When Goodbyes Hurt: Why Adoptee Spaces are Hard to Leave
- David McCarty-Caplan
- Aug 2
- 5 min read
It has been a week since the 3rd Annual BIPOC Adoptees VOICES conference, and I am still trying to process the experience. For me, the hardest part is the emotional overwhelm that comes with "goodbye" at the end of a transformative weekend with nearly 400 other adoptees. Last year was much the same. As soon as I ordered a car to the airport, I could feel the tears begin to well in my eyes. I scanned the room, hugged a few friends, looked them in the eyes, and surrendered as the tears started to flow. One last look around at so many beautiful, wonderful people, overcome with gratitude as I walked toward the exit.
This year, I got into a car with four dear friends and I wept silently as we pulled away. The drive was powerfully quiet, each of us deep in our own thoughts. We nervously joked through the airport, finding relief every time we realized we hadn't yet reached the final parting point. Same terminal? Great! Not goodbye. Same security line? Great! Not goodbye. Same hallway to the gate? Great! Not goodbye… When the moment finally came, there was an undeniable gravity to it. Sadness? Longing? Appreciation? Grief? No words quite captured it. I just knew I didn't want the hugs to end, and that returning to life without these people was going to hurt.
I know I am not alone in this. I tried to prepare my friends who were with me for the weight of the transition back to the "real world," and in the days since, many have reached out, expressing some form of, "I'm a mess." "Is this normal?" "I'm still trying to make sense of it all..." Many other attendees have shared similar feelings on social media, group chats and other messages. So I thought I would share a few reflections that are helping me make meaning of this moment. My hope is that for any adoptee navigating this surreal, heartbreaking space, a deeper understanding of why these goodbyes carry such weight might make them feel less burdensome; or at least remind us that we are not alone in them.
Why Does it Feel So Good to Be Together?
To understand why leaving hits so hard, we first have to look at why being together feels so profound in the first place.
As adoptees, we live with what has been described as disenfranchised grief, a loss that society fails to acknowledge, validate or publicly mourn.
Because traditional narratives frame adoption strictly as a happy resolution, the deep, foundational losses of identity, culture, and primary attachment are ignored. We are left to navigate our sorrow in isolation. Consciously or subconsciously, many of us carry an underlying fear of abandonment, walking through a world that tells us our pain does not exist.
When we enter a space filled entirely with other BIPOC adoptees, our nervous systems experience a sudden, radical shift. In neuroscience, this is tied to the concept of limbic resonance; our innate capacity for deep emotional attunement with others.
For a few days, we do not have to translate our lives. We experience:
Somatic Safety: Being surrounded by peers who share similar pre-verbal or developmental losses allows our nervous systems to drop their hypervigilance.
Mirrored Validation: Seeing our complex, often unspeakable feelings reflected in someone else creates an instant loop of normalization.
Collective Co-Regulation: The group's shared presence helps regulate our nervous systems without the exhausting cognitive effort required in non-adoptee spaces.
We finally feel safe enough to relax. The faucet of our long-suppressed emotions turns on because we are surrounded by people who can help us carry the weight of the water. It feels incredible, but it also means our grief finally finds a home to surface.
Why Does it Hurt So Much to Say Goodbye?
The pain of departure is directly connected to that open faucet.
Once our emotional defenses lower and we taste a sense of true safety, turning that faucet off is nearly impossible. As the final hours approach, anticipatory grief sets in. We know we are returning to the "real world"—a place that rarely knows how to hold our full experience, where disenfranchised grief whispers to put on a brave face, stay quiet, and carry the pain alone again.
When we leave, we are not just saying goodbye to friends; we are stepping away from the collective structure that helped us carry the water. In the presence of community, the heavy lift of processing grief and identity is shared. Returning home means holding that weight in isolation once more. That transition creates a distinct emotional friction. We worry that without the group's shared presence to help us regulate, the feelings that surfaced during the weekend will overwhelm us once we are back on our own.
The distress of saying goodbye is the sudden tension of leaving transformative visibility to re-enter spaces where our lived reality is often invisible.
We are forced to step away from the very community that was helping us carry the water, leaving us worried that we will drown in it on our own.
This emotional weight lingers over the days that follow as our nervous systems process such a profound shift in safety. After a weekend of affirmation and co-regulation, stepping back into daily routines forces a return to hypervigilance. As the initial high fades, the contrast between that sacred community space and our everyday world becomes clear, leaving us to navigate a slow, tender process of emotional recalibration throughout the week.
What Can We Do About It?
Unearthing the language to name these feelings, understanding why our responses remain this intense even a week later, is a vital part of our growth. The initial high of the conference may have faded, but the emotional toll remains. As we settle back into our daily routines, there are intentional ways to process this transition and integrate what we experienced:
Build intentional space for grief: Even a week out, do not force yourself to pretend you are completely over the emotional shift. Consciously make time to let the remaining feelings flow. Step into nature, spend time with pets, or engage in rhythmic movement like walking or hiking to keep your body grounded. Journaling your reflections or processing with an adoption-conscious therapist can offer a structured outlet for the thoughts that are still settling.
Channel Your Energy Into Integration: Direct the heightened awareness you gained from the weekend into long-term personal growth. Turn to adoptee-centered podcasts, books, or writing. If you have a safe, trustworthy person in your everyday life, share what the experience meant to you. Externalizing your thoughts helps bridge the gap between the conference space and your ongoing home life.
Maintain Active Connection: The isolation only returns if we allow the silence to take over after the initial post-conference check-ins taper off. Reach out to someone you met at the conference to see how their first week back went. Join ongoing virtual spaces, monthly circles, or local adoptee gatherings to keep that vital sense of community active throughout the year.
Above all, acknowledge your own courage. Showing up to a space like this, opening your heart, and letting down your guard takes immense bravery. The complexity, sadness, and weight you might still be carrying seven days later are not signs that something is wrong with you. They are proof that you allowed yourself to connect deeply. You are not alone in this, and the community we built does not disappear just because time and distance move us forward. And even though I already know how hard it will be to say goodbye, I cannot wait to see you there again next year.
If this reflection resonated with you, and you would like to talk or need any support. Please know I would be happy to hear from you. We heal through community. You can find me here or @shadesofbelonging on Instagram.
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