Written by Polly
If I went out tomorrow and got hit by a bus, I wouldn’t go home and expect to heal from the physical trauma on my own. I’d go to a hospital, be assessed for my injuries, receive stitches or surgery, see specialists, attend physiotherapy, and have follow-up appointments for as long as needed. My daily life would adjust, and my workplace would make accommodations to enable my recovery. This is how I feel about emotional and psychological trauma.
Just because it isn’t immediately visible doesn’t mean a person can just get up and carry on. So why does the care system believe that severely traumatised and vulnerable children don’t need assessments by trained child psychologists when they come into care, followed by long-term treatment plans involving properly trained specialists?
Why are traumatised children placed with families who have received, at best, four or five days of training on attachment and trauma, and then expected to thrive with minimal outside support—often provided by professionals who themselves seem out of their depth?
To use the analogy above, would someone with severe physical injuries be sent to a first-aider instead of a doctor or surgeon?
Our Experience
I wish I had researched “Post Adoption Support” more thoroughly before being matched with two siblings. I naively believed the assurances given in training about the abundance of support via the Adoption Support Fund and Regional Adoption Agency services.
We were matched with a four-year-old boy and a two-year-old girl. By the time they moved in, he had just turned five, and she was 2½. All the information we were given—from social workers, the medical advisor, the previous school, and the foster mum—painted a positive picture. Any mentions of “tantrums” or “need for kind hands” were dismissed as age-appropriate.
Within a week, it was clear our son needed significant support. His attachment style seemed more complicated than the “anxious attachment” we’d been told about. I contacted our social worker, requesting a referral to the Beacon House Child and Family Trauma Clinic for a trauma-informed assessment. I was told we’d have to wait six months for him to “settle” before applying, even though the waiting list alone would take months.
The Challenges Began Quickly
Two weeks after the children moved in, our son lashed out at me for the first time. I tried to dismiss it as a normal response to the stress of transitioning into a new home.
By week four, we were dealing with significant oppositional defiance and regular dysregulation: hitting, biting, breaking things, and throwing objects. I emailed and called social workers daily for help, feeling increasingly out of our depth.
By week seven, our son had started threatening to kill us. In one incident, he grabbed a knife from the dinner table and walked around the lounge. We hid all the knives in the kitchen after that. I began to worry about our safety.
Despite the escalation, the support we received was minimal and largely ineffective:
•A triage with the EHCP suggested simple tools like a visual calendar (which I’d already implemented).
•Colour Monster books were recommended to help explain emotions.
•An hour a week with the school’s nurture practitioner was provided, though they weren’t a qualified play therapist.
When I emailed the foster carers for advice, they revealed they had used physical restraint to manage his dysregulation—something they had not disclosed during introductions.
A Crisis Point
After several incidents, including our son urinating on the lounge floor in protest, I sent a desperate email titled “Crisis” to social workers. I begged for respite, assessments by a trained child psychologist, and training on managing child-to-parent violence. Instead, I was offered weekly Theraplay sessions to help us bond.
The Attachment Focused Therapy (AFT) we had pinned our hopes on left us disempowered and confused. The therapist discouraged our firmer parenting approach and suggested our son’s dysregulation was partly due to my anxiety. Twenty sessions of this therapy nearly wiped out the annual Adoption Support Fund allowance.
Our son’s behaviour continued to deteriorate. He came downstairs repeatedly every night after being put to bed, leaving us with no downtime. My husband and I were in constant survival mode, unable to bond with him and feeling increasingly broken.
The Final Decision
Four months after the children moved in, I sent an email to the Regional Director of Social Services and others involved in the placement, stating we were in crisis. We were visited that day and told we would not receive the level of support we needed in time to save the placement. With no bond to speak of and no clear guidance on how to parent our son, we were drowning.
Both children were taken into foster care. As no Adoption Order had been granted, the Local Authority retained parental responsibility.
The Aftermath
I cannot describe the guilt and shame of failing the children we had hoped would be with us forever. The idea of disruption was unthinkable at the start, but it became inevitable. I often judge myself harshly and fear others do the same.
The disruption will undoubtedly have added to the children’s trauma, and I wish every day I could reverse time. Life feels empty now—a grief like no other. I’ve battled thoughts of suicide but have chosen instead to speak out and join those calling for systemic change.
The System Must Do Better
Our experience highlights a system that is ill-equipped to support traumatised children and their adoptive families. Change is desperately needed to ensure that no one else endures the pain we have suffered.