For nine years, I grieved my firstborn daughter. When I was just 14 years old, a little over three months pregnant, my guardians gave me a choice: make an adoption plan or leave home. I was scared and had no other option, so I chose adoption. Six months later, I gave birth to a baby girl. I placed her gently into her mother’s arms and walked out of the hospital with an emptiness I had never felt before.
The adoption process itself was difficult. I was asked question after question in a setting that felt anything but supportive. When I asked if I could see my daughter again, they told me maybe once a year, with photo updates. I asked if I could send her letters or gifts, and the agency said only on her birthday and at Christmas. Anything more “might overwhelm the family.” I already felt like a burden before I even had the chance to try.
I held on to that one promised visit. I counted down the days, knowing it might be the only time I would ever see her. As a child growing up in kinship care, estranged from my own mother, I feared my daughter would grow up hearing that I didn’t love her. When the visit finally came, I saw she was happy. That gave me a small measure of peace, but it didn’t take away the ache.
Life carried on. Eight wild years passed. I ran away from the abusive home I grew up in, got emancipated, met a wonderful man, got married, became a mother again, and even gained custody of my infant half-sister. Then, one summer day at the splash pad, my old flip phone rang.
“Hello,” I answered.
“Is this Raquel?” the caller asked.
“Yes…”
“This is Ruth from Christian Adoption Services. Your daughter is eager to meet you and her sister. Her parents are requesting a visit, if you’re comfortable.”
I froze. For years I dreamed of hearing words like that. “Wait,” I stammered, “you mean… they want to meet me? In person?”
That was ten years ago. Since then, we’ve been slowly building a relationship. At first, we were cautious, careful not to cross invisible boundaries. But over time, the walls came down. I still remember when we stood awkwardly side by side for a photo, and she turned to me, half teasing, half annoyed: “Can you put your arm around me or something? We look so stiff.” I had spent years afraid to hug her too tightly, worried it might make her uncomfortable. And here she was, telling me exactly what she needed. Brave. Bold. Strong.
That strong-willed little girl is 19 now. A vibrant young woman, full of life. Just recently, we went on our first family vacation together. Before the trip, I shared the news with the community I’ve built online—a group focused on adoption education and healing. To my surprise, one generous follower offered us a free family photo shoot during our trip in Florida. Last night, I received the gallery of photos, and I couldn’t stop crying.
Unless you are a birthmother, it may be hard to understand the weight of this moment. I love all of my children deeply. But with my youngest two, I never had to wonder if I would be part of their lives. That’s what parenting is: you are there for every first step, every milestone, and even all the ordinary in-between moments.
With my oldest, it was different. For nine years, I thought I might never know her. For the next nine years, I feared that at any moment her parents could change their minds and shut me out. Not because they ever said they would, but because as a birthmother, my place in her life was never promised. For 18 years, I held my breath.
And then, last night, I opened a gallery of family photos my daughter chose to be a part of. I scrolled through candid pictures of her on a trip she wanted to join. I watched videos of her laughing, relaxed, and fully herself in our home. For the first time in 18 years, I exhaled. And I wept.
