How Childhood Attachment Wounds Show Up In Adult Relationships

Most people go into adult relationships with the best intentions. They want to love well, be loved well, and build something that lasts.

And most people find, at some point, that something keeps getting in the way. A pattern that repeats. A wall that goes up exactly when things get good. A pull toward people who are not quite available. A tendency to disappear or to cling, neither of which produces the connection they actually want.

The origin of these patterns is almost always the same place: early childhood.

What Attachment Theory Actually Says

Attachment theory, developed by British psychiatrist John Bowlby and expanded by developmental psychologist Mary Ainsworth, proposes that the quality of early caregiving relationships creates an internal working model — a set of expectations about how relationships work, how available people are, and how safe it is to need someone.

This model operates largely below conscious awareness. You don’t decide what your attachment style is. It was shaped by thousands of interactions before you had language for them — by whether the person who was supposed to come when you cried actually came, whether comfort was available when you were scared, whether the people you needed were reliably present or unpredictably absent.

Four primary attachment styles have been identified in the research: secure, anxious, avoidant, and disorganized. Only the secure style — developed when early caregiving was consistently warm, responsive, and available — supports easy, relaxed adult intimacy. The other three are adaptations to early environments that were, in various ways, insufficient for the child’s attachment needs.

The Three Insecure Patterns and What They Look Like Now

Anxious attachment develops when caregiving was inconsistent — sometimes present and warm, sometimes absent or preoccupied. The child learns that connection is possible but unreliable, and develops a strategy of heightened vigilance and emotional intensity to maximize caregiver availability. In adulthood this looks like: preoccupation with the relationship, sensitivity to any hint of withdrawal, difficulty tolerating distance, and a tendency to interpret ambiguous signals as rejection.

Avoidant attachment develops when caregiving was consistently emotionally unavailable — present in a functional sense but not attuned to the child’s emotional needs. The child learns that emotional needs won’t be met and develops a strategy of self-reliance and emotional suppression. In adulthood this looks like: discomfort with closeness, difficulty asking for or accepting support, a preference for independence, and a tendency to withdraw when relationships become emotionally demanding.

Disorganized attachment develops when caregiving was frightening, unpredictable, or traumatizing — when the very person who was supposed to be the source of safety was also a source of fear. The child is caught in an impossible bind: approach the caregiver (terrifying) or don’t (also terrifying). In adulthood this looks like: simultaneous craving for and fear of closeness, volatile relationships, difficulty regulating emotional responses to relationship stress, and patterns that feel out of control.

The Specific Ways Wounds Show Up

Attachment wounds don’t show up as abstract patterns. They show up in specific, concrete moments in your relationships. Here are some of the most common:

• Choosing unavailable partners — people who are emotionally closed, physically absent, or otherwise unable to offer the consistent closeness the attachment system is seeking

• Pushing away people who are actually available — finding something wrong with them, creating conflict, or losing interest exactly when they show up consistently

• Extreme reactions to perceived rejection — responses that feel disproportionate to the situation because they are drawing on the emotional weight of the original wound, not just the current moment

• Difficulty trusting even when there is no evidence of untrustworthiness

• Self-sabotage at moments of genuine connection and vulnerability

• Tolerance of treatment in relationships that replicates the early wound — because it is familiar, because familiarity registers as safety even when it isn’t

I see this pattern consistently in my work with adoptees, and I understand why. Adoption, whatever else it is, begins with a loss of connection. The nervous system of a newborn or infant does not know the reasons. It only knows that the person it was connected to is no longer there. That early registration — love is here and then it isn't — has a way of shaping every attachment that comes after. It doesn't doom anyone. But it does mean that adoptees often arrive at adult relationships carrying a blueprint that was written before they had any say in it.

What Healing Actually Looks Like

Here is the most important thing to understand about attachment wounds: they were formed in relationship, and they heal in relationship.

Not through insight alone. Not through understanding the theory of your attachment style, as useful as that understanding is. But through repeated, embodied experience of relationships that work differently than the ones that formed the wound.

This can happen in a few contexts:

A therapeutic relationship. Therapy offers a particular kind of relational experience — consistent, boundaried, attuned, and focused on the client’s inner world. For people with insecure attachment, the therapy relationship itself is often the first place they experience being consistently met. That experience changes something.

An earned secure attachment relationship. Researchers use the term “learned security” to describe what happens when someone with an insecure attachment style develops a secure relationship — typically with a romantic partner, a close friend, or a therapist — that provides enough corrective experience to update the internal working model. It is possible. It takes time.

Personal development work. Reflective practices that build self-awareness — therapy, journaling, mindfulness, honest conversations with people you trust — support the gradual process of knowing yourself well enough to recognize the pattern when it activates, and to make different choices.

