My birthday is the saddest day of the year for me. I wake up with my heart aching, mourning the loss of my birth mother and family, grieving I know not a single blood relative. Grief is my body’s way of expressing my love and longing for my birth mother. She is probably crying her eyes out too on this day she relinquished me, never to see me again. Of course I would feel grief this day. It’s the way my love for my birth mother expresses itself and honors her and our connection (or lack thereof).
I also mourn my adoptive mother cutting me off. I spend the day bracing against the swell of grief inside me, putting on a cheerful, strained face as people say, “Happy birthday!” I burst into tears on and off the whole day and berate myself for not feeling happier on my birthday.
I had the brilliant idea for my 50th birthday next year to hold a grief ritual for my birth mother, my ancestors, and my inner child, who cries and cries on my birthday. I will not have to spend the day bracing and pretending to be happy, but will go all in to honor what I lost, to praise my birth mother, to celebrate love. My inner child is doing cartwheels as I write. The adult in me is relaxing and smiling.
The historical fiction book I have been working on for the last 4 years is ultimately a love letter to my birth mother, a love letter to my ancestors, a way to connect on the page since we cannot reunite in person. The collage I made represents my ancestors and novel right now.
I thank you all for bearing witness and for celebrating me and holding me on this most tender day of the year. Lotsa love!