My Unspoken Adoption Grief as a New Mother

My daughter just turned a year old, and I am filled with a wave of emotions as I reflect on her first year. Some of the pain is the typical bittersweet mourning of her outgrowing sleepy newborn snuggles as she gains new independence, but another part is atypical, as I process how radically different her first year was from my own. 

During the height of China’s one-child policy in 1994, I was left during the first week of my life in a public location. I was taken to an orphanage where I lived until my adoption at nine months. While I was well cared for within limitations, my adoptive parents suspect that the orphanage was under-resourced. They found that I generally did not cry when hurt, perhaps because I was used to no one coming quickly. 

While I have processed much of my adoption story and am grateful for the opportunities afforded by adoption, grief has ebbed and flowed in ways I didn’t expect since giving birth. 

When my daughter was first born, I held her tiny body and felt her soft skin. She had dark hair and a gentle, peaceful smile. What did I look like when I was born? I wondered. I realized I may never know. 

As my daughter started to sit up, babble, and crawl, I realized that during all of my early milestones, I had lived in institutionalized care. No family had clapped for me when I rolled over or eagerly shared my photos on Christmas cards; no one had offered skin-to-skin contact or tried to nurse me. Even today, I have no connections to or knowledge of my birth family and can only hope that they were well-intentioned but trapped by geopolitical circumstances. 

In the hours after my daughter’s birth, my heart rejoiced but also ached when I watched her sweetly sleeping in the hospital bassinet; so helpless, beautiful, and new to the world. I could not imagine how anyone could leave an innocent baby at their most vulnerable, but I also could not imagine my birth mother’s grief at placing me for adoption. I could not fathom undergoing all the first trimester nausea and the physical trauma of childbirth for a child you would give to someone else. Mothers and babies should never be forced to separate, but the imperfect nature of the world sometimes means the  reality is far from ideal. 

Although nothing can fully fix what is broken, new love and new relationships can heal and restore. My understanding of adoption has taught me compassion. Compassion and the unconditional love of my adoptive family have helped me to redeem my past. 

Since my daughter’s arrival, I have seen my parents step wholeheartedly into the role of grandparents, even though they themselves never parented a newborn. My mother traveled over 3000 miles to meet her new granddaughter and took care of her during night shifts when I fell ill, always asked for a shopping list to prepare for her visits to Canada, and delighted in showing my daughter everything from old toys from my toddlerhood to the flowers in the park. I saw that my adoptive parents had extended the same devotion, thoughtfulness, and patient care as they did to me as their daughter. As a child, they would tend to me each time I woke up scared and confused in the middle of the night, to rebuild the cycle of attachment and restore the bonds that I had lost.

As I look at the state of the world, I know that we will always see families torn apart, whether by war, violence, divorce or poverty. We can’t prevent every heartache, but we can offer a light to those in need, by expanding the definition of family and community. Because of my adoption, I know, and deeply care, that for every child whose birth and youth are celebrated, there are others who fall through the cracks—who move from home to home or who are awaiting permanent families. 

Sometimes from sadness and loss, new life and hope can take root. When I look at my daughter—so eager to explore her surroundings and take her first steps—I see the new beginnings that can happen with the support of family and also the dream that we can make this a reality for more children just like her.