C.C. and I first met online back in 2006, only to realize we already shared a circle of friends. The art and LGBTQ scene in Los Angeles is small, and it didn’t take long for us to fall into each other’s world. I had just come out of a relationship with someone who wanted to manage every part of my life from how I scooped cat litter to how I rolled a burrito. C.C. was the opposite. She was light, curious, joyful. Being with her felt like finally taking a deep breath.
We filled our early years with art shows, late-night movies, weekend trips to New York and Puerto Rico, and cocktails in dimly lit bars. Eventually, we realized how wonderful it would be to share that kind of life with a child minus the cocktails, of course. Both of us had always imagined being parents, and adoption was already part of our family stories. It never occurred to us that our path to parenthood would take years, or that it would test us in every possible way.
It took four and a half years to become moms. In that time, we heard every kind of comment imaginable. Some people were encouraging: “You’ll have no trouble you’re healthy, you jog!” Others said things like, “Well, kids aren’t everything there’s so much you can enjoy without them.” When I finally got pregnant with twins, I thought our time had come. But at nine weeks, I miscarried. The grief was like nothing I’d ever felt. A piece of me was gone.
A few weeks later, I ran into an old acquaintance outside a cooking-supply store. He was working his food truck and the air was thick with the smell of grilled onions. We made small talk until I mentioned the miscarriage. He offered sympathy, then, in an awkward attempt at humor, said, “Maybe God just hates lesbians?” He didn’t mean harm he and his wife were allies, even donors to LGBTQ causes but the words stung. I didn’t believe God hated lesbians, but I couldn’t help wondering what I’d done wrong. That question haunted me for months.
People meant well when they told us, “You never know, a miracle might happen.” But miracles don’t come easily when you’re two women, and after I learned I carried a gene that put me at high risk for cancer, I had to have my ovaries removed. The miracle people were waiting for wasn’t coming not in the way they meant. So, we turned to adoption.
Both of us had read Dan Savage’s memoir The Kid, and it confirmed what we already believed: open adoption was the right choice. We wanted our child’s birth mom to feel peace with her decision, and we wanted our child to grow up knowing where they came from. C.C. found an agency online the very first search result and we dove into the paperwork. Two years passed with heartbreaks and false starts: women who changed their minds, scammers who preyed on hope. And then, finally, a young woman chose us.
When our son was born, it felt like every ounce of heartbreak had led us to that moment. His birth mother was brave, loving, and selfless. She made an impossible decision for the sake of her baby, and we will honor that forever.
Today, our son Dash is six. We talk openly about his adoption it’s part of his story, part of ours. He doesn’t think it’s unusual; it’s just his life. His birth mom isn’t in regular contact right now, but we keep the door open. Healing takes time, and we’ll always hold space for her.
We’ve been waiting to adopt again, hoping to give Dash a sibling. We’ve faced more heartbreak a baby we loved but couldn’t keep but we haven’t lost faith. Somewhere out there, another expectant mom is making a decision that will shape all our lives. I’ve come to believe that everything love, loss, family is a kind of miracle. Not the kind people promise in passing, but the kind that grows slowly, through patience, heartbreak, and hope.
