I don’t have a traditional birth story to share. There aren’t any heartwarming post-birth images or memories of my partner looking at me with admiration, marveling at the miracle of childbirth. Maybe the days we welcomed our children through adoption will serve as those moments for my partner, but they feel much more ordinary and less extraordinary than physically bringing a child into the world.
Sometimes, during the chaotic moments of life, when I find myself overwhelmed—like when I’m battling a mountain of laundry in my pajamas without a bra, I worry my partner will just see a woman in comfy clothes, not the one who endured heartache and trials to create our family. I fear he won’t have that defining moment to look back on when I’m at my lowest.
I lack photographs of my children as babies, and I have no memories of their first smiles, steps, or words. Our kids joined us at ages 4½ and 5, and their pasts are shrouded in mystery, filled with challenges. When their behaviors push my limits, I wonder if I would be less frustrated if I had cared for them during their most vulnerable years. I never experienced the sleepless nights with a crying infant, and I sometimes think that if I had, I might be better equipped to handle their struggles now.
I don’t have adorable tales of preparing for their arrival, like painting nurseries or choosing names. We had just two months to get ready for our first child and a mere three weeks for the second. Since much of their early life is unknown and often stressful, we’ve had to reshape their narratives. I tell them, “If I had carried you, I would have sung lullabies every night.” We rock them at bedtime now, wishing we could have done so when they were little, whispering about how we would have kissed their tiny cheeks.
Therapists assure me that these narratives help, but I don’t feel any relief, nor do I think my kids do. I often search their expressions for signs of the same sadness that I carry, as they have faced losses that many have not, despite our loving home.
I may not have a birth story, but I have so much more. I have a partner who stood by me through the storms of infertility. I have two amazing kids who have shown me the true meanings of resilience and forgiveness, lessons that my 29 years of life hadn’t prepared me for. I don’t have the tale of a physical birth, but I have a journey of motherhood through love, embracing children who aren’t of my flesh. My story resonates with women yearning to be mothers but facing infertility, with parents striving to nurture foster children, and with couples hopeful for adoption.
I recognize that I have been given a lot, and I know I should be grateful. It would be easy to wrap this in a neat bow and proclaim #soblessed. But the truth is, I still feel the ache for a more conventional family narrative, both for my children and for myself. If you find yourself in a similar space—grateful yet longing—know that you’re not alone. Together, perhaps we can find some comfort in our shared experience.
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In summary, the journey to motherhood is multifaceted, filled with unique stories that go beyond traditional narratives. Each experience is valid, and the emotional landscape can be complex, especially for those who navigate the path of adoption or infertility. Finding community and understanding in this journey is essential for peace of mind.