Loving Through the Walls: My Journey With Reactive Attachment Disorder—And as an Adoptive Dad

Loving Through the Walls: My Journey With Reactive Attachment Disorder—And as an Adoptive Dad

If you’ve ever loved a child from a hard place, you know the feeling. You give everything you have—love, patience, structure, stability—and yet, your child seems to push you away at every turn. I’ve been on both sides of that. I was the child building the walls, and now I’m the father trying to love a son who’s built walls of his own.

In my last blog, I shared part of my adoption story—how I was adopted from Romania at age four, along with my twin sister and younger brother. We came out of a world of trauma and institutional care into the arms of a family who had no idea what kind of pain they were walking into. They had so much love to give, but love alone doesn’t erase trauma. One of the biggest pieces of my journey, and one that still deeply affects me today, is something called Reactive Attachment Disorder—or RAD. It shaped so much of my childhood. It shaped how I saw myself, how I interacted with others, and how my parents had to learn to parent in ways no book had ever taught them.

Reactive Attachment Disorder isn’t just a fancy diagnosis. It’s what happens when a child experiences deep trauma or neglect in the early years of life and, as a result, learns that the world isn’t safe and that people—especially caregivers—can’t be trusted. It’s not about being rebellious or disobedient. It’s about surviving. I was diagnosed with disinhibited RAD, which meant I was overly friendly and charming with people I barely knew, but underneath that surface was a child who had no idea how to form a real emotional connection. I sought attention in unhealthy ways. I had poor boundaries. I would cling to strangers while pushing away the very people who were trying to love me. Love felt threatening. Closeness made me panic.

As a child, I didn’t have the words to explain what I was feeling. I just knew I didn’t feel safe, even when I was. I didn’t trust people, even when they gave me no reason not to. I didn’t know how to receive affection or how to let anyone get close. So I stayed in control. I lied, manipulated, and acted out—not because I was trying to hurt anyone, but because I didn’t know another way to cope.

Looking back now, I can only imagine how exhausting and heartbreaking that was for my parents. They were doing everything they could to love children who didn’t know how to be loved. There were moments of connection—real ones—but they were fleeting. I know there were nights they cried themselves to sleep. I know there were days they felt like failures. But they stayed. They fought for us, even when we pushed them away.

And now, years later, I find myself on the other side of the story—as a dad to an adopted son who struggles with the very things I struggled with. Watching him live out some of the same fears, the same mistrust, the same survival behaviors—it hits me in ways I can’t even explain. I recognize the push-pull of wanting love but not knowing how to receive it. I see the fear in his eyes when emotions get too big. I feel the sting when he looks at me like a stranger instead of a safe place.

There have been seasons where it felt like I was reliving my own childhood—only this time, from the parent's side. And it hurts in a different way. Because now I understand what my parents must have felt. The powerlessness. The frustration. The ache of loving a child who can’t—or won’t—let you in.

I’ve made mistakes. I’ve tried to fix things in my own strength. I’ve lost my patience. But I’ve also learned how to stay, how to fight for connection, how to love him not for who I hope he becomes, but exactly where he is right now. Some days we take a step forward, and then five steps back. But I’m learning not to measure our relationship in breakthroughs, but in presence. I’m here. I’m not going anywhere. And I tell him that—over and over again—even when I don’t know if he believes me yet.

Now, as someone who works with children from hard places, I see the same dynamic play out in the lives of other families. I see exhausted parents who are second-guessing themselves. I see siblings caught in the crossfire. I see kids who want to be loved but don’t know how to receive it. And I get it. I’ve lived it—and I’m still living it.

What these children need most isn’t a quick fix. They need consistency. They need structure. They need adults who are willing to see past the behavior and into the pain. They need people who will stand firm in love while holding strong boundaries. They need trauma-informed care, real therapeutic support, and parents who are willing to keep showing up even when it feels like nothing is working. And just as importantly, parents need support too. You can’t do this alone. You weren’t meant to.

For me, faith was the turning point. There were so many moments when I felt hopeless—when I hated myself for how I acted, when I couldn’t understand why I pushed people away. But God met me there. In the mess, in the chaos, in the confusion—He didn’t walk away. My parents prayed for me when they didn’t know what else to do. They believed for healing when nothing in front of them looked like progress. And somewhere in the middle of it all, God started breaking through the walls I had built.

Now, as a father and as a ministry leader, I am clinging to that same faith. There are days it feels like nothing is working. Days I question if I’m doing enough or doing it right. But then I remember that healing isn’t about having all the answers—it’s about presence. It’s about showing up. It’s about pointing our kids to a love greater than our own.

I think often of Isaiah 61:3, where it says that God gives beauty for ashes, joy for mourning, and a garment of praise for a spirit of despair. That verse became more than a verse—it became a promise. I’ve seen God bring beauty out of things I thought were too broken. I’ve seen Him rebuild trust where trauma lived. I’ve seen Him restore hope, even when all I felt was survival. And I believe He’s doing it again—right now—in my own son’s life.

If you’re in the trenches right now, parenting a child with RAD or early trauma, please hear me: I see you. I’ve lived your child’s struggle. I’ve sat in your seat. I’ve cried your tears. And I’ve seen firsthand the kind of toll it can take on a family. But I’ve also seen healing. I’ve seen breakthroughs. I’ve seen kids begin to trust again, slowly but surely. And I’ve seen parents rediscover joy in the middle of the storm.

You’re not alone. You’re not failing. You are doing one of the hardest, most sacred things a person can do—loving a child who doesn’t know how to love back yet. That kind of love is Christlike. That kind of love matters more than you may ever realize.

Thank you for letting me share more of my journey. I’ll be writing again soon—sharing more about what healing looked like for me, what helped, what didn’t, and how faith continues to anchor me today. Until then, keep showing up. Keep fighting for connection. Keep holding on to hope.

Healing is possible. I’m living proof.