Coming Home to Dixie

After the chaos of our last few days—broken-down trucks, squatter break-ins, and heatwave haircuts—you’d think I’d be running on fumes. And maybe I am. But in the stillness that followed today’s whirlwind, I found myself thinking about why we’re doing all of this. Why we’re uprooting our lives, packing every last thing we own into boxes, and heading across the country to start fresh in Mississippi.

The answer, at its core, is family.

I’ve always known I wanted to adopt. As a former foster child adopted at eight years old, that longing has lived in me for as long as I can remember. My biological brother and I were adopted together—me at eight, him at five—and I still carry vivid memories of the day we left our foster home. We were given new clothes, which was a big deal back then. I got a dress and sandals, and my brother had his own outfit too. I remember feeling seen and special, like this was the start of something new, something better.

But I also remember the adoption fairs at the park. Foster kids lined up, smiling politely, dressed in their best. We knew the drill: be cute, be friendly, hope someone wants you. We felt more like pets or display items than children with stories and feelings. It was surreal and dehumanizing in ways we didn’t yet have words for. Still, it was our only hope of being chosen. And somehow, we were.

Years later, when Jim and I decided to grow our family, I knew in my heart I wanted to adopt a sibling pair or trio. I wanted my children to have each other, just like my brother and I did. I wanted to give them a shared past and a future built together.

The adoption process is not for the faint of heart. Before you can even start looking for children, you must become licensed foster parents—something that involves hours of training, in-home interviews, recommendations from friends and family, and one of the most thorough background checks imaginable. Once Jim and I completed everything, we were finally ready to begin the search.

That part turned out to be harder than we expected.

I still remember sitting in the agency’s conference room being handed a thick binder—page after page of children’s bios and photographs. Most were teens. We felt a deep compassion for them, knowing how hard it would be to find homes at that age, but our hearts were set on younger children—ideally between preschool and ten, preferably siblings.

So we joined support groups—local ones, Facebook ones—anywhere we could learn and connect. That’s when we discovered the strange reality of “networking” for adoption. Yes, even in this world, connections matter. So we put ourselves out there. And one day, it worked.

A woman saw a post I made in a Facebook group and reached out. She told me about two sisters, ages four and seven, who were being fostered by her mother in Reno, Nevada. We made the trip to meet them on June 1, 2019, and the moment we saw them, we knew. On the drive home, we couldn’t stop talking about them. Something clicked. They felt like ours.

But getting them home was another story. Because they were in a different state, we had to cut through miles of red tape. There were roadblocks, dead ends, and long stretches of silence. I spent countless hours researching laws, calling agencies, messaging contacts through Facebook, and learning the ins and outs of interstate adoption.

Finally, in January 2020, we got the call we had been waiting for: we were officially chosen to be their parents.

Since it was the middle of the school year, we decided to wait until June to transition them. And on June 6, 2020, they came home. That day—like the day I once arrived in my new home with a dress and sandals—felt like everything had come full circle. I went overboard, of course. There were balloons, brand-new clothes, and their rooms full of toys. I knew they hadn’t had much, and I wanted to give them everything.

When I saw them walk through the door, something in me settled. It was like a part of me that had been waiting all my life finally exhaled. This was the dream. This was what I’d always wanted: a house full of love, a little chaos, laughter in the rooms, and the feeling of being chosen—not just once, but twice.

Today, as we endured the challenges of our trucks breaking down in the triple digit heat —I thought about how far we’ve all come. The journey hasn’t been easy. Parenting children with trauma is not a simple or linear road. The trauma often causes emotional and behavioral delays and issues. We were told by the various therapists to expect our girls to act half their age, and this has been true. Even though they are now 10 and 13, they still require constant supervision and lots of reminders throughout the day. The days are filled with setbacks and unexpected challenges. But they’re also filled with healing, laughter, connection, and a fierce kind of love that only comes from being chosen—and choosing each other—over and over again.

And now, as we prepare to move into our new home, I can feel that old sense of giddy anticipation rising again. The same excitement I felt the day I met my daughters. The same hope I carried as a child walking into my new life. We’re packing up our past, holding tightly to each other, and heading home—home to Dixie, home to ourselves, home to something we’ve been building all along.

We’ve come full circle. And we’re just getting started.