Letter to My Mother
I used to stare at your picture for hours, hoping you would somehow step out of it and wrap your arms around me. I noticed the sadness in your eyes and the wisps of hair on your face. I counted your fingers and imagined what your voice sounded like. Probably steady and smooth, but with a slight rasp.
Oh, my heart aches to know you.
Your dark blue pencil skirt, black button-up blouse, and black high heels were my fashion inspiration throughout the years.
I miss you, even though I don’t know you. When I was younger, I would sit with my journal, writing poems and notes to you. Sometimes I was angry and begging you for answers; “How am I supposed to be brave in this world without my compass?” Other times, the pages were filled with prayers or notes filled with hope and curiosity.
Oh, my heart aches to know you.
I made quiet promises to you back then. I told myself I would find you one day. I convinced myself that you were not gone…just lost. So when I was walking through the store, and I saw a beautiful picture of a black woman in a yellow dress, I bought it because I knew I had found you.
Be still, my heart, I am still your baby girl.
Although you have left this earthly life, I still feel your presence. I don’t know how, I don’t know why, but I do know
A Birth Mom’s Letter to Her Younger Self
Dear Birth Mom,
If no one has told you this lately, let me be the one to remind you:
You matter.
Not only as someone’s birth mother. Not only because of the love you carry. Not only because of the role you played in another person’s story.
You matter because you are still here, and your life still deserves care, purpose, healing, and hope.
I know grief after placement can feel impossible to explain. It can show up quietly or all at once. Sometimes it looks like tears in the shower. Sometimes it looks like anger, numbness, isolation, anxiety, or pretending you’re fine when you’re not. Sometimes it looks like constantly staying busy so you never have to sit alone with your thoughts.
And sometimes, if we’re honest, grief can become a place we unknowingly settle into.
I want to say this gently, but lovingly:
Your grief deserves attention, but it doesn’t have to become your permanent address.
At the same time, you are allowed to grieve and you should grieve. Adoption loss is real, and trying to skip over it only has a way of resurfacing later. But there is a difference between grieving and becoming stuck. There is a difference between honoring pain and allowing pain to define every part of your future.
Healing does not mean forgetting.You won’t forget.
Healing does not mean loving your child less. You won’t stop loving.
Healing means learning how to carry what happened without allowing it to completely carry *you*.
And sometimes, healing asks hard things of us.
It asks us to go to therapy when we’d rather avoid it.
It asks us to stop isolating.
It asks us to be honest about the unhealthy coping habits we’ve picked up to survive.
It asks us to reach out for support instead of convincing ourselves nobody understands.
It asks us to stop waiting for someone else to rescue us.
I say that with so much compassion because I know how easy it can be to stay in survival mode. When something painful happens, especially something as life-altering as placement, survival becomes familiar. And familiarity can feel safe, even when it’s hurting us.
But dear Younger Self, surviving is not the same thing as living.
Your child deserves to know a version of you that fought for herself, too.
A version of you that learned how to care for her own heart.
A version of you that did not abandon herself after placement.
A version of you that said, “This grief is real, but so is my future.”
Being productive in grief does not mean rushing yourself or forcing positivity. It means asking:
What am I doing with my pain?
Am I avoiding it?
Am I numbing it?
Am I letting it consume me?
Or am I allowing it to shape me into someone softer, stronger, wiser, and more whole?
And yes, believe it or not, joy is still allowed here.
You are not betraying your child by laughing again.
You are not dishonoring placement by building a steady life.
You are not failing because healing takes time.
Some days grief will feel heavy again. Anniversaries may still sting. Visits may stir up emotions you thought had settled. That doesn’t mean you’re back at square one. Healing is rarely linear.
But I hope you remember this:
You deserve care too.
You deserve support too.
And you deserve a life that feels bigger than your pain.
So if no one has challenged you lately, let me lovingly do it now:
Please stop abandoning yourself.
Go to the appointment.
Answer the text.
Ask for help.
Take the walk.
Drink the water.
Feel the feelings.
Say the hard thing.
Let yourself grow.
You are still becoming.
And there is still so much life ahead of you.
With love,
Your Future Self