As a mother of three boys, I can see traces of myself in each of them, especially in their adorable dimples. It’s a reassuring connection; I can spot pieces of their personalities from their baby photos. Looking at them, I see bits of my son Lucas in Noah, and remnants of Zach in Lucas. Each of their faces tells a story of shared heritage.
Right now, I’m nestled on my couch in sunny Hawaii, nursing my 12-week-old son while my energetic 3-year-old plays at the park with his dad. Meanwhile, my 17-year-old, Alex, is in Virginia, likely winding down for the night in the home of his adoptive family, the ones who have cared for him since he was born.
Being a birth mother is a unique journey. When people ask if Noah and my infant are my only children, I pause, contemplating whether to share my story. It’s a delicate balance, much like what a parent feels when they’ve lost a child; the desire to be honest while also wishing to keep things simple. So often, I find it easier to say, “Yes, these are my only kids,” because, in a sense, they are. It’s a bittersweet truth that carries its own weight.
To be candid, adoption has been a life-affirming blessing for many, myself included. Yet the heartache that accompanies it can be profound. This pain has only intensified for me with the arrival of my new baby. Just recently, I had a poignant realization: I have a piece of myself — my flesh and blood — out in the world, being raised by someone else. He was meant to be with his mom, and that’s how it was always destined to unfold.
I’ve made peace with my decision since the day I met Alex’s parents 18 years ago; however, it doesn’t diminish the emotional complexity. Having my own children has stirred deeper feelings at times. The sorrow I experience isn’t one of regret but rather a yearning for what can never be – a relationship that has already slipped away.
Seventeen years ago, I gave birth to a beautiful boy. I never got to comfort him when he cried at night, or share in his daily triumphs. Instead, I watched from a distance, navigating my own path through college, friendships, and the ups and downs of life.
I recognize the incredible blessing I have in being part of Alex’s life, even if it’s from afar. His mother has been like a sister to me, sharing him and offering love that uplifts me on tough days. She embodies the mom I wish I could have been, and for that, I am eternally grateful.
Giving birth doesn’t automatically make a woman a mother, but it creates an undeniable bond. It can be overwhelming to know that a part of you is being nurtured and loved by someone else. I carried Alex for nine months, nurtured him, and then entrusted him to his mother, leaving a piece of my heart with him. I miss my son who was never truly mine. I am a birth mom.
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In summary, the experience of being a birth mother is filled with conflicting emotions of love, loss, and acceptance. It’s a journey of recognizing both the joys of motherhood and the heartache of letting go.
Keyphrase: Birth Mother Experience
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