The other side of the story – National Adoption Month

After reading an article on National Adoption Month, I wrote the following poem. The author of the article blames adoption for her issues. I remember as a young child praying each night that either my ‘real’ mother appear as ‘the mother’ hated me so and couldn’t actually be my mother or that my father would find someone kind who would have us both. After my unanswered prayers, I would cry myself to sleep.

My steps took me to university where I majored in Psychology obtaining my Master’s Degree and as a single parent then began working at a private therapy clinic and with Child Protection.

I do acknowledge the woman’s pain. However, she appears to have other issues and is so focused on ‘being adopted’ she cannot put a foot forward. I’ve been the kid that should have been surrendered for adoption. I’ve also worked with both sides both as a private therapist and in Child Protection. I know how bad the system is and often the kids end up with relatives who are not far from the parent/s they were removed from and/or do not protect them from said parent/s. 
When I was about four, I began going to the next door neighbors home to help with her clients. Mrs. Jones was a speech therapist for the Crippled Children’s Society. There were often children sitting in her living room waiting to be seen or siblings that needed to be distracted while they waited. Helping with these children and being an early reader helped me to focus outside a situation that was out of my control.

The poem below is offered to all those parents who put the child first and to all those children adopted or not who are survivors of some of life’s harshest realities. This piece is also for those brave individuals who step forward and make a difference in the life of these children.  In the end, it is all about love. Some never have been on the receiving end and don’t have love to give. Some have love in abundance. My sincere wish that all would find peace. I know from personal experience that my peace came from learning, understanding and perhaps most of all, reaching out to others who were or are still in pain.


“Biology is the least of what makes someone a mother.” – Oprah Winfrey


The other side of the story


Yes! I’ve no doubt

How painful it must be

Finding out your mother

Didn’t want, didn’t keep


Always knowing that she

Didn’t want you

Couldn’t keep you

Left you to the care

Of others

Whoever they may be

Searching crowds

For genetic similarities

Are they a part of me?

Where do I belong?

That eternal search

For home, acceptance,

Unconditional love


From my earliest memories

I would pray that my “real”

Mother would find me

I must have been put

Here by mistake

Yet her proof – horrific

Caesarean scar – my crime

Fragmentizing for a girl of three

Prayers for my father to

Find someone else who

Would be kind to us both

Hatred by – the mother

The word ‘mother’ still

Makes me queasy


Target for her rage

Making sure bruises didn’t show

Sold off to the grandma’s

Boyfriend – deacon of the church

For him to scatter his holy seeds

And cleanse my wickedness

Father unable to defend him self

Becoming his defender

Deflecting her rage onto myself

Believing he wouldn’t survive

And I would be alone, yet

I was always on my own

Never a kind word, nor

Gentle touch


I tell my story not for pity

Now at last I’m free

If you were adopted

Perhaps that mother

You search for

Spared you from my fate

And others who suffered more

Knowing she was not able

Perhaps the choice was not hers?

If you were treated kindly

You’ve much to be grateful for

Try forgiving – we never forget

It is on the road to healing

Then reach out to

Those who still suffer

Taking the focus off ourselves

Catharsis for healing




Author: Léa

A wanderer who has found home and herself in the South of France.

15 thoughts on “The other side of the story – National Adoption Month”

  1. My spirit is of pensive mould
    By Gerald Griffin 1885

    My spirit is of pensive mould
    I cannot laugh as once of old,
    When sporting o’er some woodland scene,
    A child I trod the dewy green.

    I cannot sing my merry lay
    As in that past unconscious day,
    For time has laid existence bare
    And shown me sorrow lurking there.

    I would I were the lonely breeze
    That mourns among the leafless trees,
    That I might sigh from morn till night
    O’er vanished peace and lost delight.

    I would I were the heavy show’r
    That falls in spring on leaf and bow’r,
    That I might weep the live long day
    For erring man and hope’s decay.

    For all the woe beneath the sun,
    For all the wrong to virtue done,
    For every soul to falsehood gained,
    For every heart by evil stain’d.

    For man by man in durance held,
    For early dreams of joy dispell’d,
    For all the hope the world awakes
    In youthful hearts and after breaks.

    But still though hate and fraud and strife,
    Have stain’d the shining web of life,
    Sweet hope the glowing woof renews,
    In all it’s old enchanting hues.

    Flow on, flow on, thou shining stream!
    Beyond life’s dark and changeful dream,
    There is a hope, there is a joy,
    This faithless world can ne’er destroy.

    Sigh on, sigh on, ye gentle winds!
    For stainless hearts and faithful minds,
    There is a bliss abiding true,
    That shall not pass and die like you.

    Shine on, shine on, thou glorious sun!
    When day his latest course has run,
    On sinless hearts shall rise a light
    That ne’er shall set in gloomy night.

  2. The word “mother” will always. be problematic for me too…and I cringe at the assumption that motherhood is sacrosanct. But, as you say, finding a way “out of ourselves”—as in the arts, for example—is the ticket to a certain kind of peace….Thanks, Lea

    1. Thank you Cynthia. I was always taught I “couldn’t do anything” and so creative endeavours were not something I tried for a very long time. There had to be some healing first. I didn’t know how healing creativity could be. For me it was helping those that needed help and there were always some around. Thanks!

  3. i think it is tough to find out about adoption – even more when the foster mother doesn’t deserve to be called a mother… i had more problems with my dad – even though he was my physical dad – but then he had his own loads of problems…

    1. Thank you Polly, your support means so much. I couldn’t stay silent. Silence is what the abusers thrive on. As for the system, it is so dysfunctional.

  4. Very, very moving Lea.

    It is all so alien to me; I had wonderful parents who loved me dearly and I couldn’t have asked any more of them. My memories are only cosy ones; I feel truly blessed. xxx

  5. Thank you so much Christine. I’m sorry you felt you had to read it all. However, when I read the article, my hands just flew over the keyboard.

    I’m glad you had such wonderful parents. You were indeed very fortunate. Unfortunately, there are too many of us out there and some are still suffering or lost. Also, many are just now going through the darkness. xxx

  6. Lea this touched my heart thinking of all the trauma you went through as a child. You are an amazing woman and your poem is beautiful. The decision to give up a child because you are unable to care for it due to mental health or other circumstances, Is one of the most unselfish acts someone can make.

    1. When I was very small, I prayed every night that my ‘real’ mother would come for me. I didn’t believe that ‘the mother’ was my real mother or how could she hate me so? It took time, study and much more to get where I am. I eventually realised that she too was a victim. However, as victims, there is a choice to make. I made mine very early. Thank you so much for your support. Yes, I do believe that it takes putting the child first to give them up. My work in the system also backs that theory.

      1. Being so young and ignorant, I couldn’t comprehend such hatred from a biological parent… I couldn’t understand how damaged she was. Nearing the end now, all she has left is the ‘perfect’ daughter (also a victim) who is demanding her pound of flesh. All I feel now is pity. Despite what has happened, I have my life and I am happy.

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