For the past several years I’ve been encouraged by some family and friends to write my story. So I’ve started. And I’ve stopped. Many times. I’m not sure why I do this. Maybe it’s because writing parts of my story is too painful. Though I’m told writing is therapeutic. Maybe it’s because it will require me to be vulnerable. That takes a lot of courage and the risk of not being understood. Maybe it’s because it will make some people uncomfortable. I think that’s part of it. Or maybe it’s because, after 30 years, I still struggle to accept the reality of my story.

I struggle to accept the fact that I gave birth to a precious, beautiful baby boy, held him tightly in my arms, and after three days left him in the hospital to be taken home by strangers. I struggle to accept the fact that I was so caught in a trap of shame, fear and coercion that I acted against my own natural instinct and the desires tugging at my heart.

I lost my firstborn to adoption in 1990. He was not at risk of neglect or abuse from me, nor was I incompetent. He was very much loved and wanted. However, I was 19 at the time and not married. I had committed The Great Transgression, or so I believed, and therefore did not deserve to keep my baby. I was not worthy of motherhood.

So why am I writing now? My firstborn son and his wife are expecting their firstborn. I am thrilled for them and so happy that I will get to see a part of my son in his baby boy, and that I will get to watch this little boy grow up. Perhaps it will, in part, help to make up for the years I lost with my son. But it also seems to be setting off triggers for me as I did not get to celebrate my first baby. I had moved away from my hometown to go into hiding in order to keep my pregnancy a secret and deal with it myself, and then give my baby to another family.

The sting of that loss has not gone away. Though I was blessed to give birth to and raise three other precious, beautiful babies, and though they brought a measure of healing to my shattered heart, they could not replace the baby that I lost. Babies – human beings – are neither replaceable nor interchangeable.

Extensive, established research shows that permanently separating a mother and her baby causes lifelong trauma for both. I’ve learned a lot about adoption loss in the last five years since my oldest son has been back in our family. I’ve learned a lot about how this loss and trauma has directed and shaped my life.

I’ve learned what Family Preservation is all about as it describes efforts to keep families together and prevent unnecessary out-of-home placement of babies and children.

Most importantly, I’ve learned the truth about God’s unconditional love, mercy and grace. That’s why I’m writing and sharing my story now. For that young woman who was so deeply wounded by a loss like mine, who thinks she is a failure, worthless and alone. YOU ARE NOT ALONE. There is hope and there is healing.

This story is also for my grandchildren, their children, and their children. So that they know how it is that a branch from our family tree was broken off. And how God is so graciously knitting us back together.

Though there is deep wounding and pain in my story, there is also tremendous joy and happiness throughout the years. And in the past five years that my son has been back in our family we have created some wonderful memories together. I am so grateful for and deeply cherish these memories. We all do. Our family is actually closer, tighter-knit, and stronger – perhaps because of the separation we experienced. I do not believe God orchestrated the events that led to my family being separated. But God is working things out for good and we are certainly experiencing His blessing now.

So here I am, writing my story.

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Write hard and clear about what hurts.

Ernest Hemingway