This Mother’s Day, we acknowledge the quiet grief of adoptive mothers whose children with FASD or RAD are now estranged or distant. A raw and honest reflection on motherhood when the story didn’t end with connection.

There’s a quiet grief that sits just under the surface on days like today.

I used to wake up to scribbled cards, burnt toast on a paper towel, and sticky little arms around my neck. I was “Mommy,” the one who made everything better. I held tantrums in my arms. I fought for diagnoses. I gave everything I had to children I didn’t birth but loved like I did.

But the story doesn’t always end with Hallmark moments. Some of us—especially those raising kids with FASD or RAD—watch that story fracture over time.

Sometimes your child grows up and walks away, not because you weren’t enough, but because the broken wiring in their brain tells them to run. Or to hurt. Or to protect themselves from a love that feels too threatening to trust.

And so they do.

Sometimes there’s silence where connection used to be. Or messages only when they need money. Sometimes there’s bitterness, blame, or complete estrangement. And even if your head understands the “why,” your heart still breaks under the weight of it.

This isn’t the part people want to hear on Mother’s Day.

But it’s real.

It’s the reality for a lot of adoptive moms who poured their whole being into kids with trauma-filled pasts and brains shaped by alcohol before birth. We don’t talk about it much because people don’t know what to say. Because some still whisper that it must be your fault if they’re not doing well.

But I know the truth.

I know what it took to hold on during the meltdowns, to advocate when doctors didn’t believe me, to absorb pain that wasn’t mine but got handed to me anyway. I know what it cost.

I also know that being a mom doesn’t stop when they stop calling.

And if you’re like me—watching from a distance, praying from afar, grieving a child who’s still alive but unreachable—you’re not alone.

Today might not come with flowers. It might come with silence. Or aching memories. Or fear for where they are and what they’re doing.

And maybe all you need to hear today is this:

You were a good mom.
You are a good mom.

Even when it ended differently than you hoped.
Even when the outcome doesn’t reflect the sacrifice.
Even when no one else sees it.

I see you.
And you’re not forgotten.

For the Mom Whose Heart Still Breaks
Mother’s Day for estranged adoptive moms

If no one said it to you today—thank you. Thank you for showing up, for fighting, for loving fiercely even when it didn’t come back the way you hoped. You matter. You always have.


Signature - Bonnie Smit

Bonnie Smit

Bonnie

I'm so glad you're here! After overcoming stage-four cancer and raising children with unique needs, I've learned how small, intentional choices - grounded in faith - can transform your health, energy, and peace of mind.

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