Growing up, I always wondered who my birth mom was; what she did, what she liked and disliked. I had been given a few pictures and handwritten letters throughout my childhood, but these failed to fulfill the mother shaped hole within me. By the time I was in college, I craved to know more about her.
One night while sitting in my dorm, I grabbed my computer and typed in her name. I watched in anxiety as the internet went to work and within seconds, a few names populated, partnered with addresses and phone numbers. Using prior knowledge I had of her whereabouts, I was able to narrow it down to one number I believed belonged to her.
I held onto the combination of numbers, unsure of my next steps, feeling a bit frozen in making this lifelong dream become a reality. I set the number aside, too overwhelmed to dial, though it’s nudge of curiosity continued to pursue me.
I couldn’t ignore that prodding wonder for long and I knew I had to make the call. I asked my friend to join me and as we sat, I dialed each number, coming closer to what I hoped was waiting on the other end.
It started to ring, each tone increasing my heart rate.
It was her.
I spoke not a single word, but my soul screamed; it knew that voice. I felt a rush of calm and comfort, inexplainable and foreign to me. I had not one doubt that I was hearing the voice of the woman who gave birth to me.
That phone call lasted only a few seconds, but it’s impact has been lasting. I am still in amazement of how much our beings hold onto. I had not heard my mother’s voice since infancy and somehow I knew with certainty that it was her speaking that night.
It was simply woven into my being.
No matter the age a child is adopted, there is a connection between them and their birth family. There is a loss that is not easily forgotten, whether it is spoken out loud or kept quietly within the soul. Don’t forget this. Don’t ignore this. Listen to it, holding it with honor and respect, never negating the loss that is adoption.