The goal is not to eliminate the attachment style. It is to develop enough awareness and flexibility that the pattern no longer runs your relationships without your knowledge.

Melissa LaCour is a Licensed Professional Counselor based in Lafayette, Louisiana, specializing in relationships, adoption, and life transitions. In-person in Lafayette and telehealth across Louisiana, Ohio, Minnesota, Georgia, and Indiana.

If you recognize your patterns here and are ready to do something about them, start with a free 15-minute consultation.

Why Adoptees Struggle With Intimacy (And What To Do About It)

Intimacy is supposed to be one of the things we want most.

And for many adoptees, it is. The longing for genuine closeness — for a relationship where you are fully known and genuinely chosen — can be intense. Sometimes it feels like the thing you have been looking for your entire life.

And yet when closeness actually arrives, something often happens. A pull in the opposite direction. A sudden need for space. A picking of fights that didn’t need to be picked. A leaving before you can be left.

If this is familiar, I want to explain why it makes complete sense — and what you can actually do about it.

I'll be honest with you: I understand this from the inside. As an adoptee, I have spent time on both sides of this — wanting connection and making it harder than it needed to be. I didn't always have language for what I was doing or why. That's part of what drew me to this work.

The Root of the Problem: Love and Loss Arrived Together

For adoptees, the very first experience of love came packaged with loss.

Whatever the circumstances of the adoption — however loving the adoptive family, however thoughtful the placement decision — there was a loss at the beginning. A connection that existed and then didn’t. A person or people who were there and then were not.

The developing nervous system draws conclusions from early experience. And when the earliest experience of love includes separation, the nervous system learns something important: closeness is dangerous. People you love leave. Connection leads to loss.

This is not a conscious belief. Most adoptees who carry it cannot articulate it as a thought. It lives in the body, in the reflexes, in the patterns of behavior that show up in relationships without a clear explanation.

The result is what attachment researchers call an insecure attachment style — a set of strategies the nervous system has developed to manage the threat of intimacy. Those strategies look different depending on the person, but they share a common function: they keep people at a manageable distance.

How It Shows Up: The Common Patterns

Intimacy struggles in adoptees don’t always look the same. Here are the most common patterns I see in clinical work:

The avoidant pattern. This looks like independence, self-sufficiency, and a general preference for not needing people. Avoidant adults are often described by partners as emotionally unavailable, difficult to get close to, or dismissive of emotional needs. Underneath the self-sufficiency is a deep wariness of depending on someone who might leave.

The anxious pattern. This looks like intensity, preoccupation with the relationship, and a heightened sensitivity to any sign of withdrawal. Anxious adults often describe feeling like they want more closeness than their partner can give. Underneath the intensity is a terror of abandonment that makes even small distances feel catastrophic.

The disorganized pattern. This is the most complex, and it is more common in adoptees who experienced significant early trauma or multiple placements. It looks like wanting closeness and being afraid of it simultaneously — approaching and withdrawing, sometimes in the same conversation. The person who is the source of comfort is also experienced, at some level, as a potential source of danger.

The high-functioning isolation pattern. Some adoptees are genuinely warm, connected, and well-liked — and still maintain a private inner world that no one fully accesses. They can be present in relationships without being truly vulnerable. They give generously and receive poorly. They are, in a particular and lonely way, always slightly behind glass.

Why Relationships Can Feel Like the Highest-Stakes Arena

For adoptees, romantic relationships often carry an unusually heavy weight.

The longing to be chosen — genuinely chosen, by someone who stays — connects directly to the wound at the center of the adoption experience. When a romantic partner chooses you, something in you recognizes that this is what you have been waiting for. And when that relationship feels threatened, or when you sense — accurately or not — that the choosing might be revoked, the response is not proportionate to the situation. It is proportionate to the original wound.

This is why adoptees sometimes describe a level of anxiety or reactivity in relationships that doesn’t match what is actually happening. The current relationship is not the only relationship being processed. The original loss is always, in some sense, present in the room.

The Specific Challenges of Vulnerability

Genuine intimacy requires vulnerability — the willingness to be seen fully, including the parts you are not sure are acceptable.

For adoptees who carry shame about their origins, their identity, or the complexity of their feelings about adoption, vulnerability in a relationship can feel genuinely dangerous. What if the person sees those parts and decides, as someone once seemed to decide, that you are not worth staying for?

This fear can operate completely beneath conscious awareness. An adoptee may not consciously think: “I am afraid you will leave if you really know me.” But the behavior that prevents real knowing — the deflection, the humor that keeps things light, the sudden emotional unavailability exactly when things get most intimate — tells the story.

