Story Sharers

Five years ago, I stood in a room and I could not stop crying.  

I’d just watched a slide show set to appropriately inspirational music of families and they were ALL like mine.  The faces were, of course, different, but the familiarity of their mismatched eyes and multi-skin tones and long-awaited (or still waiting) smiles resonated to a point that I could not pull myself together. 

When I entered adoptive parenting I figured that with baby in tow, I would slip into an immediate connection with my other mom friends that just sort of reflected a “took me much longer and it was painful and hard, but now we’re on level playing fields so carry on as usual” kind of attitude.  And I did connect in a lot of ways.  Except that my narrative to motherhood never quite meshed.  When other moms shared their labor stories or their pregnancy woes or their frustrations with breastfeeding, I listened because let’s be honest…these can make for some really interesting stories.  But somehow these stories also made me feel like a little bit less of a mom.  I didn’t birth my children.  I didn’t feel them swim around in my belly and kick me in my sleep.    I don’t know how to explain it really except that I only felt like a 95% mom and those around me were 100% moms.

So that room, where I couldn’t stop crying is where I realized that I needed someone else’s story to be like mine.  That may not sound that significant, but for this self-sufficient introvert it felt like a slow exhale released after being held in for a long time.  In that room, I was “one of” instead of “the only one.”  It felt like belonging.

I knew that when my heart ached for children without families, these lady’s hearts were moved by the same ache.  I knew that when I prayed and waited for a fridge picture to turn into a toddling daughter in my kitchen, these ladies didn’t need me to explain the connection I felt to a photo.  I knew that when I struggled with the emptiness my birthmoms lived with, these women also carried their birth families around in their minds with a heaviness, too.    When I got on an airplane feeling a little bit TERRIFIED, they could relate to the second-guessing excitement and happy nerves.   When I talk about my kids living through trauma, loss and rejection, they know how that shows up and what it sounds like and looks like.

I connected in that room.  These were my people.  I fit there.  I was 100% legit.  And that all bubbled up just from the slide show.  So might you imagine where my heart went from there as we shared meals, laughed late into the night, prayed and listened  and worshiped in tandem, and filled up our minds listening and thinking, “Oh…so that!”.

Since they’ve come into my life, my adoptive mom friends have become life-giving friends.  We close down restaurants together or we can hang out at a pool without having to explain why there’s a swim cap protecting an afro.  We plan big things together.  We can talk fungal infections like it’s nobody’s business.  When their eyes prick with tears, I can feel mine getting a little watery.  When I share hurtful things people have said, they’re willing to beat them up or just be hurt with me.  

Maybe now is also a good time to say that these women are clearly not my only people.  My mom brings sanity to our family with her constant helpfulness and childcare assistance.  My dad can write an encouraging word at just the right time.  My siblings love on my kids and have prayed earnestly on behalf of our family.  Our church peeps encouraged us, welcomed us and celebrated us.  My relationships with non-adoptive moms are equally important and needed.  My village is multi-faceted and full of important players.  They, too, are who I want to do life with and connect with.  Hugs all around!  Air kisses for everyone!

I just didn’t know how much I also needed my story sharers.  I could go about my days without them, but I’d just as well enjoy their company for years to come as our kids get older and the need for connection continues and maybe even grows.   Adolescence is coming for crying out loud.

But there’s this other side of connecting, too, in that I am a story sharer for someone else.   That’s what I want to be because deep down, we all want to feel validated and like we aren’t the only one.  That’s why I write slightly personal things.   That’s why I share about our family when I’d rather not be standing in front of a crowd forgetting normal breathing patterns.  (That has maybe happened.)  And that’s why I’m stepping out into unknowns and laying in bed, wide-eyed in the wee hours of the morning as I think about a little get together for my groupies.  I’m praying that God will stir some (<- 200+) hearts into thinking:

Maybe this will be good.  

Maybe I need this.  

Maybe I will be understood.

Maybe I will belong.

Maybe I just need some time to exhale this big breath I’ve been sucking in forever now. 

Maybe I need some story sharers in my life.


For more information on our upcoming adoptive mom retreat, please visit www.wovenbylove.org.