Grieving the Parenting Journey I Expected: A Deeper Look at the Stages of Grief

In my last blog post, I wrote about how parenting a child with attachment injuries brings a strange and complex kind of grief. I began my adoption journey with my son full of hope and high expectations. I believed he would do great things. I envisioned him growing into a loving member of our family and a productive member of society.

What I didn’t understand then was how steep the road would be. The journey toward those expectations would be far more difficult—and heartbreaking—than I ever could have imagined.

Psychiatrist Elisabeth Kübler-Ross originally defined five stages of grief, and since then, mental health professionals have expanded the model to seven. These stages aren’t linear—you can move back and forth between them, skip one entirely, or find yourself returning to the same place more than once. As I’ve worked through my own grief, I’ve recognized pieces of myself in each of these stages.

Shock and Denial

When Reactive Attachment Disorder (RAD) was first suggested as a possible diagnosis, I was overwhelmed. The horror stories I read from other parents were terrifying, and I didn’t want to believe that was our path. It was easier to downplay the behaviors I was seeing—to tell myself it was just a phase, or not that bad. I’d think, “Today was hard, but at least he doesn’t [insert even more extreme behavior here],” as if minimizing the reality would somehow change it. Part of me hoped that if I didn’t say the words out loud, maybe it wasn’t really RAD after all.

Pain and Guilt

There is a deep ache that comes from knowing trauma has forever altered my child’s life. Rationally, I know I didn’t cause it; but emotionally, I still feel guilty. I grieve for what he endured before he came into my life. I can’t help but think, If only I had gotten to him sooner... Maybe then things would be different.

Anger and Bargaining

I come back to this stage often. I’m angry at my child’s birth family for the neglect and instability. But I’m even more furious at the broken systems that failed him. I’m angry that he had to bounce between homes, including ours, before we were allowed to adopt him. That instability deepened his trauma. I find myself revisiting the “if onlys”—If only the foster care system had acted sooner. If only caseworkers had more time, more resources, more training. I bargain with the past, even though I know it can’t be changed.

Depression

Sometimes, it feels like nothing I do will ever be enough. There is no cure for RAD. There are days I wonder if my efforts even matter. If his brain is wired to reject my love, what’s the point of working so hard? Some days, I feel like all I can do is survive until he turns 18—and hope that something, somehow, gets better after that.

The Upward Turn

Thankfully, not every day is that heavy. There are stretches of time when the pain, guilt, and anger fade into the background. On those days, I can focus on the things I can do—on small wins, new tools, and practical ways to help my family navigate this unexpected journey.

Reconstruction and Working Through

I’ve had to parent in ways I never anticipated. Some things still feel bizarre—boarding up walls, writing safety plans, documenting everything, managing endless therapy appointments. None of it is what I envisioned when I signed up to be a mom. But I’ve come to accept that these are the things that keep us afloat. They help. And that’s enough for now.

Acceptance and Hope

I still believe my child can do great things. I still have hope that he can become a loving member of our family and a contributing member of society. I’ve accepted that getting there won’t be easy. It will take time, resilience, and relentless support. But I also know this: it is possible. And I will keep walking this path, one day at a time, with hope in my heart.