belonging

darnold1975

Adoption Awareness Month: The Wound No One Talks About

“Adoption creates families. But it also creates wounds. And both deserve to be acknowledged.”

-This Puzzled Life

Light the charcoal. Let it crackle like truth finally being brave enough to speak. Let the smoke rise slow and curling toward the ceiling like the ancestors themselves are stretching awake, whispering, “Go on and tell it.”

Adoption Awareness Month is not just ribbons and hashtags. It’s not just smiling family photos and inspirational quotes slapped on pastel backgrounds. It’s a month where the ancestors gather close, humming low, steady, and ancient. Because they know adoption is a story braided with joy, pain, hope, and wounds that don’t always heal clean. I call upon the ancestors. The ones who held babies through storms. The ones who whispered strength into children who didn’t know where they belonged. The ones who know that adoption is not a one‑note song.

Adoption can be beautiful. It can be salvation for parents who cannot conceive. It can be a blessing for people who want to help humanity. Who want to give a child a home, stability, and love. But let’s tell the whole truth while the charcoal is hot. The person with the least say-so, the least rights, the least protection is the child.

We all know the line that says, “Your birth mom gave you up out of love.” It’s the script. The indoctrination. The bedtime story adoptive parents repeat because it’s easier, cleaner, and less terrifying than the truth. But more often than not? That’s not what happened. Some birth mothers didn’t care. Some were overwhelmed. Some were incapable. Some were cruel. Some were absent. Some were indifferent. Some were dangerous.

And some adoptive parents live under the false belief that if they raise the child with love, the child won’t care about the truth later. But that’s not how the human heart works. That’s not how identity works. That’s not how trauma works. Every adopted child has questions. Even the ones who never speak them out loud. There is a naturally occurring psychological phenomenon known as the “mommy hole.” A void. A wound. A space that never fully fills no matter how wonderful the adoptive parents are. Some children can verbalize it. Some can’t. But the void is there. Always.

I was one of those children. One of the ones who carried a wound so deep it felt like it lived in my bones. When I tried to find answers, the age requirements kept changing. Or at least that’s what I was told. Then when I finally became “old enough,” I was told the courts would open the records. They didn’t. Not once. Not ever.

My birth mother had rights. I didn’t. So, I went searching. Crying into my pillow. Digging through the internet like a detective fueled by heartbreak. And then one night, the phone rang. A man said, “I’m your biological brother.” We exchanged pictures. Stories. Memories. And there was no doubt he was my brother.

Then came the genetic testing. Both biological parents. 99.9999999% match. So, we arranged a meeting. And my birth mother looked me in the face and said, “You were an inconvenience as a baby and as an adult.” That sentence sliced through me like a razor. But if you go searching for answers, you must be willing to accept disappointment as one of the possible outcomes.

That moment deepened the wound. But it also clarified the truth. She was not capable of loving me. Not then. Not now. Not ever. So, the idea that she “gave me up out of love” was just another lie in a long line of lies meant to protect everyone except me.

People love to say adoption is better than abortion. But is it really? Is it always? Is it universally? Our current administration is rolling back LGBTQIA+ rights, making it harder for queer parents to adopt or foster. Even though they are some of the most loving, stable, and prepared parents out there. Meanwhile, Americans fly across the world to adopt children from China. Because apparently those children are acceptable. But queer parents raising American children is not? Make it make sense. Because I can’t.

And after the emotional torment adoption caused me, I can say from my experience, not anyone else’s, I would have rather my birth mother made the responsible choice and aborted me. Do all adopted people feel that way? Absolutely not. Everyone has their own story. Their own truth. Their own wounds or joys. But I cringe when people talk about adoption like it’s a flawless miracle with zero repercussions for the child. Because the child’s feelings are usually the first ones abandoned.

Adoptive parents make their decisions. Biological parents make their decisions. And the baby is expected to just adapt. Where do the biological mother’s rights end? And where do the child’s rights begin?

Adoption Awareness Month should not be a month of sugarcoating. It should be a month of truth. A month where we honor the families built through love. But also acknowledge the children who grew up with wounds no one wanted to talk about. Some of us spend our entire lives searching for answers we deserved from the beginning. Some of us discover truths that shatter us. Some of us learn that the courts protect the mothers, the system protects the secrecy, and the child is left to stitch together their identity with scraps.

So, light the charcoal. Call the ancestors. And let this month be one where we finally say, “Adoption is complicated. Adoption is beautiful. Adoption is painful. And adopted children deserve the whole truth. Not the convenient version.” Thanks for reading! What are your thoughts?

Affirmation: My story matters. My questions matter. My truth matters. I deserve answers, healing, and a voice.

