What Love Looks Like in the Shadows: Poems From Parents of Children With Reactive Attachment Disorder
- Nichole Noonan
- 5 days ago
- 8 min read
This is part 1 of a new blog series on parenting children with reactive attachment disorder (RAD), told through poetry and reflection. To share your own words, email us at nichole@radadvocates.org.
Reactive attachment disorder (RAD) is more than a diagnosis — it’s a daily unraveling inside the home. Parents are often blamed or dismissed as they try to care for children whose early trauma rewired how they trust, connect, and function in a family. Most professionals don’t see what happens behind closed doors, and even fewer understand it.
For many caregivers, words fail. But poetry doesn’t. Poetry can hold the contradictions — deep love and honest fear, moments of connection and heartbreak, weariness and relentless hope.
The poems that follow come from two mothers parenting children with reactive attachment disorder (who've requested anonymity). They offer a window into the real cost of developmental trauma — not just for the child, but for the whole family. Each is preceded by a short reflection to help non-caregivers better understand what families like these carry.
Blame, Rejection, and the Hidden Strength of Parenting a Child With Reactive Attachment Disorder
Parents of children with reactive attachment disorder are often blamed — by their child, by outsiders, sometimes even by professionals. When a child has been hurt in their earliest relationships, they often direct that pain at their safest person. The result is a cruel irony: the more consistent and loving the parent, the more they are rejected.
This first poem is a quiet declaration of strength. It names the invisible work of caregiving — from advocating across state lines to praying in silence — and the deep pain of being misunderstood while giving everything you have.
It’s Me
You say it’s my fault,
that I’m the problem,
that I am the reason.
I am the reason you are unhappy,
the reason you aren’t with family,
the reason you are gaining weight,
the reason you can’t go out with your friends
every night,
the reason you can’t stay up on your phone all night,
the reason you are failing math.
Fine.
Believe what you want.
But know this.
I am also the reason you see
your siblings
in three different states
as often as we can.
I’m the reason you’re growing.
I’m the reason you have friends
with healthy parent relationships,
who bring out the best in you.
I’m the reason you have such a tribe
of adults who celebrate you,
are proud of you,
who come to fill rows
at your concerts
and plays
and games
even when you barely
acknowledge
they are there.
It’s me.
I’m the one who protects you from bullies,
whether they’re classmates,
their parents,
or teachers.
I’m the one the one who prays for you
and has since long before I met you.
I’m the one who spends 2.5 hours
working with you on late work you’ve been ignoring,
the one who reads you to sleep as often as you let me,
the one who supervises 90% of your driving practice,
the one who knows your order at every fast food chain,
the one who has held space for your tears,
who has carried your rage …
It’s me,
and my God
who holds us both.
When Parenting Reactive Attachment Disorder Triggers the Parent’s Trauma
Filling out paperwork for therapy. Retelling your family’s trauma history for the hundredth time. Holding it together in public. These are common experiences for families navigating the systems around reactive attachment disorder — and they come at a cost.
This poem is a glimpse into the parent’s side of the trauma. A moment in a bathroom becomes a portrait of a nervous system breaking down — not because the parent is weak, but because the weight has been too heavy for too long. One study of parents raising children with reactive attachment disorder found that many felt blamed, unsupported, or completely invisible — especially in educational and community settings.
Hyperventilating in a Public Bathroom
Hyperventilating
in a dark public
bathroom,
back to the wall,
trying to pull in air
through gasping sobs.
Where was this
in our pre-foster/adopting
training?
I think I missed that page.
Fears swell,
tears fall,
gasping for air,
desperate prayers,
"God help."
Who knew filling out
therapy paperwork
could be so triggering -
for ME?
Writing down her story,
and ours as a family,
honestly
and openly,
acknowledging how bad
things have gotten,
how fractured
and broken
our relationships
have become
as mental illness
rips her apart
from the inside out.
The room spins.
Dizziness creeps
up my neck.
Find the light switch.
Pray my tears aren't
loud enough to hear
outside this door.
Crank the sink water
as cold as it will go,
running
over trembling hands,
grounding me,
shocking
my breathing into
more regular rhythms.
In and out.
So this is what
hyperventilating
feels likes.
I hope nobody else
asks me
that simple
innocuous
terrifying
question: “How are you?”
today.
Losing Joy in the Daily Battle With Reactive Attachment Disorder
This isn’t just about the exhaustion or messy days that many parents of children face regularly — it’s about emotional erosion. In families affected by reactive attachment disorder, even the most vibrant, connected parents can lose their sense of joy. When love is rejected, safety is unpredictable, and connection is one-sided, joy becomes a casualty.
This poem names the quiet grief of not recognizing who you’ve become — and the deep ache of wondering if you’ll ever feel light again.
I’ve Lost My Fun
somewhere along the way,
maybe between appointments,
between workers,
between diagnoses.
Maybe it’s somewhere mixed up
in the mountain of unmatched socks
awaiting my attention,
or the rock hard fries on the floor of my van.
May it died after the first twenty
“I hate you,”s
or the judging looks from mothers
you lied to
about me.
Maybe it fell out of my heart
when you swore at me in Target today,
or when you complained about every way
we’ve tried to celebrate
and care for you
over the years.
