When the Hard Moments Surface: Grief, Dysregulation, and the Weight of “Normalcy”

By an Anonymous Parent

This weekend, something happened in our home that I’m still holding in my chest. It was one of those moments where the air goes still and every emotion arrives at once—shock, sadness, anger, grief.

It happened on a birthday. A day that should have felt light, predictable, maybe even a little magical. Knowing birthdays can be hard for one of my children, I had gently prepared the birthday child ahead of time: “Your sibling may struggle today. It’s not about you. It’s about big feelings they can’t always handle.”

I thought I was ready.
I wasn’t.

In the middle of a tense moment, one child looked at their sibling and said something cutting—something tied to their story, their origins, their fears. Something untrue, but emotionally loaded. Something that took my breath away.

The words were cruel. And the shock of hearing them hit me harder than I expected.

The child who said them has FASD and early trauma—layers that shape how the brain processes emotion and impulse. In those moments of dysregulation, the maturity we see in calmer times disappears, replaced by a younger emotional age that simply cannot hold big feelings.

The words weren’t thoughtfully chosen. They were a dysregulated release, an attempt to push the unbearable outside of themselves. Still—those words landed.

And the child who received them handled the moment with more grace and emotional maturity than I did. I watched them take a breath. I watched them understand—instinctively, heartbreakingly—that the words were coming from hurt, not truth.

Meanwhile, I felt a surge of emotion rise in me so fast I didn’t catch it.

I reacted. Not in the way I wish I had. Not with the calm, therapeutic presence I try so hard to maintain. I’m not proud of that.

I was shocked. I was sad. I was angry at the situation, at the unfairness of it, at the weight both of my children carry because of circumstances they never chose.

And beneath all of that was a quieter grief—the grief of realizing, yet again, that our family can’t always do “normal” things.

Birthdays aren’t simple. Celebrations aren’t guaranteed.

A day that should have been about joy became tangled with dysregulation, trauma echoes, and emotions too big for small bodies.

There is a grief that comes with parenting children with complex beginnings—a grief we don’t talk about enough. The grief of watching developmental gaps widen in real time. The grief of seeing trauma reactions overshadow moments meant to be sweet. The grief of bracing yourself, even on days that are supposed to be easy.

And the grief of knowing that sometimes, despite all the preparation, all the strategies, all the love, things still go sideways.

But there is hope too.
We repaired.
We talked.
We named the hurt.
We acknowledged the feelings underneath the behaviour.

We reminded everyone (including me) that trying again is part of being a family.

The birthday child felt seen. The child who struggled felt supported. And I reminded myself that perfection is not the goal—connection is.

I’m still sad about what happened. I’m still grieving that “normal” looks different for us. But I’m also grateful—for my children, for the honesty in our home, and for the chance to grow through the hard moments together.

We don’t always get it right. But we always return to each other, and maybe that’s its own kind of celebration.

If you are a fellow adoptive parent looking for support in raising your child with complex needs, I urge you to connect with others who get it. Join Interwoven Connections today.

The opinions expressed in blogs posted reflect their author and do not represent any official stance of Interwoven Connections. We respect the diversity of opinions within the adoption, kinship and customary care community and hope that these posts will stimulate meaningful conversations.