Born into a bubble of love?

Does the emotional environment around a child’s birth matter? 

I woke up today thinking about childbirth. I couldn’t remember if I cried when my children were born. I do know that my first child was placed in my arms after a minute or two and my second came to me immediately. This second birth was my “good birth”. The room was full of love, joy and even laughter. My face was serene and my smile was wide. There was a celebratory feeling in the room and even some laughter – such a great reliever of tension. 

We’d planned for this second birth to be as calm as possible because the birth of our first child had been stressful. This made me wonder about the experience my birth mother had, and how it may have affected me as a newborn and beyond. 

Pregnant in the late 1970s, society’s judgement of unmarried mothers at that time would certainly have had an impact on her treatment during antenatal checks and at my birth. In fact, she has told me herself that many medical professionals were dismissive, rude and even negligent. This is a horrible experience for a petrified young woman, and I am sure the baby (i.e. me) would have picked up on the sadness and shame in the room. 

This got me thinking about one possible difference between traditional and contemporary adoption. For children adopted today, with the trauma they carry and the challenges they face, many* will have one thing we older adoptees didn’t have: a happy birth. Although there was perhaps a chaotic environment at home or much deeper problems that would become apparent in months to come, to be born into a bubble of love and placed straight into your mother’s arms? That’s something that no one can ever take away from you.  

 *Not all, of course. 

If you are interested in the themes of this blog post, I recommend reading more about

• attachment theory

• the treatment of unmarried mothers

• how trauma is thought to stored in the body 

Anne Heffron is also a great person to follow on Instagram as she talks a lot about how the initial “welcome” into the world may have affected her as an adoptee. 

Photo by Aditya Romansa on Unsplash

I am not your shame

I'm 37 years old. Last night I was given up for adoption. Again.

I felt alone and frightened, just as that baby was. My nervous system went into overdrive, just as that tiny baby's did.

And the shame. Searing shame overtaken by anger and resignation, but still that lingering shame. It's always there.

Then something else, something new. A feeling of freedom. I felt almost giddy. I don't have to put myself through this anymore. I am worth so much more. I am worth a full page announcement in The Times. I will not be hidden. I will not hide.

One thing I didn't feel was surprise. As an adoptee I'm atuned to rejection in its many forms. You may not have seen it that way. Perhaps to you it was merely an error of admission; a failure to introduce me in a busy room; not the right time, the right place, the right circumstance. In that instant I saw that baby crying and crying and crying as backs turned and footsteps echoed away.

Adoption took my first family, my grandparents, my family tree, my genetic history, my heritage and my bloodline. Enough is enough. Adoption will not take my dignity. You will not take my dignity.

I am not your shame. I have nothing to be ashamed of. I have done nothing to be ashamed of. Except to keep quiet while you humiliated me to cover your own back.

I will not be your secret any longer. I refuse to be complicit in your compartmentalisation.

I know now that you shame me to protect yourself from being shamed by others. You are still protecting yourself as you did when you walked away from that rapidly swelling belly almost 40 years ago.

I need you to know that I am not "Lucy", I'm your daughter. The one you gave away. The one you've been building a relationship with for eleven years. 

I will not come to your funeral as "Lucy". It's time to speak up. If you want your secret to die with you, consider me already dead.

*Name changed.