Tag: letter to birthmother

To My Amma On Birthmother’s Day

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I just learned about this day a few years ago, and how ironic that it comes the day before Mother’s Day. But it gives me the space to remember you and honor you and all that you were to me and grieve what I lost when we we were separated.

When I saw a medium several years ago I was told you were my spirit guide and I’ve felt you more today than I have in a long time. I got the chance to speak to some like-minded Indian adoptees and when I say it was soul food—literally what I needed as this painful weekend comes up.

I look for you everyday in all that I am and in all I do — in my curly hair, in my dimples, when I wash my face, when I’m laughing. I look for traces of you and wonder what remains. I scour through photos of myself and stare in the mirror hoping to think of some kind of resemblance to a woman whose face I’ve never known.

This is adoption. These are the unknowns. These are the thoughts that consume me this Birthmother’s Day and Mother’s Day weekend. I will forever wonder if thoughts of me consume your mind as well, but no matter what I hold this day in my heart to honor the woman who breathed life into me.

Somewhere halfway around the world, we are turning 26.

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This was written last week on a particularly emotional and difficult evening. Every year as my birthday gets closer and closer, a heaviness comes over me—a heaviness that only adoptees seem to understand.

Aai, I went through my wedding photos today. I looked for you in every single one. I searched my face for features that might have resembled yours. Some moments I feel my heart can’t handle the agony of knowing you will never see me in my bridal saree. Other moments I am comforted because I felt your presence all around me every moment that day. I felt like a true indian bride and I longed to see what you looked like on your wedding day. Maybe we looked the same. I ache for you.

So many milestones you’ve missed, and I have missed many of yours. There will always be one we share. 26 years ago I was still a part of you. You were my first home. We only had a week left to be together. I so wish I knew your thoughts during those last few weeks and days. I can only hope you were not alone.

We are turning 26, and each year that passes adds more and more distance between us but I will never give up on trying to find you. You are forever in my heart, my aai. Please don’t forget me.

pranali

It Might Have Been A Sunday

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January 9, 1994.

My paperwork throws this date around on almost every page. They tell me this is the day they think I was born. It’s also the day they think was our last together.

Is this the day? The last day my hands touched you? The last day I heard your voice? The last day I knew your smell?

I wonder if it affects you as it affects me. The trauma that occurred on this day 24 years ago changed the course of my life and walks with me every single moment. On this day I became a tree without any roots. I can’t help but wonder if it affects you. Do you yearn for me the way I yearn for you? I have this word tattooed on my forearm: “hiraeth.” It is a welsh word with no direct English translation, but a loose translation describes hiraeth as, “The nostalgia, the yearning, the grief for the lost people and places of your past.” This perfectly describes how I feel about you, mainly on my birthday. GRIEF. I grieve for your loss and for mine. We are forever intertwined, you and I, although we may never know one another face to face.

This evening, I channeled my inner Desi and danced to my favorite Bhangra playlist as I did the dishes. I kept feeling the bindi between my eyes, making sure it was still there. I tried my very hardest not to cry while I was missing you so very fiercely. I wondered how we would be celebrating my birthday if I’d stayed in my homeland all this time. As kids we used to celebrate our birthdays the evening prior because India was a day ahead. So now, every year on my birthday eve, I wonder where you are and what you are doing and if you’re thinking of me. I wear this bindi because it connects me to you. It connects me to my roots. It connects me to my people, my culture. Our culture. As silly as it looks in my sweatpants and T-shirt, this bindi and my Bhangra take me back to you on this anniversary of our last day together.

It might have been a Sunday.

January 9, 1994.

A very odd day. I wonder what it was like for you and who was with you. I was too small to be full-term—I wonder if you were alone and scared and abandoned me because of this. I’ll never know. I think a piece of me wishes that you regret leaving me alone on my first day of life, but I can’t even imagine the weight of that burden. So I truly hope that you’ve found peace and I hope you know happiness today. I hope you have the support and love of community you might not have had back then.

Maybe someday I will find you. For now, you remain in my heavy heart on this 24th anniversary of my last day with roots.

To my birthmom on Christmas

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And so the Christmas holiday comes to an end, which means my (approximate) day of birth soon follows. Another year separates me from you. Since I was a child I have written letters to a woman who is so much a part of me but who I have never known.

It is not an exaggeration when I say that not a day goes by where I’m not reminded of you or I don’t think about you. I wonder if you think about me around this time of year. I wonder if my hands are beginning to look like yours did 24 years ago. I wonder if I got them from you, or if I got my funny earlobes from you. Or maybe I got my monkey feet from you. It’s an overwhelming and painful reality that I’ll never know.

I don’t know where you are this holiday or if you even celebrate, but you are a part of me and so I think of you today, wondering if you think of me also. Merry Christmas, mom. You are with me always.

Letter to my birthmother

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When I was young, I used to write letters to my birthmother on my birthday and on Mothers Day. Over the years I’ve lost some of them, but I wrote this one last year after receiving an email from my adoption agency letting me know that a search for my birthmother would not be possible. The heartache that ensued will never go away, and writing this letter helped me to process that hurt.

 

Dear mom,

I’m not really sure what to say. I used to write to you all the time as a kid. Back when the thought of you was exciting and mysterious, as if you were a puzzle I was going to figure out and solve. Now, the thought of you is just plain heartbreaking. Just a far off dream. The email from Holt telling me that there was no chance of ever finding you felt like the last door of any kind of hope slamming in my face. I used to dream of someday meeting you. Not knowing was so much easier. It gave me a sliver of hope – that maybe the police missed something, some piece of information and there’s something or someone out there who knows about you and could lead me to you. Ignorance made me feel better. But now that I know, the mystery is gone. There’s no puzzle, and there will be no solving or discovering.

Every ounce of my being wonders why. What would’ve become of me had you not given me up? Would it really be so bad? I try to convince myself that it’s better off this way. But I can’t help but wonder. What kind of family would we be? Would people tell me I look like you? My father? Whose eyes do I have? And whose smile? People always comment on my smile and strangers have asked if I get it from my mother. It saddens me that I’ll never know.

I’m sad you’ll never know my adoptive mother. If only I could tell you all the adventures she and I had when she came to get me from my orphanage in Pune. You would think this American lady is crazy. And she is! Who else would fly across the world just to bring home a little orphan baby? She is so strong. And she gives great advice. We’ve had our share of ups and downs, but I don’t think there was ever a time where she gave up on me. Thank you for giving her the chance to be my mom. She poured her whole heart and soul into it. 

I’m sad you’ll never know the love of my life. I met so many bad ones along the way, but they led me to him. He’s wonderful. He makes me smile and laugh like no one else can, and he is the best part of every single day. I wish you would have had the chance to meet him…I know you would love him.

The last time you saw me, you changed my life forever. I like to think that maybe you were saving me. India does not always love its daughters the way it should, and I choose to believe that’s the reason we were separated. So, mama, thank you. It was very brave of you to carry me for so long and then give me up. I don’t think I would have that kind of strength in me to do the same. 

I’m very happy. My life here in America has been so good to me. I hope to spend some of my life back in India, helping other orphans like me who have a whole life of wonder and opportunity ahead of them. Maybe I can help them find it. I still have so much life ahead of me, in part thanks to you. My prayer is that you’ve found peace in letting me go. I pray you’ve found happiness. You gave me life, and I’m going to do the best that I can with it for you. 

-Your baby girl, Pranali ♥