Spring

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I just hung up the phone with my New York mom. She’s such a gift, so well adjusted and comfortable in her own skin. She pours her energy into me and I devour it with an insatiable hunger. This is the nourishment I’ve been deprived of my entire life and she willingly provides it. My jeans finally fit again. They’ve always been my emotional barometer; the scale is too cruel and insensitive. I breathe in her health, her biology, her love. Our cells remember our mothers. We’re pulled to one another from across countries, time and space. We need our family.

During my search, along with my new understanding of adoption trauma and unethical adoption practices, I was thrown into an abyss. I’ve leaned hard into my tribe. We all look the same, covered in wounds only visible to us. I’ve found women that relentlessly climb towards healing through advocacy and education. They refuse to get stuck in their loss, turning their sights towards something bigger than their own pain. This is where I intend to hang out, holding their hands. It’s a sisterhood (with a few brothers thrown in) of tattered, limping soldiers determined to see change. The more important these new friendships have become the more I’ve seen relationships with childhood friends and a few family members change, becoming fluid, morphing into different shapes. Some are no longer recognizable and that’s okay. It’s necessary. I can hardly sit with some of them anymore because being asked to explain is futile and frustrating, not being asked at all is maddening. I’ve voluntarily let them go.

In Arizona we don’t experience the new shoots that come up in the Spring. It’s too hot and the ground is too hard and dry. One of the things I miss most about living in the Midwest is the new growth pushing its way through the dirt, all the rain bringing bright, colorful flowers to the landscape. This is like that. Beauty from ashes. New life.

I’m so excited to see what the next season brings.

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