It is important to realize that we adopt not because we are rescuers. No. We adopt because we are rescued.
Today I share part two of our adoption story — a genuine story of rescue. Sam rescued our lives, and I will always be grateful to the courageous woman who carried him for nine months to bless our family. Birth mothers are among the strongest people I know, and here I offer a deeper look into the journey that brought us our Samuel Noah.
Last week I set the stage in Our Adoption Story: Part I in case you need to catch up. In this chapter we move into the anxious in-between: the wait, the paperwork, the preparation. Adoption is messy and uncertain and utterly worth it. I would do it again in a heartbeat to have Sam in our lives.
Out of respect for privacy I refer to Sam’s birth mother as “Hope.” Choosing that name took thought, because she truly was our hope. If she ever reads this, I hope she knows how deeply we appreciate her sacrifice and bravery.
So let’s begin.
I closed part one by describing adoption as a “hurry up and wait” process. That’s exactly what it is. We were fortunate our wait wasn’t extreme compared with others, but the anxiety during that time was unlike anything I’d experienced.
The Home Study
Every adoption begins with the home study. Think of it as the certification process to become eligible to adopt. There is a long checklist: background checks, fingerprinting, home inspections, classes, reading assignments, and multiple home visits. After years of trying to conceive and facing fertility treatments, it felt strange to be required to complete tasks that traditional expectant parents never have to do. Still, we accepted it as the path to our goal.
We pushed through quickly. While 12 weeks is a common minimum timeframe, we completed our home study in under ten weeks. We scheduled classes, drove long distances to meet requirements, and did whatever it took to keep the process moving.
Our agency assigned a team of social workers; Tonya was our primary contact. She was part therapist, part guide, and part cheerleader. She visited our home three times. Before that first visit, I worried a stranger would judge whether we were fit to parent. Those fears evaporated the moment we met her.
Many of the sessions felt like couples therapy in the best way. The conversations exposed how Anthony and I face challenges together and how our trials had strengthened our partnership. That proof of resilience mattered to the social worker and to us.
We also read three books about adoption as part of the study. Some were dated, but each offered valuable perspective on raising an adopted child and understanding birth parents. Reading and discussing those books while completing everything else wasn’t easy, but we were determined to move quickly.
One of the hardest parts of the home study was a hospital class meant for expectant parents. Arriving early in the lobby, I realized most attendees were visibly pregnant. Standing in that group felt raw and exposed; I hadn’t fully processed that I might never carry a child myself. When the instructor walked past and assumed everyone waiting was there as patients, I felt tears begin to fall and stepped aside to collect myself.
Anthony found me and offered quiet reassurance and a kiss on the forehead. While he bought tissues at the gift shop, a hospital employee saw me and gave a comforting hug and simple words: “It’s gonna be okay.” Her kindness, offered by a stranger, meant everything in that vulnerable moment. Small gestures can leave a lasting imprint.
We rode the elevator up with other couples and listened to talk about deliveries and breastfeeding. It was hard to stay composed in a room full of people whose experience was so different from mine, but we made it through the class. The instructor later checked in when she noticed my distress; it helped to explain that we had just gone through a failed fertility treatment and were still grieving.
Other classes were more tailored to adoptive and foster parents and felt far more comfortable. The paperwork remained the most daunting element. One particular form felt endless — though shorter than it seemed, it asked hundreds of specific questions about medical history, race, developmental and mental health risks, and countless scenarios you might not have anticipated. The survey forces you to balance being open to any child with being realistic about what your family can handle.
Once fingerprints, fire inspection, safety plans, background checks, home visits, books and classes were complete, our home study was finished. But that didn’t mean the stress ended.
Next came “our book”: a profile the agency would use to introduce us to expectant mothers. Writing about yourself in a way that might convince someone to choose your family is a strange and emotional task. I’m a writer by trade, but creating a heartfelt, honest profile that could change a life felt weighty. I agonized over photos and words, battling perfectionism and writer’s block, but finally we completed it and had copies made. We also submitted a shorter profile for the agency website.
That book included photos of our friends, hobbies, our home, and short personal stories about each of us. It was created with blood, sweat, and tears, and now it’s a keepsake we’ll always have to show Sam. It’s also the piece that connected us to Hope.
The Wait
With the book completed and copies ordered, we baby-proofed the house and waited. Almost immediately, the agency called: another interested couple requested our book. My heart raced as I tracked the delivery, hoping our copies would reach the agency fast enough to make a difference. Two days later we rushed the books over.
We waited for word. Then the agency called with news — but not the news we wanted. The family of that couple learned about the adoption and reacted strongly. We were told to give it a few weeks. More waiting followed, and our first potential match slipped away. We had to accept that some things were out of our control.
The waiting was brutal. People would ask for updates and we had none. Life moved on around us while our days were consumed with the constant question: when?
One rainy June day I got a call from the agency during a work break. I stepped aside and listened as the director said, “Lorie, I just met the most lovely girl. And she wants to meet you and Anthony. Her name is Hope.”
I had intended to include our first meeting with Sam in this installment, but I underestimated how much preparation and waiting precede that moment. There’s so much that goes into the lead-up.
So you’ll have to wait a little longer — just until next week — when I share part three. I promise it will be worth the wait.
Thank you for reading and for letting me share our story. Sharing this as we approach Mother’s Day weekend gives me chills. I can’t wait to bring you part three.
Check out Part III of our story.