***Don’t forget to watch the video!***

#ThisPuzzledLife

darnold1975

To the Mothers Who Raised My Soul: A Southern Testimony for Mother’s Day

“Some mothers grow you, some guide you, and some resurrect the parts of you that never had a chance to live.”

-This Puzzled Life

 Light the charcoal. We’re about to cook up a truth that’ll smoke out every memory, ache, and blessing you’ve ever collected from the women who raised you. Whether they meant to or not.

Some mothers come into your life the traditional way. The diaper‑changing. Bottle‑warming. “Lord‑give‑me-strength” kind of mothers. The ones who knew your baby smell before you knew your own name. They wiped your tears, your nose, and occasionally your entire behind with the same rag. Because that’s just what survival looked like on a Tuesday.

Then there are the distant maternal figures. The ones who hover like porch‑light moths. They don’t tuck you in. But they keep an eye out. They’re the women who say things like, “You doing alright?” In a tone that somehow feels like a weighted blanket. They don’t step in. They don’t step away either. They’re the quiet guardians of your emotional perimeter.

And then. There are the rare ones. The naturally maternal souls who walk through this world radiating comfort like a heated church pew in July. They don’t have to try. They don’t have to earn it. They just are. These are the Yoda Mothers. The mystical, wise, soft‑spoken warriors who teach you the life lessons you somehow missed while you were busy surviving your childhood. They’re the ones who accept you for who you are instead of who you were supposed to be. The ones who don’t flinch at your chaos. The ones who don’t shrink from your truth. The ones who make you feel safe just by existing in the same room. Breathing the same air. Humming the same off‑key hymn.

And maybe that’s the wildest part of all this. How motherhood isn’t a single recipe. But a whole damn potluck. Some women bring casseroles of comfort. Some bring boundaries disguised as burnt cornbread. Some bring wisdom so sharp it slices you clean open. Women bring nothing but their presence. And somehow that’s enough to keep you breathing.

The truth is that the mothers who change your diapers and warm your bottles give you a beginning. The distant maternal figures give you perspective. But the Yoda Mothers. The soul‑raising. Spirit lifting, “sit down, let me tell you something real” women. They give you a home you didn’t even know you were missing. 

These women are diamonds. Not the kind you find in a jewelry case. But the kind the universe hides until the stars finally align and God says, “Alright, you’ve struggled long enough. Here’s someone who won’t break you.” 

They’re the ones who look at your mess and don’t flinch. The ones who hear your truth and don’t run. The ones who see the parts of you that were never nurtured. Never named. Never held. And they hold them anyway. They don’t mother you out of obligation. They mother you out of instinct. They mother you because something in their spirit recognizes something in yours and says, “Oh. There you are. Come sit by me.”

And when life pulls them away. When distance stretches thin or Heaven gets greedy. The absence hits like a spiritual amputation. Parts of you go quiet. Parts of you go cold. Parts of you start to decay in ways you don’t talk about out loud. Because losing a mother‑figure like that isn’t just grief. It’s losing the one person who made you feel like your soul had a place to land.

But here’s the miracle. Their love doesn’t leave. Their lessons don’t fade. Their fingerprints stay pressed into your spirit like God Himself signed off on your survival. Here’s to every kind of mother. The ones who birthed you. The ones who raised you. The ones who found you. And the ones who resurrected you without ever asking for credit.

So, here’s to the diaper changers. The distant watchers. The accidental Yodas. And the soul‑raising diamonds Heaven hand‑delivers when you need them most. If you’ve ever been loved by a mother like that, in blood or in spirit, then you already know. Some women don’t just mother you. They resurrect you.

 Here’s to the women who became safe harbor in a world full of storms. The ones who could calm your whole nervous system just by walking into the room. Here’s to the diamonds Heaven hides until you’re finally ready to be loved right. The ones who show up exactly when your spirit is starving for gentleness, truth, and a place to land.

 Here’s to the mothers who didn’t just show up. They transformed you. They stitched you back together with wisdom you didn’t know you were missing. They held the parts of you that were never held. They loved the parts of you that were never loved. They saw the parts of you that were never seen.

 And if you’ve ever been blessed enough to be mothered by a woman like that, then you already know the truth carved into your bones. Some mothers don’t just shape your life. They save your soul. And that’s a legacy no absence, no distance, no silence, and no grief can ever erase. Thanks for reading! And Happy Mother’s Day!

Affirmation: I honor every woman who mothered me in ways my spirit needed. I am worthy of the love, safety, and acceptance they poured into me. And I carry their wisdom like a lantern lighting every step forward.

***Don’t forget to watch the video!***

#ThisPuzzledLife