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My three daughters all share my curly hair. It’s one characteristic, so far, that I can see reflected in them. As I sift through baby photos, I notice traces of Mia in Sophie and bits of Emma in Mia—familiar features that connect us.
As I relax on my couch in sunny California, nursing my 12-week-old baby while my energetic 3-year-old plays with her dad at the park, I can’t help but think of my older daughter, who’s off in New York, probably settling down for the night in the home of the family that has cared for her since she was born.
Being a birth mother is a complex experience. When people ask if my two younger girls are my only children, I find myself pausing, weighing whether to share my story. I can only imagine that parents who have lost a child grapple with similar feelings. You want to be honest and acknowledge that child’s significance in your life, yet some days it feels simpler to just respond with, “Yes, these are my only kids,” because, in many ways, they are. A painful truth in itself.
If I’m being candid, adoption is both a life-affirming gift and a deeply emotional journey for many, myself included. Yet, the heartache has not faded over time. In fact, welcoming my second (third) daughter has amplified my feelings.
A couple of weeks ago, during a particularly poignant moment, I realized that part of me—my blood and flesh—is out there, being raised by another woman. He’s never been with me, and the truth is, he was never truly mine to begin with; he was always meant to be with his mom. That’s just the way it unfolded.
I’ve found peace with my choice since the day I met his adoptive parents nearly two decades ago, but that doesn’t erase the challenges. Having my own children sometimes makes it tougher. The sadness I feel is less about regret and more about a longing for a connection that will never materialize—something that has already taken place and left me in its wake.
Seventeen years ago, I brought a child into this world. I never held him through sleepless nights or celebrated his milestones. I was a spectator in my own life—completing my education, forging friendships, navigating relationships, and seeking my place in the world.
I recognize the immense blessing I have in being a part of my son’s life. Our paths have been intertwined from the very beginning. His mom has been like a sister to me, sharing him and showering me with love. She embodies the mother I wished I could have been, and her support has been a lifeline on tough days.
Giving birth doesn’t automatically make a woman a mother, but it changes something within you. It weighs on your heart and soul to know that a piece of you is being nurtured by someone else. I carried that baby for nine months, nourished him, brought him into the world, and then entrusted him to his mom, leaving a part of my heart behind. I miss my son who was never truly mine. I am a birth mom.
For more insights on this journey of motherhood and adoption, check out this other blog post here. If you’re considering at-home insemination, a great option is this impregnator at-home insemination kit, a reputable choice for families. Additionally, for an excellent resource on understanding IVF, take a look at this article on the IVF process.
In summary, being a birth mother is a journey filled with both joy and sorrow. It’s about the bonds formed and the sacrifices made, and it’s a unique experience that shapes who we are.
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