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"Im afraid I cant do this," I sobbed on the phone to my caseworker, my voice trembling with uncertainty. "What if I made a terrible mistake?"

As a 47-year-old single mother of teenage children, I had assumed that my experience as a parent would equip me to adopt a little girl without difficulty. After all, unlike the hormonal upheavals that come with childbirth, I thought an adoption would be a more straightforward transition. My first experience as a mother had been tumultuous; my struggle with breastfeeding, the challenge of soothing my crying baby, and the overall sense of helplessness left me feeling overwhelmed during those early days. Eventually, with my husband taking on the night duty for feedings, my gloom subsided, and happiness enveloped me when my son arrived two years later.

As my children headed off to college, I found myself reflecting on those cherished moments filled with swim classes and school plays, all while grappling with the reality of my recent divorce. My heart ached for the joyful chaos of a little one in the house. After two years of navigating bureaucratic hurdles, home studies, and extensive red tape, I was elated when I was matched with a baby girl from Vietnam. In mid-September of 2001, the adoption was finalized, and I finally brought my daughter, Isabella, home.

However, throughout the entire adoption process, no one had forewarned me about a phenomenon that would soon engulf me: post-adoption depression.

When I first brought home my 5-month-old daughter, Isabella, the whirlwind of emotions and exhaustion was overwhelming. The trip back included four flights over 12,000 miles and traversed 11 time zones. Each flight was delayed, and I found myself running out of formula, which only added to my anxiety. I had expected to feel relieved upon reaching the comfort of my own home, but instead, I felt utterly drained and alone, consumed by a wave of sadness.

In those moments, I questioned my capacity as a mother. Was I truly capable of caring for an infant on my own, without a partner to share the load? Sitting on the sofa, I wept and called my agency caseworker in despair.

"Give yourself time to bond," she reassured me, her voice calm and encouraging. "Youll be okay." Yet, at that moment, I was far from convinced.

Isolated and overwhelmed, I tried to dismiss my doubts. Was sleep deprivation distorting my reality?

Gradually, as the days turned into weeks, I began to feel better and started to create a life for Isabella and me.

After enduring 72 hours without a shower, a change of clothes, a decent meal, or adult conversation, I made the decision to hire a babysitter. Meeting a friend at a local diner was a much-needed respite. As I forced down a few bites of French toast, I was surprised to discover that my stomach began to settle, and I even found myself smiling. Was it the sweetness of the maple syrup or the joy of reconnecting with a friend?

As I slowly regained some semblance of normalcy, I took the critical step of scheduling therapy sessions. I quickly realized that simply getting outside and engaging with the world significantly improved my spirits. I made a concerted effort to get dressed, leave the house, and take Isabella grocery shopping and to the playground.

Two weeks after bringing Isabella home, my father, an amateur woodworker, made a visit to install some shutters. To keep Isabella entertained, I sat on the floor and sang silly rhymes to her while she jumped in her bouncer seat. When I first met her, she could barely hold her head up, but now I watched her thriving under my care.

My dad paused his work, glanced at her, and exclaimed, "Boy, oh boy, isnt she adorable?" In that moment, I felt a surge of love, marking the beginning of my journey toward renewed confidence.

Over the course of about a month, I gradually found my footing. Returning to work sooner than expected helped me regain a sense of control over my life, as did enjoying dinners out with friends and their babies. However, stabilizing Isabellas sleeping and eating habits proved to be a considerable challenge. I battled sleep deprivation and anxiety while wrestling with feelings of inadequacy in my new role as her mother.

Throughout this tumultuous period, my caseworker maintained regular contact, reminding me that I had endured significant changes and that it was natural to feel the way I did. Her words of reassurance encouraged me to be gentle with myself and recognize that healing would take time. Engaging in conversations with her and my therapist ultimately played a pivotal role in rebuilding my self-confidence.

When a generous group of friends surprised me with a baby shower on October 21, filled with laughter and love, I knew in my heart that I was well on my way to becoming the mother Isabella needed.

Fast forward to last yearwhen I opened Instagram and came across a touching post from Isabella, now a college student. She shared a photo of us from the orphanage, captioning it: "Happy birthday to the most wonderful mother anyone could ask for," accompanied by a heart emoji. In that moment, my spirit soared, not due to any external validation, but out of gratitude for finally becoming the forever parent she deserved.