My adoption story began long before I even took my first breath. My birth mom was a young, single mother, raising my older sister while battling the heavy challenges of drug addiction. She knew from the start that my birth father would not be a part of my life, and she wanted more for me than she could provide at that time. Her greatest hope was that I would grow up in a stable, loving home with two parents who could guide me through life. I was the middle child of three, and the only one placed for adoption—a decision rooted in her selfless love.
At the time she was pregnant with me, my birth mom attended the same church as the couple who would eventually adopt me. Through a lawyer friend from church, she learned of a couple looking to adopt, and the path for my placement was set in motion. Choosing adoption was one of the most selfless acts she ever made, giving me a chance at a life and opportunities she knew she couldn’t offer.
Because I was born in 1986, my adoption was a closed one, as open adoptions were just beginning to emerge. On March 22, 1986, just two days after I was born, my adoptive parents brought me home from the hospital, beginning my new life. I left the hospital with very little information about my birth family. I knew my birth mother’s first name—rare in closed adoptions at the time—her approximate age at my birth, the hospital I was born in, and that I had an older sister about 4–5 years older than me. That was all I had, hardly enough to locate anyone years later.
Growing up, I often thought about my birth mother and sister. I would even tell friends I had an older sister, though I had never met her, and they always gave me curious looks. Deep in my heart, I believed I would be reunited with my birth family one day. The years flew by, and when I turned 18, I moved to Gainesville, Florida, to attend college and room with my best friend from childhood. At last, I was legally able to search for my birth family—but with so little information, I felt lost and overwhelmed about where to start.
One quiet evening in the fall of 2004, I sat in front of my computer and thought, maybe the internet could help me find them. Social media was just emerging—Facebook and MySpace were brand new—so I knew the odds were slim. Still, I searched relentlessly until I found Adoption Registry. I submitted the little information I knew: my birth mother’s age, my sister’s age, the hospital I was born in, and the fact my birth mother was single at the time. I didn’t expect anything to come of it, figuring the odds of her ever finding my post were astronomical.
Three months later, a couple of weeks before Christmas, I dozed on the couch when the phone rang. The number had a Jacksonville area code—my hometown—and curiosity made me answer. On the other end was a woman who told me her name and that she believed she was my birth mother. I nearly dropped the phone. For 18 years, I had dreamed of hearing those words, and now, in an instant, it was real.
I was in shock, firing off questions to see if her answers matched what I had been told by my adoptive parents. She remembered some details and admitted she had forgotten others over the years. She also revealed something I didn’t know: besides the sister I had always known about, I had a brother, born a year and a half after I was placed for adoption. We made plans for me to drive to Jacksonville to meet her and my siblings the following week.
The day I finally met my birth mother, sister, brother, and maternal grandmother was unforgettable. It was, and still is, one of the happiest days of my life—a Christmas gift beyond anything I could have imagined. Pulling into her driveway, seeing them come outside to greet me, and hugging my birth mother as tears streamed down both our faces was surreal. These perfect strangers held pieces of me I had never known and now, finally, I belonged.
Though I didn’t know her growing up, I look so much like my birth mom—our mannerisms, our personality, even the smallest gestures were mirrors of each other. All the missing pieces of my identity began to fall into place. Growing up with my adoptive family was full of love, but I had always felt different, like something was missing. Meeting my birth mom helped me understand myself, giving me a sense of identity I had longed for my whole life.
I have always felt our reunion was destined. My adoptive parents were exactly who God wanted for me, guiding me to the life I was meant to have. My birth mom had struggled with addiction for many years, but when I found her, she had been sober for nearly a year and was pursuing her dream of higher education. She returned to college, attended Florida State University, and graduated with her bachelor’s degree at 50. She showed me that it’s never too late to pursue your dreams, and I will always be grateful God reunited us at the perfect time, when she was in a place to truly embrace life again.
Sadly, my birth mom passed away last year, after falling back into addiction. It has been three years since I last heard her laugh or felt her smile. Our relationship had been strained toward the end due to her struggles, but I am eternally grateful for the 16 years we shared. She may not have realized the impact she had on my life, but her love, sacrifice, and courage shaped who I am today. Though she is gone, I remain close to my brother, sister, and extended family, cherishing the bonds that connect me to my roots.