The fear underneath the wall — the one that says if you really see me, you might leave — is something I wrote about at length in Belonging: A Guided Journey Through Adoption Wounds & Wisdom. The identity and intimacy chapters go deeper into this territory than a single blog post can. If you are doing this work and want something to guide you through it, that is what the workbook is for.

What Partners Need to Understand

If you are in a relationship with an adoptee and reading this, a few things are worth knowing:

The withdrawal is not about you. When your partner pulls away exactly when you feel closest, it is almost never a rejection of you specifically. It is the nervous system doing what it learned to do when closeness arrived.

Pressure makes it worse. The instinct when someone withdraws is often to pursue — to ask more questions, to need more reassurance that the relationship is okay. For a partner with avoidant patterns, this pursuit typically triggers more withdrawal. The counterintuitive move is to give space while remaining clearly available.

Consistency is the medicine. What slowly, over time, changes insecure attachment patterns is consistent, predictable presence. Not grand gestures. Not perfect attunement. Just the steady accumulation of being there, again and again, in a way that does not demand that the person perform their security before they feel it.

What Actually Helps: For Adoptees Working on This

The good news about attachment is that it is not fixed. The patterns formed in early experience are not permanent — they can change, with the right conditions and the right support. Here is what that looks like in practice:

Name the pattern. The first step is simply recognizing which pattern is yours. Not as a diagnosis or a life sentence, but as information. “I tend to pull away when things get close” or “I tend to panic when I sense distance” is enormously useful self-knowledge.

Slow the automatic response. Attachment patterns operate faster than conscious thought. The goal is not to eliminate the response but to create a small gap between the trigger and the behavior. That gap is where choice lives.

Practice tolerating closeness in low-stakes contexts. Intimacy is a skill that builds. Starting with smaller vulnerabilities — saying something true about how you feel in a moment where the stakes are relatively low — builds the nervous system’s capacity for bigger ones.

Work with a therapist who understands adoption. Attachment work is most effective in the context of a therapeutic relationship. The therapy relationship itself is a place to practice — to notice the patterns as they arise, and to have a different experience of closeness than the one that formed the original blueprint.

Be patient with the timeline. Attachment patterns that took years to form take time to change. The measure of progress is not whether the patterns disappear but whether they have less power — whether the gap between trigger and response grows, and whether you make different choices more often than you used to.

A Word to the Adoptee Who Is Tired of This

If you have been in multiple relationships that ended the same way. If you have watched yourself do the thing again, knowing what you were doing, unable to stop it. If you are exhausted by the gap between how much you want closeness and how hard you make it for closeness to arrive —

I want you to know this is not a character flaw. It is not evidence that you are incapable of love or undeserving of it.

It is evidence that your nervous system learned something very early and very powerfully, and that it has been trying to protect you ever since.

That learning can be updated. It takes work. It takes the right support. But it is not permanent — and you are not stuck.

Melissa LaCour is a Licensed Professional Counselor and adoptee based in Lafayette, Louisiana, specializing in adoption-informed therapy for adult adoptees and adoptive families. In-person in Lafayette and telehealth across Louisiana, Ohio, Minnesota, Georgia, and Indiana.

If intimacy is the thing you keep circling, therapy is a good place to start. Book a free 15-minute consultation. The Belonging workbook includes a full chapter on intimacy for adoptees.

Grief That Doesn’t Have a Name — Understanding Ambiguous Loss

Most of what we know about grief — culturally, clinically, personally — is organized around a clear loss. Someone dies. A relationship ends with a definitive event. A job concludes. A chapter closes.

These losses are devastating. But they have something that makes them, in a specific sense, navigable: they have an ending. A moment you can point to. A before and after.

Not all grief works this way.

Some of the hardest grief we carry is grief without a clear object, without a recognized ending, without social support or ritual or even language. Grief for something that is lost but not entirely gone. Grief for something that might come back but probably won’t. Grief for something that never fully existed in the first place.

This is what psychologist Pauline Boss named “ambiguous loss” — and it may be the most common and least addressed form of grief there is.

What Ambiguous Loss Is

Boss identified two primary forms of ambiguous loss:

Physical absence with psychological presence. The person is physically gone but remains psychologically present. A missing person. A soldier listed as missing in action. An estranged family member. A child who was placed for adoption. The loss is real, but the person is still out there somewhere, which means the grief cannot fully close.

Physical presence with psychological absence. The person is physically present but psychologically gone. A parent with Alzheimer’s who is no longer quite themselves. A partner who has checked out of the relationship emotionally but is still in the house. A child who has changed in ways that feel like a stranger is living in the body of someone you knew. The person is there. The person you knew is not.

