Adoptee Story: Alexandra Birrell

I remember the moment I understood that I was chosen only because I had been given away. “I’m adopted,” I parroted, at the age of five on the playground, “that means I’m special!” I beamed. “But where’s your real mummy?” came the response, and the shock felt like it shattered the earth beneath me. I’d never thought of that — where was she?

I have dreamt about my biological mother ever since I can remember. In the first grade, my teacher read us “Are you my mother?” by Dr. Suess. In the book, a hatchling bird loses its mother and walks around asking all the animals it sees, “Are you my mother?” I knew just how that little bird felt — always searching for a familiar face, wondering if my mother would recognise me if she saw me.

Every year when my birthday would roll around, despite being surrounded by people who loved me, I would feel incredibly alone. Little did I know that my mother was feeling the same longing, the same loss, on the same day, thirty minutes away on the other side of town.

As I grew up, I became a warm and loving teen, with family values learned from my grandparents, with sensitivity and depth. I had a big, open and soft heart that made my friends turn to me in times of trouble. I was mature for my age, with an independent spirit. But under the surface, there was deep pain. Normal losses that teenagers go through, such as the endings of relationships or friendships, threw me into despair. I had a deep-seated belief that I was worthy of abandonment — after all, my story was that my own mother had not wanted me. I did not trust anyone in my life. My boundaries were weak; I learned to use my sexuality to gain apparent acceptance from my peers. More than most teens, I was desperately searching for belonging.

As a young adult, after several relationships had gone south due to my deeply embedded trust issues, I was in Barcelona staring at a full moon. I was tired of running, tired of never feeling good enough, tired of not knowing who I was, or where I belonged. For the first time in my life, I looked to the sky and I prayed, “I’m willing to do whatever work it takes, please just help me find what I’m missing.”

My mother had also been deeply reflecting on the other side of the world. She was not happy with her path in life — despite her successful career, she wanted her life to be deeply aligned with her heart and her passion. One stressful day, she walked out of her office in Montreal and stumbled across a statue of a young mother holding a baby. She thought of me. She knew that I had recently turned 18, and believed that I would be reaching out soon. It was a catalyst for quitting her job and starting her own business that centred around her faith, which was a cornerstone of her life that supported her in all of our years apart.

I thought of my mother constantly and knew that I was ready to meet her, but I was paralysed by fear. I felt connected to my adoptive parents; they were the only family I had ever known. I had a lifetime of beautiful family memories with them. They were the ones who had raised me and were there for me. They were, and still are, my mum and dad — I felt this deeply and completely. But my feelings about adoption were not something that we discussed openly.

My feelings, kept secret for so long, became more and more toxic as the years went by. I tried to push them down, but an obesity of grief sat on my chest, day in and day out. Finally, my partner told my parents what was going on. They understood, and immediately sent me my adoption files with all of the information I needed to find my mother. I sent them to a group who specialised in tracking down biological families. Just two days later, I received the LinkedIn profile of a young woman, and was told she was my biological aunt. I had no idea if she even knew that I had been born.

At 25 years old, with shock and disbelief, I typed out the strangest, most deliberately vague message I have ever sent:

“Hello, I am looking for your sister Kellie. She knew me back in the early 90’s in Scarborough, Ontario. We haven’t seen each other for a very long time. In fact, one could say, a lifetime.

She may know me as Maria.”