Dear Birth Mother,
Do you remember in school when you had to write an essay about who your hero is? I remember my mom always came to my mind first. I could easily add to my list o’ heroes now: my husband, family members, friends—and you.
My simplistic definition of a hero is one who saves. A hero is often called upon to do something great. They have a courage that few possess. They see the bigger picture and act accordingly. The news was on a lot in our house when I was growing up. Whenever something heroic happened, there was inevitably an interview. I began to see a pattern. The people who I thought were heroic, who we all thought were heroic, never thought of themselves as heroic. They “just did what anyone else would do.” But you know what? Not everyone would run into a burning building to save someone else, or jump in the river to pull someone out, or find work for the jobless, or buy dinner for the hungry—or place their baby in another family’s home.
Heroes have distinctive traits. They are smart. They are strong. They are full of courage. They are selfless. They are full of an enormous amount of love. Heroes look a lot like you.
Please don’t misunderstand. If a mother chooses not to place her baby, I’m not trying to tell her that it is the wrong choice. This is not my intention, but rather to let those who have placed their babies into another family’s home know that you are loved. You are honored. You are a hero, and you are a mother. A mother saves. She protects. She loves. She sacrifices. Because of circumstances, she is called upon to do the impossible—and does it. Sounds like you.
You have created a new life. Physically, the beauty and miracle of creating a human being—that power—you orchestrated. You are a mother. And what makes you a mother, and my hero, is using all your power and strength, all your courage and faith, to choose me. Your choice created a new life, carved a new path for that baby and for me. I so desperately hope that I make you proud. I hope I don’t let you down. I hope that my sleepless nights and my late night trips to the ER are enough. I especially hope that on the days when the last straw is placed on my back and I send all the kids to their rooms that you don’t regret me.
There are few things I can promise to all birth mothers, but there are two promises I can confidently make.
- My children will know they are loved by you. They will know all they can about their own birth mothers and about your collective courage.
- You will always be loved. We will continue to pray as a family for you every single day. You will be in our thoughts, and we will be looking out for you the best we can. We will stand in your corner when life gets hard, when people are insensitive, and when you feel like you may collapse from the added weight of life. We will be in your corner forever.
My little, happy dream would be that every adoption story is miraculous and beautiful. I know some of you have felt coerced into making the decision to place. Some of you were promised openness only to realize that the adoptive family failed to follow through. For you, I feel a pit in my stomach and a heavy heart. On behalf of all the world who want better for you than how you have been treated, we love you and mourn with you.
So to my heroic friends, to whom I feel my heart has been bound and knit to, I hope to be like you one day. I hope to have the same strength as you possess and the same beauty and grace. Our family has always said there’s a special place in heaven for all birth mothers. I hope to see you there one day.
With all my love,
This Adoptive Mom