As a Type-A personality, I’ve always set goals for myself. Graduate college early? Check. Get married at 25? Check. Have a baby at 28? Not so much.
Have you ever felt as though a part of you was missing?
It’s no secret that I was adopted – I can’t even remember being told that I was because it was such common knowledge in my home. When I was old enough to start to really understand what it meant, my parents gave me a half of a necklace, the other half belonging to my birth mom.
Throughout the years, I received some other small gifts – a journal with a note from my birth mom, a bracelet on my 18th birthday – but never any identifying information due to Missouri adoption laws.
As I got older, I got more curious. Shortly before getting married, I looked into what it would take to find my birth mom. At the time of my limited research, it appeared as though without an (expensive) private detective, I was out of luck.
I tried again this Spring, as thoughts of future babies popped into my head, realizing how little I know about my health history, my family, and selfishly, my future looks.
My best friends had always suggested using Facebook, but I shrugged it off. In my eyes, Facebook is a business tool for brands to reach customers, and a tool for every person I went to high school with to announce their engagements and pregnancies. Luckily, after a few glasses of wine on a beautiful February weekend, I caved in and shared my story.
142 shares later, all I had was a timeline full of me in that red dress (thanks, Rent the Runway!), and upset parents for not telling them I was doing this. However, the one plus was that my mom shared this little detail: there was a photo of my parents in my file at the Children’s Home Society. I quickly shot a note to the adoption coordinator my parents worked with and got my first glimpse of my birth parents.
I went back and forth for weeks on whether or not to try one last Facebook post featuring my birth mom, and finally decided to do it. Within 12 hours, I had three people contact me saying they knew who it is, and after a good stalking session across social media, I worked up enough nerve to send her a message. A few hours later, I got my answer – I had found my birth mom.
As I write this, I’m still incredibly overwhelmed that after 28 years, I know who courageously gave me up for adoption. I now know that I was born via c-section, and that my birth mom demanded I stay with her during her recovery, even though it’s not allowed. I know that my birth aunt, who was 8 at the time, made me an Easter basket as they celebrated three days after I was born on Good Friday.
I now know what has been missing all this time.