I had post-adoption depression. Getting back into my routine and seeing a therapist helped me regain my parenting confidence.

• When I adopted my third child at 47, I didn't realize I could experience post-adoption depression.
• It took time for me to settle in as a new mom again.
• Getting back into my routine and seeing a therapist helped me deal with my emotions.

"I'm afraid I can't do this," I sobbed on the phone to my caseworker. "What if I made a terrible mistake?"

As a 47-year-old single mom of teens, when I decided to adopt a little girl, I'd assumed that as an experienced parent, I would be fine.

After all, there would be no hormonal changes after an adoption, unlike when I gave birth to my first daughter. I'd had trouble breastfeeding, couldn't soothe her crying, and the days blurred. I felt unmoored and despondent. Slowly, with my husband on night bottle duty, my gloom subsided. And then, when my son was born two years later, I was happy from the moment I brought him home.

By the time the kids were heading off to college, I was divorced and nostalgic for those precious days of swim classes and school plays. My heart longed for another little one, and after two years of home studies and red tape, I was matched with a baby from Vietnam. In mid-September of 2001, the adoption was finalized, and I brought her home.

Yet somehow, during all those visits and checklists, no one had warned me that post-adoption depression was a thing.

When I first came home with Isabella, I was exhausted

The first days with 5-month-old Isabella were a whirlwind of travel to the orphanage, government offices, and doctors. Coming home involved four flights over 12,000 miles and 11 time zones. All were delayed, and I ran out of formula. I thought it would be a relief to be back in my own house. Instead, exhausted and alone, my strength vanished, and I was overcome with sadness.

Maybe I'd gotten my comeuppance: Who was I to think I could handle an infant 24/7 without a partner? Weeping on the sofa, I called my agency caseworker.

"Give yourself time to bond," she advised, "You'll be OK." I wasn't convinced.

Isolated, scared, and helpless, I tried to push away my doubts. Was sleep deprivation playing tricks on my mind?

In time, I started to feel better, and we settled in together

After 72 hours without a shower, change of clothes, a good meal, or adult conversation, I arranged for a babysitter and met a friend at a diner. My stomach was still in knots, but I managed a few bites of French toast. To my surprise, as we chatted, the queasiness subsided. I even smiled. Was it a sugar high from the maple syrup, I wondered?

Still shaky, I resolved to get back to work and arranged to see a therapist. Seeing how getting outside lifted my mood, I forced myself out of my bathrobe, taking Isabella grocery shopping and to the playground.

Two weeks later, my father, an amateur woodworker, came by to install some shutters. To keep Isabella occupied, I sat on the floor and sang silly rhymes to her as she jumped in her bouncer seat. When I first met her, she'd barely managed to hold up her head.

Dad put his tools down, looked at her, and said, "Boy, oh boy, isn't she adorable?" I was filled with love, and it was the beginning of my confidence returning.

It was gradual — about a month — until I truly felt better. Returning to work sooner helped me feel like life was more in control, as was going out with baby and girlfriends for dinner. But it took weeks after I came home to stabilize Isabella's sleeping and eating. Meanwhile, I was sleep-deprived, anxious, and could not eat. I was frightened and ashamed that I felt so inept when I got home.

The caseworker kept in contact with me, assuring me that I'd been through a lot and that I would be OK. She told me not to be hard on myself and that it would take time.Talking to both her and my therapist helped me regain my confidence. When a big group of friends threw me a surprise baby shower Oct 21, filled with so much love and smiles, I knew I was well on my way. As every mother knows, there are ups and downs on every parenting journey, and I was ready to be the mother Isabella needed.

Last year, I opened Instagram and saw that Isabella, now a college student, had posted a photo of us at the orphanage. In the caption, she wrote: "Happy birthday to the most wonderful mother anyone could ask for," with a heart emoji. My spirit soared, and it wasn't because of maple syrup. I was grateful to be the forever parent she deserved.