I will be getting back to my regular blogging soon, but something unexpected came up and it’s been occupying my thoughts.
When I was born, I was adopted. I came into the hospital with one set of parents and left with another. I was told at a very young age, as soon as I could understand. I’ve been pretty open about it with friends because it’s never been a negative in my life, a lesson I learned from my parents. My family is rooted as mine as much as anyone who is not adopted. I’ve always felt it reciprocated by my parents and siblings alike. I was a wanted child.
During the funeral of my grandmother in May, my mother quite unexpectedly started volunteering information about my birth parents. It was quite unprompted on my part; I believe the death of her mother was the catalyst. After a few weeks I decided to email her for the information so I would have a record. I sat on it and considered what to do. Is it right to contact someone who carried you and gave you up 42 years ago? What if reaching out is painful or opens old wounds? What if it’s better not knowing? What if they’re bad people? What if …. Many questions rolled around in my head as I considered what to do.
