Parenting is an adventure filled with joys and challenges, and for some, it involves the intricate journey of adoption. My three boys all share my dimples, a small but sweet reminder of our connection. As I scroll through old baby photos, I see echoes of Aden in Liam and traces of Carter in Aden—fragments of my likeness woven into their features.
Right now, I’m nestled on my couch in Hawaii, nursing my 12-week-old baby while my 3-year-old enjoys playtime with his dad at a nearby park. Meanwhile, my 17-year-old is in Virginia, likely winding down for the night in the home of the family who has lovingly raised him since he was born.
Being a birth mom comes with its own set of complexities. People often ask if my two younger boys are my only children, and I find myself momentarily caught between sharing my story or simply saying, “Yes, they are.” It’s a struggle that many parents who have experienced loss might resonate with. You want to be honest and honor that child’s place in your heart, but sometimes it’s just easier to keep it simple.
Adoption is both a beautiful gift and a source of profound heartache—something I know intimately. With each passing year, the pain has not diminished; it has only become more pronounced since welcoming my third son. Just a week ago, I had a poignant realization: there’s a piece of me out there in the world, my flesh and blood, being raised by someone else. He’s never been with me, and the truth is, he was always meant to be with his mother. That’s just how life played out.
While I’ve made peace with my decision—something I’ve felt since the day I met his adoptive parents nearly 18 years ago—it doesn’t erase the emotional toll. Having my own children sometimes amplifies the bittersweet feeling. It’s not regret I feel; it’s a longing for a connection that will never materialize, a moment that has slipped away forever.
Seventeen years ago, I brought a baby into the world. I never had the chance to nurse him, comfort his cries, or celebrate his milestones. Instead, I lived my own life—attending college, forming friendships, and figuring out my place in the world—while he grew up in another home.
I recognize how fortunate I am to be part of my son’s life. His adoptive mom has become like a sister to me, sharing him and enriching my life. She embodies the mother I wished I could have been, and her support has been a lifeline.
Giving birth doesn’t automatically make someone a mother, but it shapes you in ways you can’t fully understand. Knowing that a part of you is being nurtured by someone else is both beautiful and heart-wrenching. I carried him for nine months, held him close, and then handed him over with a piece of my heart. I miss my son, even though he was never truly mine. I am a birth mom.
For more insights into similar experiences, check out this article on home insemination kits. And if you’re navigating the world of fertility, Make a Mom offers great resources. The American College of Obstetricians and Gynecologists also provides valuable information on treating infertility.
Summary
Navigating the emotions of being a birth mother is a journey filled with both joy and heartache. While I’ve found peace with my decision to place my son for adoption, the longing and complexity of that choice remain a part of my life. The connections I share with my boys, and their adoptive families, are precious and profound.