A New Day- a birthmom reflects on 18 years post placement

A new chapter of my story as a birthmother began in February of this year. My oldest child, the son that I placed in 2003, turned 18. I would be lying if I said that I haven’t anxiously awaited the day. I remember looking towards this year with so much anticipation and expectation. The picture I drew in my mind was one of perfect peace, harmony and redemption. In my experience with other birth mothers, this is a common theme- a universal thread of hope for the coming of age of our adoptees, potential reunification and what that could mean for the future.

When an adoptee turns 18 there is a shift that takes place, whether spoken or unspoken. The adoptee is now an adult and free to pursue reunion with their biological family. Even if the adoption has always been open, like my own with my son and his adoptive family, there is still a newfound independence and freedom.

I remember the first time I was asked to share at an adoption conference, about five years post placement. I was the only birthmother representing that voice of the triad at the gathering. I was scared of hurting anyone’s feelings, of offending anyone. Saying anything that I would receive push back or criticism. I wanted to be understood and justified in my choices. I showed up perfectly palatable for the group, not a hair out of place, in a stylish outfit and plastered smile. I delivered incredibly neutered responses to every question posed. The adoring gazes and admiration of the hundreds of adoptive or prospective adoptive parents filled my insecure, grief-stricken heart with a fix that helped carry me through. I told them all the angle and message that they wanted to hear. I was functioning under layers and layers of shame.

The elicitor of my shame was my unwanted identity; I didn’t want “birthmother” as part of my story.  I agonized year after year about the what-ifs and was riddled with regrets. Slowly, over the years, I have come to learn that regret can actually be a function of empathy and a very good teacher. I don’t want to live inside the space of my regrets, but it does motivate me to amends. Regret was just one form that my pain took, and ultimately pain turned into a positive force for positive change, not just on a personal, individual level, but towards advocating for more holistic adoption reform. My once unwanted identity as a birth mother has now, 18 years later, transformed into one of my deepest passions. No longer requiring the affirmation I once did, I find peace and fulfillment by bringing voice to the unspoken stories of birth mothers and first families. 

Even in what appears to be the healthiest and most open of adoptions, there are still pain and loss. There are still insecurities from both adoptive and biological family. There are missed moments and memories that we will all never get back. You can’t revise a chapter once it is written. You can retrace, reread, react but you can never redo it. The opportunity to get it right is layered with decision upon decision that compound over the years and ultimately peak when the adoptee is old enough and mature enough to look at the storyline and identify how their adoptive family has either curated everything to their own preference and needs, OR, like an abstract piece of art, made room for nuance and created space for the messy. 

I’m sure that is terrifying as an adoptive parent. 

It is also terrifying to hand over your child to another family. 

Holding a child with open hands feels impossible. The day that I left my son with his adoptive parents in the hospital, my hands were wide open. Shaking and afraid, but wide open. In many ways I look at my son turning 18 and now stepping into a relationship with his biological family in a new and independent way as an opportunity for the parents who raised him to mirror that brave act of open handedness, whether they recognize that and are able to put voice to it or not. It doesn’t always feel good; it is scary. I’m sure in some ways they feel left out of this new part of their son’s life. It feels vulnerable. It has the potential to feel out of control. That all sounds entirely familiar to me; it has been my reality for over half of my life. 

We are never completely done healing- revisiting events from my past, even when I think everything is entirely healed, usually brings to light even more pieces of myself that I haven’t dealt with yet. This has been the resurfacing and unearthing work inside of me in recent years. My messaging has shifted. My narrative isn’t as neatly packaged. I’m not looking for the affirmation of everyone around me anymore. To be honest, the only people I truly care about being understood by are my sons; the son that I placed and also the two that I parent. The deepest part of my identity is desperate to be seen by them. 

I always want to honor the parents that have so lovingly raised my first son, but it’s not as much about them anymore for me. For 18 years, I worked so hard to keep my messaging around my experience as a teenage birthmom tempered. I would make a statement on an Instagram story or post, listen or read it back and then quickly delete/edit or block specific parties from viewing it just to be sure I didn’t offend them. Offending them could mean losing access to my child. I never tested that potential. It wasn’t ever worth the risk to me. I don’t fear that anymore, so in many ways my messaging is purer and more true than it’s ever been before. 

When I sit in spaces listening to birth moms, my sisters in a club that none of us really want to be a part of, I see myself in many of them and literally want to reach through my screen and hug them, tell them “this is not the end of your story!”. So many are walking this incredibly fine, thin line between catering to every potential relational sensitivity with their child’s adoptive parents and also being honest about the trauma and grief they’re experiencing. I want to help them navigate through and balance on that teeter-totter of gratitude and honesty, that tension of grief and joy. I want to help them understand that this journey as a birth mom isn’t and shouldn’t be a sprint, it’s a marathon, day by day, one foot in front of the next. Brick by brick, piece by piece, rebuilding your life and relationships. You cannot prepare a Thanksgiving meal in a microwave, it requires planning, prep, care and TIME. 

My first son joined my extended family for an off-season, pseudo-Thanksgiving last week. My brother and sister traveled in from out of state with their families and they were able to hug their oldest nephew for the first time in 18 years. I’ve never had the opportunity to spend a traditional holiday with all three of my sons present. I’ve longed for that at every birthday, Christmas, Thanksgiving, Easter, Mother’s Day…. I’ve never been afforded time with my son in this way, extended, on our own. The joy that I experienced over those days did not negate or forget the pain of the past, but it helps me not become swallowed by it in my present. My story has more to it than the sorrow- there is joy too. I find myself now in a space of speaking and remembering the truth around my loss and trauma, but not allowing it to control and absorb all of the blessings I’m experiencing. 

When my son drove away at the end of our stay, I knew this was the beginning of a new chapter for us. We cannot rewrite the past, but we can embrace each day and begin to write something entirely new.

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