Sparkling Escapades Abroad with the Fairy Bra Mother

In honor of my upcoming “Gotcha Day,” I’ve been reflecting on what adoption means—not just to me, but to so many others who carry a similar story. It’s not just about being chosen… it’s about being fought for, prayed over, and loved twice.

The Post That Disappeared
I first wrote this post on the flight home from Jamaica. I poured my heart into it, planning to tweak it later. But when I opened the app back home… it was gone. Poof. And so came the question: start over, or let it go?

I decided to try again—because this story matters

My Beginning
I was born to a 14-year-old girl and an 18-year-old boy who were no longer together. They already had one child—my sister—born just 13 months before me. After her birth, my grandfather told my mother that if she ever got pregnant out of wedlock again, he’d kill her and the baby. That’s the terrifying place my story begins.

My dad was pursuing my mom’s older sister and trying to use my mom to get to her. My mother, in desperation, moved in with a boyfriend’s relatives and worked as a nanny—trying to stay hidden from her father’s wrath. A month before I was born, she found a place in a home for unwed mothers.

When I asked her years later what that time had been like, she told me she’d blocked out most of it. One nurse had slapped her during labor and said, “Shut up! You got yourself into this mess. Now deal with it.”

Tiny But Strong
I was born full-term but only weighed 4 lbs. 13 oz. My lungs weren’t fully developed, so I spent five weeks in the hospital. My first “bed” was a man’s shoebox.

At five weeks old, I went to a foster home. At six months, I was adopted.

The Day I Was Chosen
On May 15, 1969, I came home. My mom has always told me, “You were a prayed-for child,” and I believe her. My little brother came to us straight from the hospital at two days old, when I was four.

My baby book was special—it was pink, with a padded cover and silver letters spelling out “Sonya Joy.” Inside was this precious quote:
“You didn’t grow under my heart, but in it.”

The Teenage Years
Adoption didn’t cause me much struggle early on. But in my early teens, things shifted. I felt… different. Misplaced. I didn’t enjoy the same things the other girls did. I wasn’t the “practical” type—no love for baking, sewing, or gardening. And that difference made me feel like I didn’t quite measure up.

At one point, instead of running away, I went to live with an aunt and uncle for a while—trying to find where I belonged.

The ACE Score That Shaped Me
If you’ve fostered or adopted in the last decade, you’ve probably heard of ACE scores (Adverse Childhood Experiences). There are 10 categories. The higher the score, the more likely someone is to face serious health and emotional struggles.

I score a 7.

Even if a baby is adopted straight from the hospital, whatever trauma the birth mother experienced while pregnant can impact that baby’s developing brain. It’s real, and it matters. But it’s not hopeless

A Note to Those Considering Adoption
Don’t give up on these children.
They’re not broken. They’re not defective. They’re brave survivors.

What they need most?

Love.
Prayer.
Kindness.
And love again.
(Yes, I meant to say love twice.)

Many adopted children and adults wrestle with reactive attachment disorder. We crave love but don’t always know how to trust it. When someone finally gives it to us freely, we cling to it.

So if you’re in the adoption or foster journey—or even just thinking about it—thank you.
You could be someone’s answered prayer.