Birthdays are bittersweet for me. I recently had one, and as I get older it becomes harder and harder to enjoy my day of birth, as I don’t even know if it is truly my day of birth. It was estimated by police I was born around January 9, 1994 in Ahmednagar, Maharashtra. Every year my birthdays mean I grow older, but it also means more time separates me from my birthmother.

I was found abandoned on the streets of Ahmednagar on January 11, 1994 and was placed in a foster home while inquiries were made to try and find my guardians. When no one came forward, I was then placed into the custody of Bharatiya Samaj Seva Kendra (BSSK) in Pune. Upon my arrival to BSSK, I was 3 pounds, marasmic, and sick with dysentery. When my health was stable, I was declared available for adoption. I stayed in this orphanage until I was 11 months old, when I was adopted through Holt International by an American couple in South Carolina who had two other daughters adopted from BSSK.

My parents never hid our adoptions from us. Our stories were celebrated and our differences embraced. As a child I longed to have my mother’s beautiful white skin, and she in turn longed for my brown skin. As I grew older I struggled between loving my adoptive family and being so thankful for my adoption, and also coming to terms with the devastation of what I lost when my birthparents abandoned me. On the outside I am Indian, but I am American as can be. That is a hard battle to fight when you are drawn to the culture you came from and once lost, while trying your best not to take the one you were given for granted. I once saw a quote that explained it pretty well:

“Adoption loss is the only trauma in the world where the victims are expected by the whole of society to be grateful.” – Reverend Keith C. Griffith

I would never call myself a ‘victim.’ But I think people hear the word “adoption” and blindly see only the positive aspects. I don’t mean to say that I’m ungrateful for the gift of adoption and the opportunities I’ve been given because of it. I am unbelievably grateful to my parents – they are one of a kind. My mother risked her life travelling to a foreign country by herself to bring home a little orphan baby. Who else would do that? It amazes me everyday and I don’t think I could ever give her enough thanks. My life story is so unique and I am so grateful, but I also grieve for a loss I don’t understand. A part of me is missing – a part of me that I know nothing of. The loss of my birthmother is forever a piece missing from my heart. It’s a lonely feeling being the only person you know of who shares your DNA.

As I get older, my birthday becomes more bittersweet as I know it’s a day that my birthmother, if still alive, probably will never forget. 23 years ago on the day of my birth, these hands touched her for the last time. It hurts my heart to know she is out there somewhere remembering me. I will never know who she is or where she is, but every year on this day I say a prayer that she is well and safe, has found peace with letting me go. It’s an everyday struggle for me, but I know one day I’ll find peace in her decision too.