Both forms share a defining characteristic: the loss cannot be confirmed, cannot be closed, and therefore cannot be mourned in the way that socially recognized losses can be mourned. The grief has no container.

Why Ambiguous Loss Is So Hard to Process

Grief needs acknowledgment to move. It needs witnesses. It needs the social recognition that something has been lost and that the loss matters.

Ambiguous loss is, by definition, resistant to acknowledgment. The loss isn’t clear. There’s nothing to hold a funeral for. The people around you may not understand what you’re grieving, or may actively discourage the grief — “They’re still out there somewhere” or “At least they’re still here” — because the loss makes them uncomfortable too.

This creates what Boss calls a “frozen grief” — a grief that cannot complete its cycle because the loss itself remains unresolved. People with ambiguous loss often describe feeling stuck. Unable to fully mourn. Unable to move forward because moving forward feels like abandonment.

Where Ambiguous Loss Shows Up

Ambiguous loss is far more common than most people recognize. It shows up in:

• Adoption — for adoptees grieving biological connections, for birth parents grieving placed children, for adoptive parents grieving the child they imagined before meeting the one who arrived

• Estrangement — from parents, siblings, or children who are alive but no longer in relationship

• Dementia and progressive illness — grieving someone who is present in body but receding in mind

• Divorce and relationship endings that don’t feel complete — especially when there are children, shared history, or ongoing contact

• Infertility and pregnancy loss — grief for children who were hoped for or briefly real

• Immigration and cultural displacement — grief for a home, a language, a community that can be returned to but never quite reclaimed

• Addiction in a loved one — grief for who they were before, who they might have been, who they sometimes still seem to be

Ambiguous loss shows up in my clinical work with adoptees more than almost any other grief presentation — and it takes both forms that Pauline Boss, who coined the term, describes. There's the loss of what was never known: origins, birth family, the life that might have been. And there's the loss of something that once existed and then became unclear — an open adoption that quietly closed, a reunion that didn't hold the shape either person hoped for. Both are real. Both are largely unnamed in the world outside a therapy room.

I've come to understand ambiguous loss personally as well. My birth father died when I was ten. At the time, I had no particular desire for that relationship — I was a child, and he was an abstraction. But now, in my late thirties, I find myself sitting with a quiet wonder about what that might have looked like. Not acute grief. Not a crisis. Just the gentle, persistent kind of loss that ambiguous grief specializes in — the kind that waits until you're old enough to understand what you're mourning.

That experience is part of why I wrote Belonging. So much of what adoptees carry doesn't have a name yet. The workbook is an attempt to give some of that experience language — because naming a loss, even an ambiguous one, is often the first step toward being able to grieve it.

What Doesn’t Help — And What Does

The standard grief advice — allow yourself to grieve, give it time, find closure — doesn’t map cleanly onto ambiguous loss. Closure is often not available. Time alone doesn’t help grief that has nowhere to go.

What Boss’s research suggests actually helps:

Naming it. Calling it what it is — ambiguous loss, grief without an ending — can itself be relieving. It validates the experience. It explains why the normal grief roadmap hasn’t worked. It removes the shame of “still not being over it” when there is no “it” to be over.

Finding meaning without resolution. In traditional grief, meaning-making often comes after resolution. In ambiguous loss, resolution may never come. The task becomes finding ways to carry the loss with meaning rather than waiting for the loss to end before you can begin.

Holding contradictions. Ambiguous loss often requires holding two things at once that feel like they shouldn’t coexist: hope and acceptance, love and anger, presence and absence. The capacity to hold contradiction without resolving it prematurely is a learnable skill and one that therapy can support.

Community. Being witnessed by people who understand the specific texture of your loss — other adoptees, other bereaved parents, other adult children of parents with dementia — provides a form of acknowledgment that general support cannot always reach.

A Final Word

If you are carrying something that doesn’t have a clear name — something that others don’t quite understand or that you’ve been told you should be over by now — I want to offer you a different frame.

Your grief is not a sign of weakness or inability to cope. It may be a sign that what you’ve lost genuinely resists the clean endings that conventional grief requires.

That is not a problem to be fixed. It is a reality to be witnessed, held, and carried with as much support as you can find.

That support exists. You deserve it.

Melissa LaCour is a Licensed Professional Counselor based in Lafayette, Louisiana, specializing in adoption, relationships, life transitions, and sports counseling. She offers in-person sessions in Lafayette and telehealth across Louisiana, Ohio, Minnesota, Georgia, and Indiana.

If any of this resonated — whether it’s adoption grief, relational loss, or something that doesn’t quite have a name yet — a free 10-minute consultation is a good place to start.

For adoptees doing deeper work on loss and identity, the Belonging workbook was written for exactly this.

