“We don’t have to wait for the world to change for us.” —Pam Cordano

“You can’t always get what you want, but if you try sometime, you’ll find you get what you need.” —The Rolling Stones

I deeply wanted my reunion to be something that it has not been. I needed my reunion to be something that it has not been—and I fought that reunion reality—hard.  

It must be my fault that my birth mother does not want to meet me. My first tool of battle to beat back my reunion reality was self-blame. I thought about what I could do, or should not do, to “be better,” straining to read the tea leaves, to examine each interaction and text. The secret code must be in there somewhere. Like using a bellow on a fire, I must gently blow enough air to keep the small fire burning, but not too much air to snuff it out. Self-blame provided me a much-needed illusion of control to stave off the steady waves of panic about my reunion reality. If only I could get the balance just right, then my birth mother would embrace me. Try as I might, I could not change my reality and I learned that self-blame was not a good weapon to beat back reunion reality, but, rather, was a vicious weapon to defeat myself.

It is just a matter of time until my birth mother gets to a place where she wants to meet me and give me a big hug. So, I picked up another weapon: hope—outsized hope, I tell myself, as thoughts of our separation fight for space in my workday. In time, she will certainly come to realize how primal our connection is and what an opportunity we have to reunite—mother and daughter—five decades later in a rush of deep caring and love. Surely, she will change in time and see how meaningful this reconnection could be—will be. But she has not changed—not in many years. No change—no hint of change, and I am bone-weary of waiting for hope to bridge the gap between what is, and what I hoped and needed reunion to be.  

What am I to do now? I’m tired of longing and weary of the wait.

It is hard to thrive when my open heart is met with her impenetrable emotional walls. I feel a sadness mixed with hurt, a missing mixed with urgency. I need to change myself. I must thrive, not merely survive.

So, what do I need to change? The answer came slowly, lessons learned through many missed connections and my gentle requests to meet denied, or even more painfully, avoided. I need to accept that my birth mother feels differently than I do, behaves differently than I would, and likely does not want the relationship that I crave. Ultimately, I have to accept that I care deeply and that she probably doesn’t care as much. I feel a warm flash of shame that my deep caring is not reciprocated.

“Stop going to the hardware store for milk.” After reading and rereading a blog with this quote, I realized I must get my needs met elsewhere—by others—in a different time and place. I had spent many years now going down the tool and paint aisles searching for milk. They do not sell milk at the hardware store. I cannot will a hammer into a bottle of milk. Shame passes as my acceptance grows.  

Acceptance means finding validation elsewhere, not trying as hard. I could no longer wait for my adoption world to change for me. I wanted to keep my heart open and again experience this beautiful world without the cloudy lens of adoptee pain. To change myself was the only option left. I did not get what I wanted—but I did get what I needed.

I needed to learn and practice acceptance. I needed to stop trying so hard in many more areas of my life. When I look back over the past few years, I see that my change has been transformational—my emotions are now deeper, richer, and exist on a much broader continuum than they did a few years ago. Bigger highs and more painful lows. But my capacity to absorb the lows and other disappointments in life has vastly expanded. Because if you can survive the reunion reality that your birth mother does not want to meet you, and can change to live with that reality, you can trust yourself to accept what life has to offer and to thrive your way through it.