Maybe it fell asleep,
exhausted from trying
to connect,
from trying to out-race
the negativity.
Maybe it’s given up,
like you’ve given up on taking your meds.
Reactive Attachment Disorder and the Grief of Out-of-Home Placement
Sometimes love means sending a child away — not out of anger, but out of necessity. Many families affected by reactive attachment disorder face the unthinkable: the child they love cannot safely live at home.
This poem captures the agony of out-of-home placement, the grief of a parent who knows their child may not understand, and the brutal decision to protect everyone involved — even if it means separation.
Packing Up Your Things Again
I’m packing up your things again.
Clothes, pictures, a few beloved belongings.
There’s a bag in your closet that’s not fully unpacked from last time.
Legos and Pokémon cards intended for kids younger than you. Reminders of your innocence.
Scars on your walls and the hole you punched through your door. Reminders of your violence.
The two versions of you are impossibly different and maddeningly entangled.
I hear the front door banging shut as you run outside to play, leader of a pack of boys.
I feel you snuggle up to me on our comfy couch, unashamed of your need for closeness, for Mom.
I hear the anger in your voice, the rush of dangerous energy as you throw, punch, bite, and break.
I feel fear, not of being hurt but of what this means for you.
Your sisters hide in our room with the TV not loud enough to cover the sound of your rage. They’re used to this but can anyone actually be used to it?
Their roles are impossible to reconcile: sister, victim, target, friend.
The harm to them is why we have no choice.
So I’m packing up your things again. Four times now.
How long will it be this time? How much of life will you live apart from me? Away from our cozy home. Away from normalcy and the memories we should be making together.
We’re both feeling it this time. What could possibly help that we haven’t tried already?
Forms, assessments, appointments, suggestions, therapists, doctors, pills, support groups. Everyone has an idea. None of them work.
The truth that our family is safer separated is unnatural, unbelievable. My nervous system knows it but my heart is shattered.
You’re my boy. I know everything about you except how to keep you safe from you.
So I’m packing up your things again. Tears are quiet and brief, a luxury I’ll save for later.
I still have other hearts to tend to. Hearts that need reassurance, stability, and peace. Can I offer those from a gaping wound?
If love was enough, we wouldn’t be here. We have love in abundance, imperfect but deep and unmoving.
Do you feel it follow you still?
It’s packed here with your things. Tucked in with the necessities is a warmth, a hope, a prayer that runs deeper than understanding.
Letting Go, Setting Boundaries, and Surviving Reactive Attachment Disorder
In the end, many caregivers are forced to let go of what they thought parenting would look like. This final poem is not about quitting — it’s about surviving. It’s about redefining hope, reclaiming peace, and remembering that your identity can’t be only about your child’s progress.
This is where some parents land: not with resolution, but with a boundary. A boundary that says, “I still love you. And I’m still here. But I’m healing, too.”
Let Me
I am reading a book,
at my therapist’s recommendation,
called “Let Them,”
about letting go of control
of the emotions
and responses
and choices of others,
So I have energy
for my own emotions
and responses
and choices.
So I have energy
to breathe,
to be,
to create
the life I want to live.
The author is clear,
this theory is not entirely
for parents
and their children,
though that’s why my therapist
“prescribed” it,
to help me survive
the mental health
of my children,
my teenagers,
adopted,
engulfing me
in their chaos.
So today,
I’m practicing.
Today,
I say, “Let them.”
Let them feel
their despair,
their chaos,
their rage,
their victimization.
Let them wallow in it,
spiral through it,
get lost in it,
till they recognize
their need for help.
Let them seek
readmission,
whether or not
they need it,
whether or not I’m sure
we are doing
anything that’s right
by letting them go,
running to escape
the problems they’re facing.
Let them judge
and blame
and hate me.
Let me
respect their wishes,
protect my heart,
continue to brainstorm
and research
and give them their best chance …
Let them choose
if they want
that chance ...
or not.
Let me remember
I have so much to give,
so much heart
and creativity
and passion –
and there are countless
people ready to receive it –
even if my children don’t want it.
Let me be open
to correction,
to advice,
from people I trust,
who know what we are facing,
from the team
who is helping our family
make sense of all of this.
Let me continue to grow,
to learn,
to become better –
for myself and all the people
who will come into my life
in the future,
people who may need
what I am learning now
in anguish-filled days
I won’t wish to repeat.
Let me rest
and make peace
with not knowing,
not seeing
how “everything will be all right.”
Let me know
it may not be.
Let me accept
what is.
Let me choose
acceptance
over hopelessness.
Let me forgive
my children
who have wrought this hurt
upon us,
their biological parents,
who wrought it upon them,
and myself,
for naively choosing this,
for not trusting
my intuition
and not listening
to the part of me
that was uncertain
from the beginning.
Let me heal.
Sharing the Reality of Reactive Attachment Disorder Through Poetry
These poems don’t offer solutions. But they offer truth — and that’s something most families navigating reactive attachment disorder rarely get.
To the professionals reading: may these words shift how you see the families you work with.To the parents: may you feel recognized. And may you know you’re not alone.