This is HARD!

No one who enters into parenthood has any real idea of what to expect.

The smart ones expect that things will sometimes be challenging, but even then, most of us begin this journey with hope and bright expectations. We dream of the giggles, the bedtime stories, the birthday parties filled with laughter and sticky frosting. I imagined relaxing at the park while my kids played nicely with others. I pictured us cheering from the bleachers at soccer games, clapping from the audience at school plays, proudly filming piano recitals. I thought we’d be taking easy weekend trips — dropping the kids off at their grandparents’ house, everyone smiling, everyone refreshed afterward.

I’m one of the smart ones. I went into parenting — and adoption — with eyes open, at least as open as I thought possible. I knew there would be challenges. I knew that love wouldn’t automatically fix everything, especially when parenting a child with early trauma. I understood that adoption often comes with added complexity, and that our child’s history wouldn’t vanish the moment we signed papers or said “I love you.”

Still, I thought we were ready. My husband and I researched, talked with professionals, joined support groups. We didn’t go into this blind.

But nothing could have fully prepared me for what it would feel like to parent a child with Reactive Attachment Disorder (RAD). No book or training could have truly captured the heartbreak, the exhaustion, the fear, or the deep sense of isolation that has become part of our everyday life.

What I didn’t expect (to name just a few) is: 

• calling 911 because of my 9-year-old’s behavior 

• installing locks on bedroom doors — not to keep people out, but to keep people safe 

• bruises on my arms and legs from being attacked during a meltdown 

• driving five-plus hours one way just to find a psychiatrist who understands what we’re dealing with 

• needing alarms on windows and doors to prevent middle-of-the-night escapades 

• researching lockboxes for knives and scissors because basic household safety isn’t guaranteed 

• replacing broken windows, doors, toilets, and even walls because rage doesn’t look like what most people imagine 

• planning every single moment of every day around how my RAD child might behave — and who might get hurt 

• sitting in therapy waiting rooms multiple times a week, often wondering if I’ll ever see positive change from it 

• realizing I needed my own therapy just to survive this season and be a halfway stable parent for all of my kids

This is so much harder than I ever imagined. It’s relentless. It’s isolating. It’s exhausting in ways I didn’t know were possible.

And honestly? I think the hardest days might still be ahead of us.

I hope I’m wrong. But I’ve read the books. I’ve heard the stories from parents who are years further along this path. I’ve connected with others who are walking this road, and it’s clear — this isn’t a “get better in six months” kind of challenge. This is a marathon of endurance, and we are only at the beginning of the hill.

Some days, I feel like I’m climbing with no end in sight.

But here’s the thing: I’m not writing this for pity. I’m writing it because maybe — just maybe — someone else out there needs to know they’re not alone. Maybe another mom or dad is reading this after a sleepless night, wondering if anyone else has ever felt this way. And if you’re that person, I want you to hear this:

You are not alone. You are not crazy. You are not a bad parent.

You are doing sacred, brutal, unseen work. You are fighting for a child who might not know how to let you in. You are showing up, every day, even when your heart is broken and your body is exhausted. That matters. YOU matter.

This road is long, but we walk it together. And there is strength in that.

Thanks for reading,

Tamarah