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(Like someone else I know. Ahem.)

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I think (hope) by now you know how I feel about you. I learn from you, I admire you, I have been happy for you, I have been sad for you. No matter the fact we’ve yet to meet in person, I’ve been reading for years and although I’d like to think I’d thought about everything (ha!) when we adopted Maeve, I know I had so much to learn. Not only do I continue to learn from you, I continue to laugh with you and continue to cry with you as well. Being a small part of your journey (voyeuristically, of course) while simultaneously traveling mine as an adoptive mom in an adoption I naively believed would be as open as open could be, I continue to struggle with my own tears of terrible, and sometimes soul-sucking, sadness for the loss my daughter has experienced and continues to experience because of broken contact despite seemingly every effort possible on our end.

Oh, gah. I don’t think I’m making any sense here so I’ll just try to find my point. Once again, you managed, from the privacy of your own personal writings later shared here, to reach into the depths of me and leave an impression so raw, so real, that I had to catch my breath from what I think is the shock of how some simple words with the simplest of meanings, could literally cause me to gasp and immediately weep. I could say it’s perhaps the state I must be in as the holidays are here and we’re nowhere closer to ensuring now for Maeve what I thought we had long ago secured when she was born. Perhaps that’s part of it. But it’s more than that. Your simplest words — “I did not know, however, that it was her going away party” and “It was the last day that I was ever her only mother. It was the last day that she was truly mine” have sent me into an emotional tizzy over here and frankly I’m hoping no one comes in here and catches me like this.

My heart hurts for you and your loss. Yet, despite your pain, I somehow revel in the blessing Munchkin has — the blessing you are to her, for having stuck it out, for being there, no matter how hard it might be sometimes.

Once again, I’m in awe. May the bitterness and the sweetness somehow mesh this weekend in a way that is not too difficult for you.

Again, Jenna, thank you.

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I hope and pray that you will be comforted on this very difficult weekend.

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Powerful statement: “There is always hope. Always.”

Sending {{{HEALING HUGS}}}

Corrine

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As I told Nate once when he was feeling sad about his birthmother, sometimes things are just sad and as much as we try, we just can’t make them happy. We have to let them be sad. But then you know that.

So many of us are here witnessing your journey with you, and while we can’t do it for you or take away the pain for you, we are witnessing it. It’s a gift that you’ve given us. I hope our witness is a small gift that we can give back.

With love,
Judy

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You are in my prayers.

Thank you.

Rachel

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I’m not a real emotional person – but as I sit here at work today, I am crying my eyes out. You’ve got such an amazing way with words and you share them so beautifully.

Thank you for opening your heart to others. People need to see this real side of first parent emotion. The reality. Thanks for having (and being able to have) a voice. Especially for those of us who are unable to have one.

Brandy

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