The Difference Between Boundaries and Walls (And Why It Matters)

“Boundaries” has become one of the most used — and most misunderstood — words in the mental health conversation.

It shows up on social media as a synonym for saying no, cutting people off, or protecting yourself from people who drain you. Sometimes that’s accurate. Often, it isn’t.

What gets conflated, constantly, is the difference between a boundary and a wall. They look similar from the outside. They feel similar when you first put them up. But they serve fundamentally different purposes — and confusing the two can keep you more isolated, not less.

Let me try to make the distinction clear.

What a Wall Is

A wall is a protective structure built around fear.

Walls go up when someone has been hurt — often repeatedly, often by people they trusted — and the nervous system concludes that the safest response is to stop letting people in. Walls say: “I will not be hurt again because I will not allow anyone close enough to hurt me.”

Walls are not conscious choices. Most people don’t decide to build them. They notice, eventually, that there is a distance they can’t close — between themselves and the people they love, between who they are in public and who they are in private, between the life they live and the one they might want if vulnerability felt safer.

Walls look like emotional unavailability. Like keeping conversations at a surface level. Like ending relationships before they can end you. Like being deeply reluctant to need anyone for anything. Like a warmth that everyone can feel but that never quite allows anyone fully in.

The function of a wall is to prevent pain. The cost is that it also prevents connection.

Many of the clients I work with who struggle most with this distinction aren't lacking self-awareness — they're actually quite perceptive. What they're missing is language for something their nervous system figured out long before they could articulate it.

For adoptees, for people who experienced early loss or inconsistent caregiving, walls aren't a character flaw. They're an intelligent adaptation. When the people who were supposed to be safe weren't reliably safe, the psyche builds structure. It learns to manage closeness. It develops systems for staying protected. That's not pathology — that's survival.

The problem, as Brené Brown's work so clearly names, is that walls don't discriminate. They keep out the pain, yes. But they also keep out the connection, the intimacy, the genuine belonging that most of us are quietly starving for.

I know this not just clinically, but personally. My own work in therapy included untangling codependency — which sounds like the opposite of walls, and in some ways it is. But underneath codependency is often the same fear: that being truly known, and truly boundaried, might cost you the relationship entirely. Learning the difference between a wall and a boundary was part of my own process. It's why I don't take this topic lightly with clients.

What a Boundary Is

A boundary is a different kind of structure. It is not built out of fear but out of self-knowledge.

A boundary says: “Here is what I need in order to be present and genuine in this relationship. Here is what I can give and what I cannot. Here is where my responsibility ends and yours begins.”

Boundaries don’t keep people out. They create the conditions under which you can actually let people in — because you know that the relationship won’t require you to disappear into it, override your own needs, or tolerate things that compromise your integrity.

A well-placed boundary is an act of care for the relationship, not an act of self-protection from it.

This is the crucial difference: walls are defensive. Boundaries are clarifying.

Why the Confusion Happens

Part of the reason boundaries and walls get confused is that they can produce similar short-term outcomes. Setting a boundary might mean saying no to something. Building a wall might mean saying no to something. From the outside — or even from the inside, in the moment — they can look identical.

The difference is in what follows.

A boundary typically creates more genuine connection over time. When you are clear about what you need and what you can give, the relationships that remain are ones that can actually hold you. You stop performing. You stop managing. You stop saying yes when you mean no and then quietly resenting the person who accepted your yes.

A wall creates more distance over time. You might feel safer — but the safety is the safety of isolation, not the safety of being genuinely known by someone who stays anyway.

How to Tell the Difference in Yourself

It’s worth asking yourself honestly: when I create distance from someone, what is driving it?

If it’s a boundary, there’s usually some clarity underneath it. You know what you’re protecting — your time, your energy, your values, your sense of self. You can articulate it, at least to yourself. And the distance doesn’t feel like grief. It feels like integrity.

If it’s a wall, there’s usually fear underneath it. A fear of being hurt, of being left, of being seen too clearly, of needing someone too much. The distance might feel necessary in the moment — but there’s often a longing behind it that the wall is working to suppress.

Neither is something to be ashamed of. Both are information.

Setting Actual Boundaries

Real boundaries require two things that are harder than most of the advice about them suggests: self-knowledge and self-worth.

Self-knowledge because you can’t articulate what you need until you know what you need — and many people, particularly those who grew up in environments where their needs weren’t safe to have or express, genuinely don’t know. The work of identifying your own needs often has to happen before the work of communicating them.

Self-worth because boundaries require believing that your needs are legitimate. That you have the right to ask for what you need. That relationships worth having can tolerate honesty about what you require. People who don’t believe these things — at a felt level, not just a cognitive one — tend to either not set limits at all or set them in ways that are rigid and defensive rather than clear and connective.

