giggle, a new word. Their friends and family wrapped around them and welcomed Areum like they had been waiting.
A year later, they are still learning from each other, honoring the truth that adoption is complicated and beautiful, and that the loudest voices in this space should be adoptees themselves. She remains thankful for the foster family, for her daughter’s birth mother, and for the community that helped carry them through. There is a lifetime to go, and that’s the point; they’re in it for life.
