Hey, fellow adoptee.
My name is Laura Beavers, and I am so happy you are here.
I have spent the past thirty years navigating my adoption reunion. I have made mistakes, had personal victories, and after enough self-sabotage, decided to do something about it. Welcome in.
My mission is to help fellow adoptees overcome the obstacles that keep them from living the lives they desire, thus bringing more adoptees into positive, healing spaces.Adopted in 1968 in Houston, TX, two weeks after birth, it was a closed adoption through Homes of St. Mark.
I always knew I was adopted and credit my parents for telling me at an early age. I am an only child without any cousins; I am literally the only young person in my family. I always wanted a brother, sister, cousin, or any family member around my age. Instead, God gave me Kendall, my best friend since birth. She was born two days before me at the same hospital. Before I was placed, my parents came up to the hospital to visit another couple who just had a baby boy. Kendall, Joey, and I were all in the same nursery. I was the baby under a jaundice lamp, and several days later, my parents received a call saying they could come to pick me up. We have spent many holidays with those two families, plus a few others. They were and still are my extended family. These are just a few examples of my understanding of family and belonging outside of blood.
“Knowing where you come from can provide a sense of belonging, continuity, and self-awareness. It’s a fundamental part of understanding and embracing the entirety of your unique story.”
For me, I became more aware of genetic mirroring in my teen years when looks and bodies were changing rapidly. I had the same basic coloring as my parents, so it was not ever obvious I was adopted. I always noticed that my body type differed from other girls I knew. I had several nicknames resulting from a short torso and long legs: frog, flamingo, Kermit, to name a few. Where did this come from? I was starting to get more and more curious about where I could have come from.
In college, I had the chance to explore adoption more closely and research what it meant in others’ lives through a class called Openness in Adoption. It was a total eye-opener. It felt akin to Dorothy waking up in Oz, discovering this unfamiliar “other-world” that was foreign but fascinating and alluring. After hearing real-life birthmothers’ stories, I knew I wanted to reach out to this stranger who brought me into this world and tell her, “Thank you.” After listening to hundreds of stories, I appreciated the sacrifices it took for most of them to give their babies life. Most of the time, their families or circumstances left them no choice. These women were made to feel it was their “penance,” and any needs or feelings went unheard and unseen. Undoubtedly, it was a painful time, and they were instructed to move on with their lives. So later, when their grown babies came looking for them, I can see how the reactions could be varying and different. This is not textbook, unfortunately. And I was naive enough to go forward full steam ahead because that’s how strong the pull was. Discovering the truth, even if it is not pleasant, was worth the risk of how it would feel to keep silent.
I reached out through the adoption agency and heard back from them quickly that she had always hoped I would be in touch. I loved the nickname they gave her at the adoption agency because of the delicious cornbread she brought to their potlucks. Cooking was a big part of my upbringing. We started getting to know each other by writing letters through the adoption agency and then directly. We were definitely in the “honeymoon phase”. I learned that she was twenty-two years old when she gave birth to me, I was twenty-two when I reached out to her, and I was born on the 22nd. I met her for the first time on a layover at the Atlanta airport. I thought she was beautiful, and we got along so well. She had never had any other children and had never been married. Our relationship was still a secret. My parents did not know. I had once told my parents I wanted to reach out to my birth mother to tell her thank you, but that did not go over so well. My dad told me privately I could do what I wanted but not to tell my mother because it hurt her too much. I was a wreck. I tried therapy, but the psychologist was a family friend, and he didn’t get it. No one got it. But I put on my happy face and did the best I could to just act normal and keep the peace.
“Adoption represents a breakdown in the relationship between parent and child, whether it’s the biological parent who gives up the child or the adoptive parent who’s unable to fully connect with the child due to their own trauma.”
The small world and coincidences around my adoption started in the hospital with my friends, but they didn’t stop there. I found out later that my birth mother had been placed to live with a family in Houston during her 3rd trimester. When she stayed with them on her visits to Houston, I immediately recognized the home and the homeowner when I walked in. They were friend with my parents, and I had gone to school with their kids. This realization shocked everyone and made me realize I needed to pull the bandaid off and tell my parents so they wouldn’t find out through the grapevine.
For years, I was torn between the excitement of forging a relationship with my birth mother and feeling the almost debilitating guilt of hurting my adoptive mother (who I call my mother). Desperate for peace, I insisted that my parents meet my birthmother. I felt meeting face-to-face would ease everybody’s angst. They would see the humanness in each other. They met. It went well. But things were still not well.
My mother has never opened up to me about her journey with adoption and what she has been through. She is very private. Maybe that is why I am so open. I hope I get the chance to find out from her someday.
As I got married and started a family, the tension I felt in wanting to keep both my mother, my birth mother, and now my husband happy was always there. My husband played gatekeeper and installed boundaries to protect my mother. I didn’t talk to him about it because I didn’t know how. I was scared of upsetting everyone. So, I drank more to numb the feelings and keep a smile on my face. Then, my three-year-old son was diagnosed with Juvenile Rheumatoid Arthritis. And I wanted the other half of my medical information.
“The pain of being ignored is not just about rejection, but about feeling unseen and unworthy of love.”
I was told that my birth father never acknowledged the pregnancy or that I was his. I felt pretty sure he would not be excited about me showing up now. I was scared to death that I would cause him harm and be rejected or, worse, hated.
My birth mother put me in touch with a mutual friend of theirs who grew up in the same town as my birth father. He was also a lawyer, so perhaps he could guide me. He helped me piece together information from my bio grandparents’ obituaries. And then I saw it. In the obituary. My birth father’s sister. I know her and her children. I like them. We are part of the same extended friend group and social circle. I was elated, but…
To avoid rocking any boats, I kept it tucked inside for six years while running into the family everywhere. I had also finally gathered up the courage to reach out to my birth father for medical information, and he wrote me back. The closed door was cracked just enough that I wanted to bust it wide open. I wanted him to accept me. I wanted his family to accept this relationship. I wanted it all.
The rest of this page coming soon.