I am trauma.

When my birth mum found out she was pregnant, she hid it. Then, one day, she went into labour at home, and the realisation hit hard. I was born into a family with supposed high values, but my birth mum’s relationship with her parents fell apart. Shunned and young, with no options left, she placed me for adoption.

Growing up, I had all sorts of visions about what my adoption was. I used to dream someone would kidnap me to claim child benefit — obviously, my brain didn’t quite get how impossible that was. I imagined my parents choosing me from a line of pottys, yet I lived with them from a month old, my brain just couldn’t grasp how unlikely that was either.

As a teenager, I felt so different. My adoption was part of that — but so were the schools my parents chose, which didn’t help. I felt like a square peg trying to squeeze into a round hole.

There were so many bumps along the way. I was running from corner to corner, trying to find a place where I fit. My parents were my parents, my real parents and that part felt like a jigsaw — not perfect, but it fit. Love was a big balloon filling the house, even if it wasn’t flawless.

They made mistakes, of course. We laugh now about their silly choices — schools, and other things. But that’s with the benefit of knowing more about our psychological needs. Reflection and connection are so healing.

Being relinquished as a teenager brings so many “brain farts”:

Problem child

Unlovable

Unwanted

Trash

Broken

I’ve always felt different. But there were beautiful parts of that — living abroad, travelling the world, being with my unique and special family.

Still, the darker side is that I’ve been trying to find me my whole life.

I traced my birth mum, and it horrified her. Imagine that. She said she didn’t even know she could be traced. She’d moved to a different country. For years, I felt punched in the gut. We exchanged a few notes, but she blocked any further contact. I felt so unwanted — not just relinquished, but rejected. My parents understood. My dad even said, “Let’s get on a plane and just turn up,” but that wasn’t right — he just wanted me to have answers, to connect.

For a long time, I wanted to say, “Please don’t be sad or sorry you put me up for adoption. I’ve been very loved.”

I finally contacted her sister, who met me. It was the first time I’d seen someone with a DNA match. Sadly, she was very ill, and I couldn’t rejoice in the resemblance — she looked so unwell, and it broke my heart. She passed away shortly after, but I was grateful for her.

I also reached out to her daughter, who tried but ultimately blocked contact — not wanting to upset her mum.

That hurt even more — to think my birth mum was ashamed of me, of her situation, that she hadn’t processed her emotions. That stung. I’m blunt, I talk openly, I don’t hide what I feel — I speak the unspoken.

I wanted to help her heal, to be there for her. In my younger, more naive days, I thought I could fix it, make everything better. But she blocked me.

Then I got angry — why wouldn’t she tell me the full story? My mind raced. Was I a product of something sinister? Rape? Incest? I’d had miscarriages, and my thoughts spiralled into gruesome possibilities.

I’ve been in that whirl ever since — angry, sad, frustrated. Not constantly, but often enough.

Being mum to adopted siblings adds more complexity. They look alike, act alike, sound alike. I love that they can share those things, and I know their stories — I help them process as best I can.

Strangely, I look like my mum, and my children resemble me. But nowhere in my life is there someone who shares some of my DNA.

Being an adopted adopter is so strange. My body rejected babies. My birth mum essentially rejected me.

The inner child in me wants to demand her attention, but then I see her face — the pain, the hurt — and I see myself.

I question everything: rights, ethics, my own curiosity. Why do I need to know? Do I have a right? Should I ask?

Life takes so many turns, doesn’t it. I definitely took some wrong turns, and wonder why, I definitely went out chasing something I never found at times, and found myself trapped by my own choices for a long time, but eventually learnt to sit still and make better ones, with the support from my family, happier ones, safer ones, and ones that are really about me, the real me. But these questions remain unanswered, although I am not sure the questions are written as such.

I have three half-siblings on my mother’s side. Two don’t know about me, and one chooses not to pursue a relationship out of respect for her mother.

I’m nearly fifty. When do I stop? When do I try again?

My logical mind says I should stop — my life is full enough. But my emotional side wants to keep searching — what if my other siblings would want to connect?

I would never block or stop my children from finding their answers. I’d support them, hold their hand as they explore. But I also have a responsibility to keep them safe as children and as adults, and that will take balance — that’s just part of it.

But where does my story end?

Three DNA sites haven’t brought me closer to a paternal side. My birth mum — I rarely call her that, usually her real name — isn’t going to live forever, and it’s unlikely she’ll ever give me the answers I crave.

So, the constant question remains: do my siblings have a right to know, or am I hurting them by sharing my story?

Her story, as I know it, is that her parents shunned her — she was unmarried, not a teenager. I’ve since found out they weren’t kind people; it wasn’t just about morals but about boundaries that caused more pain than love.

It seems my birth mum has her own stories, but I’ll never truly know them.

Being an adopted adopter fuels my passion for truth. Being loved and cherished as a daughter helps me love and cherish mine. Having a positive adoption makes me fight for adoption.

But my questions still linger. I need answers, but I don’t want to cause hurt in the process. I feel like trauma — a firebomb of pain in my brain and heart.

Now, I’ve found love — all encompassing, safe, beautiful — that helps me feel connected and loved, just as my parents and family do.

But being adopted isn’t a journey that ever truly ends. There’s no off switch.

Not for me, anyway.

I am trauma.