It has been two months since we made the decision to end our adoption efforts. Things feel uneasy, unsteady. Putting down a heavy weight isn’t as easy as you’d think. You are used to the burden; nothing snaps back into place, accommodating a phantom mass.

There is a feeling of reluctant release; the end of dealing with a system that we ceased to have faith in. No more advocating, waiting, and frustration. The buzz of an iPhone no longer brings a rush of hope and a wave of anxiety. We are quietly relieved of duty.

Still, the void is always there. It’s an emptiness we have known for many years. When we moved into our house a decade ago, we saved a room for a child. A couple of years ago, we repainted it preparing for our homestudy. Late at night I made a video I could use as part of our child’s memory book. I spoke about how much we were hopeful, panning the room to show the stuffed animals, books, and toys.

I stumbled across that video recently. Watching it again made me want to reach through the glass, smack me across the face, shake me silly, and tell me what a fucking endless heartbreak we were setting ourselves up for.

The video, along with the photos of every child we were matched with and then declined, have been deleted from our computers. The room is empty.

We move about our day to day lives with that open and unused space. I’d like to say I’ve done something big and symbolic to reclaim the space, but no. It’s a place I rarely spend more than a few moments in. It just is.

“It looks like freedom / But it feels like death / It’s something in-between I guess” – Leonard Cohen

A few weeks after we made our decision, I sat in my office and felt beyond overwhelmed. I packed up my stuff and walked clear out of the building. I didn’t have a destination, but knew I needed out. I ended up at the Alex Colville exhibit at the Art Gallery of Ontario. More specifically, I found myself sat in front of his painting “Horse and Train”. Colville depicts a majestic black horse galloping straight towards a train; both are moving on the same track and it is inevitable they will collide straight on.

I spent a lot of time looking at this painting. I know the horse is not going to survive against the train, yet it keeps running. It stays determined on the track even though there is an entire open field to either side. It is a haunting, striking, painting and it spoke to me on many levels. We couldn’t control the train heading straight towards us, but the horse isn’t forced to follow the track.

I used to believe that everything happens for a reason. This faith was my touchstone for every set back and challenge.

I no longer believe this. In fact, it makes me chuckle with cynicism.

We’ll never look back on this experience and say, “we learnt so much from this”. I’m very confident making this statement. This didn’t make us better or stronger people. A family was never created. There’s a child stuck in foster care who will never be matched with us and will never know they were wanted. It was a complete and utter waste of love and hope.

It’s easy to say we should just keep waiting and trying. I would pose the question: could you really build your family within a system that you have no trust in? It wasn’t impatience that made us stop. It was an inability to believe decisions were being made in children’s best interest. How can we be a part of that? (Could you?)

So what’s in the future for us? For one thing, we can stop running and begin to heal. We desperately wish the adoption system would be different, but we are getting older and it won’t change in time for us.

We are gradually coming back to the surface, exploring other ways to contribute to youth. I’m thinking about returning to my roots and volunteer teach English-As-a-Second Language. Big Brothers and Sisters are an organisation we hope we can get involved with. We want to travel, renovate the house, spend time together.

The blog will likely stay quiet, but I am grateful to everyone who read, supported us, and shared their experiences. Thank you.

Until then…