She was a everyday girl, yet not ordinary. Big hopes. Even bigger dreams. There was a time when she wore her heart on her sleeve, but now days, she wears her heart right where it’s supposed to be: inside. Life will teach you that. Although, inside isn't all that safe either.

She is daughter of two parents, and loved by a gaggle of step-family. She is the friend to a many, and the lover of no one at the present time. She’s a granddaughter, a niece, a student. She's also a mommy. So many roles to squeeze into at a given time. Today, I’ll tell you about her birthmom role.

She learned the greatest lesson in pain and redemption when she placed her baby girl for adoption. She was twenty-one years old, and able to vote, and able to drink beer legally and all of that, but wasn’t ready to be a momma. No, wasn’t ready. Looking back, who is ever really ready to be a momma?

That cool November morning, she dressed that baby of hers in a cozy white set of pj’s. They felt good when rubbed against her cheeks, so she imagined her baby thought they felt good too. Actually, the pj's were a hand me down. She hated the fact that she couldn’t afford anything brand new for her baby to wear on this day of all days. The day of goodbye. She whispered, she cried. She sobbed, she wept. From one emotion to the next, she felt them all; all but happy. Oh, and joyful. Nope, no joy.

Even though she knew she was making another family complete, she didn’t feel joyful. Somehow, making someone else complete while leaving her only broken felt strange ...odd. Maybe the new mother could be happy enough for the both of them.

Years pass on by, and that baby grows up. The girl still knows about pain, but she is still learning about redemption nearly five years later, but she has high hopes for the eventual understanding. For now, she continues to pick up the pieces.

Pieces you ask? Yes, pieces of her. You see, some believe when a girl gives her baby to another, the only one lost is the child – but that isn’t so. This girl learned that she lost a part of herself too. And in the fourth year of her birth-motherhood, she dangerously decides she wants "her" back. But she’s gotta be careful, sometimes if you pick up a broken piece too quickly, you might get cut by a sharp edge. Like glass, the heart shatters upon impact into a million tiny shards. December 3, 1998, she hit hard, and the impact was quite damaging. Fair warning, watch where you walk when you are around the girl, or you may just get a splinter stuck in your foot.

The others who have walked the road called birth-motherhood for a few years longer than she may chuckle a bit. Is it possible they may ask themselves? Once it’s gone, it’s gone! They sadly shake their heads. "Good luck, girl!" .. "Yeah, tell us if you find anything!" They call out with doubt dripping from their voices like honey from a warm spoon. Their words ooze all over her causing some sticking around the joints. Sometimes the words of her sisters give her more of a mess to clean up.

This girl won’t let that stop her. So, she goes on a journey. A "journey to me" she calls it with a smile stuck on her face like an old sticker that just won't rub off. First stop on her journey: Angerville. Followed by: Sadtown, Ache Drive, and even a brief whiz around Visitation Square. She always loves going there, but that drive always goes too fast for her liking. Maybe one day she can put the top down and feel the wind chase through her hair, maybe one day.

Let’s talk about Angerville for a moment. She’s angry. Wouldn’t you be? The adoption agency told her the laws and legalities, as to cover their behinds. They grazed on some of the emotions post-adoption. (You’ll be sad, they said, well duh!) They gave her a book on grief too. But ....

They didn’t tell her that she would never want to go to another baby shower again. They didn’t tell her breasts would leak at the sound of another baby crying. They didn’t tell her that she’d feel broken, and therefore afraid to parent another baby. They didn’t tell her the fear she’d feel at the fear of being "outed" about her birth-motherhood, or fear that look people get on their faces when she does tell them about being a birthmom. They didn’t tell her that the agency would close up shop and leave town with her wondering what to do next. They didn’t tell her she’d want to have another baby so soon after placing the first. They didn't tell her that this one choice would affect every choice from that day forth. They didn’t tell her that ...(fill in the blank with whatever they didn’t tell you).

They didn’t tell her that when she relinquished her child, she’d relinquished a part of herself. As she became a birthmother, she un-became something else.

Girl's Diary entry:

I heard my daughter started preschool this past Monday. And it hurt. I wished I would have known before Monday came. Sure, I couldn’t have been there that crisp Monday morning, but I could have been there in my heart. My mind drifts to kindergarten next year, and I wonder if it is too much to ask to be there for that. Then I remember, I gave that day to someone else. Along with a thousand other days. They're not mine to have. I hear an echo of the mother I could have been to her. That mother whispers to me in the stillness and quiet. Sometimes she shouts. Why didn't anyone tell me it would feel like this years later? Why can I not just get back to me? I feel like I possess a stranger's transplanted heart. Although, it must be my own heart, her name is still there. Etched. Untouched.

If you are reading this now, you may be hoping for the answers in the end of this piece (admit it!), but sadly, I don’t have the answers. I only hold the questions, maybe the same questions you hold. Will I ever be the same again? What am I to do with all of this? How will this affect the rest of my life? Maybe you are on your own "journey to me". If so, let's be journey partners. Let's not fight or war. Let's just be. Tell me about you ...tell me about your discoveries of you, whether tears lace your face or laughter rocks your body ..tell me. I'll listen. All I ask is for you to hear me too. No, not the kind of listening where you are trying to think of how to respond back as I'm still talking; deliously listen to each word as if it were your own. And I'll do the same for you.

Maybe you're not like me-- you haven't had the promises for openness kept. Maybe you were shattered into pieces when you heard from the adoptive parent's attorney that they wished to close the adoption. Maybe you break a bit each day as you walk to the mailbox holding your breath--just praying their is a letter waiting. Possibly you were torn into pieces the day your parents made you chose between living at home, and your baby, or maybe the father of the child said, "The baby or me". You didn't want to be alone, but now, he's gone and so is your baby. Maybe you know adoption was the best choice, but you hate yourself for getting into such a position in the first place. I've heard a few stories of babies literally pried from their young mother's hands; hands that held on for dear life, but were forced into releasing their precious babies. I can only imagine the brokenness, the pieces, and the fragments. I hurt for you. I can't heal you, but I can listen. Maybe in hearing my voice (not just my voice, of course, but the voices of other lifemothers), and possibly in hearing your own voice speak ...you will find some healing, and you will find the parts of you that you used to know. Just maybe.

Adoption. It’s more than a choice – it’s a life altering, earth shaking, immense decision. Even if you don’t regret your choice, it’s okay to regret the process, the lack of knowledge, and even having to make such a choice in the first place. Adoption. It’s more than a choice for a new life for your child, it’s also a choice for a new life for you too. At the dotted line, you release your baby, and also a part of you. But, hold on like hell to what you've got left.

The light at the end of the tunnel: While I will always grieve the loss of the girl I once was, I celebrate the findings and discoveries of the woman I am now. Maybe I'll never find all the pieces, but sometimes it's the journey, not the destination. I'll keep on looking. Even my tears hold the secrets of who I am, so I am sure to catch each one. With open palms, I face the world, and little by little, day by day ....fragments of myself come together to piece the new me, yes, birthmom and all.