This is exactly why boundary work is often therapy work. Not because you need permission from a professional to say no to people, but because the roots of difficulty with limits usually run deeper than the situation on the surface.

A Note on the Language of Boundaries

One thing I want to say clearly: setting limits does not require scripts, ultimatums, or declarations.

The most effective limits are usually quiet and consistent rather than dramatic and announced. They are communicated not always through a formal conversation but through the accumulation of smaller, repeated choices: leaving when something isn’t working for you, being honest when asked a question you’ve been dodging, choosing not to explain yourself to someone who has repeatedly demonstrated they won’t hear you anyway.

This kind of quiet, self-respecting, ongoing clarity is harder than it looks. It requires practice. And it tends to change your relationships — sometimes in ways that feel like loss initially, but more often in ways that ultimately feel like freedom.

Melissa LaCour is a Licensed Professional Counselor based in Lafayette, Louisiana, specializing in relationships, adoption, life transitions, and sports counseling. In-person in Lafayette and telehealth across Louisiana, Georgia, Indiana, Minnesota, and Ohio.

If you’re doing the work of understanding your own patterns in relationships, a free 10-minute consultation is a good place to start.

What Birth Parents Experience That No One Talks About

In most adoption narratives, birth parents appear briefly and then disappear.

They make a decision — one of the most consequential decisions a human being can make — and then the story moves on. The adoptive family takes center stage. The adoptee grows up. The birth parent becomes a background character in someone else’s story.

But birth parents don’t disappear. They go on living. And what they carry — in the months and years and decades after placement — is one of the least discussed and most inadequately supported experiences in the adoption world.

This post is for birth parents. It is also for the therapists, social workers, adoptive parents, and adoptees who love them and want to understand what they are actually carrying.

As an adoptee with an open adoption, I spent much of my childhood deeply curious about my birthmother — wondering who I looked like, where my talents came from, what parts of me were hers. That curiosity was quiet but constant, the kind that doesn't make noise but never really goes away either.

When I finally developed a relationship with her at sixteen, I understood something I couldn't have put into words before: she had been carrying questions too. Not just about whether I was okay, but about who I had become — and whether the decision she made had been the right one.

That experience shaped how I sit with birth parents in my clinical work. What I've witnessed is a wide spectrum — some who have built walls so high around the experience that they can barely access it, and others who are still grieving just as actively as they were the day of placement, years or decades later. What both have in common is that they rarely have a space where any of it is welcome. This post is an attempt to create that space — even just in words.

The Decision That Never Really Ends

Birth parents are often asked, at various points in their lives, whether they regret their decision. It is the wrong question.

Placement is not a decision that gets made once and then filed away. For most birth parents, it is a decision that continues to live in the body, resurface in the mind, and shape behavior in relationships for years — sometimes for a lifetime. It is not a past event. It is an ongoing presence.

This is one of the most important things for anyone supporting a birth parent to understand: the work of processing a placement decision is not something that gets done in the weeks or months following. It is something many birth parents return to at every developmental milestone, every anniversary, every moment that reminds them of what they chose and what it cost.

Grief Without a Map

The grief birth parents experience is among the most complex and least socially supported forms of grief there is.

Pauline Boss, the researcher who developed the concept of ambiguous loss, describes grief that lacks the social acknowledgment and ritual that helps people mourn as “disenfranchised grief.” Birth parents experience this in an acute form. There is no funeral. There is no bereavement leave. There is no socially recognized moment of mourning. In many cases, the people in a birth parent’s life — friends, family, colleagues — don’t know about the placement at all.

What this means is that birth parents are often grieving in complete silence. Grieving a child who is alive. Grieving a relationship that technically exists somewhere but is not accessible. Grieving a self — a version of their life — that will not be.

Researchers who study birth parents consistently find elevated rates of grief, depression, anxiety, and complicated mourning — often lasting for decades. The silence doesn’t protect birth parents from the grief. It just makes it harder to process.

What Birth Parents Are Often Told — And What Gets Left Out

There is a particular kind of cruelty in the messages birth parents often receive, even from well-meaning people:

• “You made a brave decision.” (Which doesn’t leave room for the possibility that they feel broken by it.)

• “You did what was best for your child.” (Which doesn’t acknowledge that best for the child and painless for the parent are not the same thing.)

• “You should be proud.” (Which can feel profoundly disconnected from what they are actually feeling.)

• “At least you know they’re in a good home.” (Which treats placement as a completed transaction rather than an ongoing relational reality.)

These responses are usually offered in good faith. But they have the effect of foreclosing the conversation rather than opening it. They communicate, implicitly, that grief and ambivalence are not welcome. That the birth parent is supposed to have arrived, by now, at peace.

