My Adoption Story
Almost fifteen years ago, I walked out of a Watchnight/Crossover service into a brand-new year hoping but not confident enough to be hopeful. The previous year had been decent, full of promise that never quite materialised. I wondered if this new year would be any different.
As I stepped outside, a woman sitting quietly in the darkness of the outdoor overflow stopped me and said, “The Lord said I should tell you that the God who gave my sister four children in two years will do even more than that for you.”
I received it immediately.
She didn’t know me, and I certainly didn’t know her. So naturally, I believed her. Why else would a random person stop another stranger just to deliver a prophecy? I smiled, thanked her, and walked away feeling seen. Under my breath, I whispered, “Thank You, Lord.” In that moment, something shifted. I entered that year with urgency and expectation. I prepared myself to receive my blessing — my body, my mind, my home, even my work.
The year came. The year went. Nothing. Then another year passed. Still nothing.
Over time, I occasionally brought up the possibility of adoption and was met with a range of reactions. One friend worried I wouldn’t know the child’s background and might unknowingly “bring home generational curses.” An aunt advised me to choose a child who looked like me so people wouldn’t know the child was adopted, as though adoption were something shameful to conceal. My uncle worried that if I later had biological children, the adopted child might be treated differently and that it would be unfair to them.
Truthfully, their opinions weren’t the loudest voices in my head. My own fears were louder. What if the child was difficult? Would I still be patient? Would I truly love them as my own? What if the child was constantly ill — would resentment creep in? What if I made a mistake or accidentally hurt the child? Would people accuse me of abuse because the child wasn’t biologically mine?
As the years passed, my resolve slowly faded until I convinced myself adoption simply was not part of my story. Or so I thought.
Then 2025 arrived, and suddenly I found myself surrounded by conversations about motherhood and adoption. I attended events, met adoptive parents and spoke with people passionate about giving children homes. Even my mother — a woman with four fully grown children — had started visiting nurseries again, much to my father’s confusion.
As December drew to a close, an overwhelming feeling settled in my spirit. Yomi, it is time.
With only days left in the year, a sense of urgency overtook me. I spoke to my husband, and without hesitation he told me he would hold my hand through the entire journey.
So we got into the car and went for a drive. That was when we saw him standing there by the roadside — one among many, yet somehow impossible for me to miss. His shaggy hair with sun-kissed streaks caught my attention immediately.
I had found him.
We didn’t waste any time. After handling the necessary “transfer,” we brought home our first adopted child: Bob. A carefree, easy-going preteen who was a little rough around the edges but is now absolutely flourishing.
Not long after Bob came Cherlynn — and what a personality she is. Cherlynn is the definition of a diva. There is nothing understated about her. She is tall, full-figured, vibrant and bursting with life. Left to herself, she would take over the world, so every now and then she needs gentle reigning in because, in her mind, the sky is merely a starting point.
Then in March, my husband came home with Spike, Lee, and Leelee. Lee and Leelee were conjoined twins, but thanks to an amazing “specialist,” we were eventually able to separate them and they are both thriving today. Spike, on the other hand, is a different character entirely. He’s tall, a little prickly, and carries himself with an air of independence, but underneath it all he is dependable to the core.
Around the same time, Tina and Tony joined the family. No, not twins — just a teenage brother and sister pair. These two became my challenging blessings. Like all their siblings, I loved them deeply, fed them faithfully, watered them generously and covered them constantly in prayer. Yet from the moment they arrived, it seemed as though they began to deteriorate.
I panicked. It felt as though every fear I had ever carried about motherhood was coming true. I remember thinking, “Yomi, if these children don’t survive, they’ll take all your confidence with them.”
So I prayed. I researched. And eventually, I learned something important: not all children are nurtured the same way. Some need cuddles and constant reassurance, while others need room to breathe, space to find their place and the freedom to become themselves. That was Tina and Tony.
They didn’t need a hovering mother. They needed the kind of mother who lovingly pushes them out of the nest and trusts them to fly. The moment I stopped overfeeding, over-fussing, and over-monitoring them, I saw a transformation. Even the way they stood began to change. They are not yet where they need to be, but I’m proud to say my children are growing up beautifully.
Most recently, I adopted two premature babies: Paisley and Sally. They are currently in the NICU, still fragile and in critical condition. But this time, I am not afraid.
I know my girls are going to pull through.
As the years have gone by, I’ve often wondered: did this lady truly hear from God, or did I simply have “gullible” written across my forehead? Regardless of where her inspiration came from, in just five months I’ve somehow become the proud mother of nine plant children.
There’s Bob, my corn plant; Cherlynn, the rubber tree; Spike, Lee, and Leelee, my trio of snake plants; Tina and Tony, the Yuccas; Paisley, a soon-to-be vibrant purple bougainvillea; and Sally, a soft salmon bougainvillea.
Honestly, this is something I once feared. For years, I confidently declared that I didn’t have green fingers, disliked dirt, and certainly didn’t want the responsibility of another living thing depending on me to survive. Yet here I am.
Plant motherhood hasn’t been easy, but watching my babies flourish — and seeing their individual personalities slowly emerge — has been both deeply humbling and surprisingly fulfilling. It’s become a source of pride I never expected for myself.
To every woman on the journey toward motherhood or already walking in it — whether you’re nurturing babies, building businesses, raising dreams, or like me, caring for plants — well done, Mama.
Keep your head up and remember: your love, your effort and your best are enough.
Happy Mother’s Day.
