By Chelle Hanson
Eight years ago, I adopted my sons. It wasn’t something I planned. After raising four biological children, I believed that season of midnight feedings, school meetings, and constant responsibility had passed. But when one of my adult children faced mental health challenges that made parenting unsafe, I stepped in.
By 2018, I had already been raising my grandsons for most of their lives. They were 6 and almost 10. Finally, we stood in a courtroom and made it official. We became our own nuclear family. When the judge said, “They are officially adopted,” I felt an incredible wave of relief and openly sobbed at our newfound stability and the promise that no one could take them from me.
That relief soon turned into a fear I didn’t know would grow over time. I remember thinking: Okay… but now what? I truly believed that nothing would change. I had known these boys their entire lives. I had already been parenting them. I thought love and consistency would be enough. I could not have been more wrong.
As the years passed, diagnoses came that I knew nothing about. Behaviors surfaced that I couldn’t understand, predict, or control. Questions came from my boys that I wasn’t prepared to answer. The parenting tools that had worked with my other children seemed useless. And then came the opinions.
“They just need more discipline. You need to be tougher.”
“They would never act like that for me. You’re overreacting.”
Relationships were strained. Some were lost entirely. But the hardest part wasn’t even the behavior — it was the loneliness, the disbelief. It was the feeling that no one understood what was happening inside my home. Eventually, I stopped trying to explain. The boys and I pulled back from everything. We did school and work — and then we stayed home. Dinner out became takeout. Invitations were declined. Calls went unanswered. We chose environments that felt safe and predictable.
When COVID arrived, it almost felt like permission to stay hidden. Then, through what felt like a casual connection — but what I now know was something much more intentional — I was invited to a K-PARC retreat.
If I’m honest, the idea of sleeping alone in a hotel room sounded heavenly. I didn’t even realize how desperate I was for more. I attended. I listened. I learned. I appreciated the experience — but when I went home, I wondered what had really changed. It had been nice to have a bed to myself, to sleep through the night, to control the television remote… but then it was back to reality. This weekend was not the answer I thought I was looking for.
A few months later, I was invited to a second retreat — this time farther from home. Not one night, but two, with a bed and a remote all to myself. I was in. But this time, something shifted forever. I decided to share. I described one of the behaviors happening in my home — the kind I had been told I was exaggerating. The kind that made people question my parenting. When I finished, a member of K-PARC looked directly at me and said:
“I believe you. I know you’re telling the truth.”
In that moment, something inside me broke open. For the first time in years, I felt seen. I felt heard. And most importantly, I felt hope. They explained how trauma physically changes the brain, and how my sons’ behaviors were rooted in survival — not defiance. They revealed that this wasn’t about bad parenting or a lack of discipline. It wasn’t my imagination — it was real. And so was the exhaustion. And so was the grief. And so was the love.
That weekend became the turning point in our lives. With the compassion and guidance of Crystal and her incredible team, I began to understand trauma in a way I never had before. I stopped trying to parent these boys the way I had parented my other children — and started parenting the children in front of me. I learned how to advocate for them academically and learned how to educate extended family members about trauma and behavior. I learned that even though I have known my boys their entire lives, they still carry wounds that require understanding — not punishment.
And I learned something even deeper: I don’t have to be a perfect mom to be a powerful one.
I haven’t met an adoptive family that I haven’t told about K-PARC and what they have done for me. Because what K-PARC gave me wasn’t just education — they gave me validation when I doubted myself. They gave me truth when others questioned our reality. They gave me community when I was isolating. They gave me courage when I felt exhausted. They made me feel seen. They made me feel heard.
And most importantly, they gave me hope. Hope that my boys are not broken. Hope that trauma does not get the final word. Hope that I am not failing — I am fighting for them. Hope that even on the hardest days, love and understanding are stronger than fear.
Today, we are still navigating the hard, but we’re not navigating it alone. We are not a “normal” family, nor will we ever be. But I wouldn’t change that, because these boys are worth every hard moment. They are worth every uncomfortable conversation. They are worth every bit of advocacy.
Thanks to K-PARC, I no longer walk this road feeling isolated or ashamed. I walk it equipped, supported, and hopeful. With K-PARC, my village is complete, and because of that, my sons get the very best version of me.