Most birth parents have not arrived at peace. And the expectation that they should have is one of the loneliest parts of the experience.

Shame: The Hidden Layer

Underneath the grief, for many birth parents, is shame.

Shame about the circumstances that led to the placement. Shame about the decision itself. Shame about the grief — because if you gave your child a better life, shouldn’t you be okay? Shame about searching for information about your child. Shame about not searching. Shame about the complexity of what you feel.

Brene Brown’s research on shame is relevant here: shame grows in silence and needs secrecy to survive. It is metabolized through connection — through being seen and not condemned, through finding that the thing you are most ashamed of does not drive people away.

For birth parents, this kind of connection is difficult to find. There are few spaces where the full complexity of the birth parent experience is welcomed. Therapy, when it is adoption-informed and judgment-free, can be one of those spaces. Support groups for birth parents can be another.

The Relational Impact

Placement doesn’t affect only the birth parent’s relationship with the child who was placed. It often affects their relationships with everyone.

Many birth parents describe a changed relationship with subsequent children — anxiety about losing them, hypervigilance about their wellbeing, or conversely, emotional distance that they can’t fully explain. They describe partnerships strained by grief that couldn’t be shared. They describe friendships that became shallower once there was a significant part of their history they felt they couldn’t disclose.

The placement decision doesn’t just shape the birth parent’s inner life. It shapes the contours of every relationship they have afterward.

Search, Contact, and Reunion

Many birth parents think about searching for the child they placed. Some do. Some don’t. Some search and find what they hoped for. Some search and find something far more complicated.

What matters most is this: there is no right answer. The decision to search or not search is a deeply personal one, shaped by the specifics of the adoption, the emotional readiness of everyone involved, and factors no one outside the situation can fully evaluate.

What birth parents often need is not guidance toward a particular decision but a space to think through what they actually want, what they fear, and what they can handle — without pressure from any direction.

If reunion does happen, it rarely looks the way birth parents imagined. It tends to be complicated, emotionally layered, and different for everyone involved. Support before, during, and after this process is not a luxury. It is a clinical necessity.

Reunion is rarely the resolution people imagine it will be — and I've come to understand that from both sides.

In my own life, reunion didn't arrive through a deliberate search. It came quietly, through grief — a loss in my birthmother's life that seemed to crack open what had been held closed. What followed was slow. It took years before we found a rhythm that honored what we were to each other without trying to name it something it wasn't. She carried what I imagine was a great deal of shame, and a deep fear of overstepping. That kind of careful, tender navigation doesn't show up in the reunion stories people tell at dinner parties.

Clinically, I've sat with birth parents who have reconnected with the children they placed — and what strikes me most is how reunion doesn't always bring the emotional release they expected. Some remain strangely distant even after contact is made, as though the years of compartmentalization have become structural. The grief is still there. It has just learned to live behind glass.

What Actually Helps

For birth parents who are struggling, a few things consistently make a difference:

Adoption-informed therapy. Not every therapist is equipped to support birth parents. Look for someone who understands the adoption constellation, doesn’t minimize the complexity of the placement decision, and can hold grief and ambivalence without moving too quickly toward resolution.

Peer support. There is something irreplaceable about being in a room — or a Zoom call — with other birth parents. Organizations like Concerned United Birthparents (CUB) offer support specifically for this population. The specificity matters.

Permission to grieve without a timeline. One of the most healing things anyone can offer a birth parent is the simple acknowledgment that there is no point at which they are supposed to be over this. Grief of this kind doesn’t follow a schedule.

A judgment-free space for ambivalence. Many birth parents have never had a space where they could say the complicated, contradictory, imperfect things they actually feel — without worrying about being judged or having their love for their child questioned. That space changes things.

A Word to Everyone Else

If you are an adoptive parent, an adoptee, a social worker, or a clinician reading this — the best thing you can offer a birth parent is not an answer. It is a willingness to sit with the complexity.

Not rushing them toward gratitude or peace. Not minimizing the grief by highlighting the good. Not treating their experience as a background detail in someone else’s story.

Birth parents are full members of the adoption constellation. Their experience matters — not as context for someone else’s story, but as its own story, deserving its own attention and its own care.

Melissa LaCour is a Licensed Professional Counselor and adoptee based in Lafayette, Louisiana, specializing in adoption-informed therapy for adoptees, adoptive families, and birth parents. She offers in-person sessions in Lafayette and telehealth across Louisiana, Georgia, Indiana Minnesota, and Ohio.

If you’re a birth parent looking for support, or a professional looking for adoption-informed referrals, reach out here.

