I stumbled onto a journal of mine recently and while thumbing through it I read an entry dated just prior to finding out who my biological mother is. See below.
December 5, 2018
I’m close to finding out information about my biological family (I hope). My DNA is being extracted right now and I’ve sent information to a search angel who seems knowledgeable.
I don’t know why this is so important to me now, 35 years later, but somehow it is. I hope knowing who I’m biologically related to will give me a sense of myself at birth. Maybe if you’re not adopted that’s hard to understand. There is something unsettling about not belonging to someone at the beginning of your life, when you’re the most vulnerable. The moment when perhaps you’re the most loved. I assume for most people giving a child up for adoption is the ultimate act of love. Maybe I’ll understand that better if I can communicate with my biological mother. I yearn to hear her story and our story of how I came to be and why I had to go.
I can’t help but wonder if being given up for adoption has added to my sense of being untethered. I’ve heard that experiences and feelings babies have before they have memory or the ability to communicate can stay in their psyche and the cells body. An overwhelming idea for sure.
But today I feel excited about the prospect of finding out about my beginnings. I also need to remember what I’ve told myself from the start of this search, keep perspective. There could be great disappointments, they could be deceased or not want anything to do with me. I could be illegitimate or a big secret. Finding out my story could be an amazing gift or another loss.
Reminder, there’s just as much chance that it could be wonderful.