Why You Keep Attracting the Same Type of Person (It’s Not Bad Luck)

You’ve done the work. You’ve ended the relationships that weren’t working. You’ve reflected, journaled, talked to your friends, maybe even seen a therapist. You have told yourself, in no uncertain terms, that this time it will be different.

And then you meet someone new. And somewhere around month three, you realize — with a sinking, exhausted familiarity — that it is not different. The face is different. The name is different. The details are different.

The pattern is exactly the same.

If this sounds like your life, I want to offer you something more useful than “you need to love yourself more” or “you’re just attracted to unavailable people.” I want to offer you an actual explanation — because once you understand why patterns repeat, you have real options. Without that understanding, change is mostly luck.

It Has Nothing to Do With Bad Luck or Poor Judgment

The most important thing I can tell you up front is this: repeating relationship patterns are not a character flaw. They are not evidence that you are broken, incapable of healthy love, or fundamentally flawed in your taste in partners.

They are evidence that your nervous system is doing exactly what nervous systems do — seeking out what is familiar, because familiar feels like safety, even when it isn’t.

This is one of the most counterintuitive truths in psychology: we are not drawn to what is good for us. We are drawn to what feels like home. And if home was chaotic, emotionally unavailable, unpredictable, or unsafe — that is what registers in the nervous system as normal. As known. As something it knows how to navigate.

A relationship that feels calm, stable, and consistently loving can actually feel wrong to someone whose nervous system was wired in an environment where those things were absent. It can feel boring. Suspicious. Like something must be off.

Not only do I see this in my office every week, but I remember feeling this way in the past (and news flash: it’s not fun to feel like you’re the problem).

Where the Pattern Comes From

Most repeating relationship patterns have their roots in one of two places: early attachment experiences or learned relational roles.

Early attachment. The relationship between a child and their earliest caregivers creates what researchers call an “internal working model” of relationships — a subconscious blueprint for how love works, whether it’s reliable, and what you have to do to earn and keep it. If early caregivers were inconsistent, emotionally unavailable, critical, or absent, the blueprint reflects that. And as adults, we tend to seek out relationships that confirm the blueprint, not ones that challenge it.

Learned relational roles. Many of us learned, growing up, that our value in relationships was tied to a particular role — the caretaker, the peacemaker, the achiever, the invisible one. We became very good at playing that role. And then we keep finding partners who need someone to play it, because that’s where we know how to belong.

Neither of these is a conscious choice. That’s the important part. The pattern is running on autopilot, underneath awareness, directing attraction and behavior in ways that feel like instinct — because in a sense, they are.

Three Signs You’re in a Pattern

You mistake intensity for connection. Relationships that begin with overwhelming chemistry, instant intimacy, and the feeling of finally being understood can feel like the real thing. And sometimes they are. But intensity and connection are not the same thing. Intensity is often the nervous system’s recognition of something familiar. Real connection tends to build more slowly and feels less like fireworks and more like safety.

You keep finding yourself in the same role. The caretaker who finds partners who need taking care of. The person who minimizes their own needs and then resents that they’re never met. The one who is always the more invested, the more committed, the one who tries harder. If your role is consistent across your relationships, that’s information.

You see the red flags but explain them away. This is not a failure of intelligence. It is a failure of the early warning system. When something familiar shows up in a new person, the nervous system often reads it as safe before the mind has time to evaluate it. The explanations come later, after the attachment has already formed.

What Actually Changes Patterns

Knowing about a pattern is not the same as changing it. Awareness is the beginning, not the destination.

What actually changes patterns is slower and more specific work: understanding where the pattern came from, recognizing how it shows up in your body before it shows up in your behavior, and gradually building new experiences that give your nervous system something different to draw on.

This is exactly the work that good relationship therapy does. Not just talking about your patterns — but tracing them back, understanding their origin, and doing the slow, real work of updating the blueprint.

It’s not fast. It’s not linear. And it requires a level of honesty about yourself that is genuinely uncomfortable. But it is the only thing that actually works.

A Note Before You Close This Tab

If you read this and felt a recognition — a familiar, slightly uncomfortable “that’s me” — I want you to know something important.

Recognizing a pattern is not the same as being trapped by it. Patterns are not destiny. They are learned — which means they can be unlearned, or at least understood well enough that they stop running your life without your knowledge.

That work is worth doing. And you don’t have to do it alone.

Melissa LaCour is a Licensed Professional Counselor based in Lafayette, Louisiana, specializing in relationships, adoption, life transitions, and sports counseling. She offers in-person sessions in Lafayette and telehealth across Louisiana, Ohio, Minnesota, Georgia, and Indiana.

If you’re ready to do real work on your relationship patterns, schedule a free 10-minute consultation here.