My Adoption Non-Journey

I considered searching for my birth family after my parents died, but still haven’t done it

photo by Austin Lowman

by Nicola Marriott

My adoption has always been an open secret. A non-secret. I’ve known about it for so long I can’t remember not knowing about it. The rest of the family knew, friends knew, neighbors knew—right from the moment my parents (for ease, from this point on I’m going to talk about the people who raised me as my parents, and my biological parents as either that or my birth parents) realized they were never going to have children naturally, for a plethora of reasons, and started the adoption process.

Because I’ve always known, it was never a “thing.” There was never an issue, never an “oh my God, my whole life has been a lie” moment—which I’ve seen firsthand happen to other people, sending them completely off the rails, making me even more grateful for having been armed with that information for so long. I simply went through life, being brought up by a loving mum and dad, an only child who just happened to be adopted. I’ve always been open about it, happy to talk about it, answer questions. Discussion never upset or hurt me. I don’t know what made my parents decide to be so open about it—in fact, it’s a very brave move when you think about it—but I feel it was the right choice.

Growing up, I was never particularly interested in or intrigued by my birth parents. I never thought about them, never wondered about them, certainly never considered finding them—not even when I was a little older and my mum sat me down for a talk. She presented me with a box of stuff from when I was a baby—and I mean baby, since I was brought home to live with my parents at six weeks old, having been with foster parents since shortly after my birth.

The aging, discolored plastic box contained (and still does, in fact) lots of documentation about my birth, adoption, and visits from social workers, congratulations cards, birthday cards from my first handful of years, and so on. It also contains paperwork about my birth parents and the circumstances of my adoption. I won’t go into full details here, but I’ll just say giving me up for adoption was entirely my parents’ choice. They were adults, older adults, in fact, and had other children both with each other, and other partners. From what I can tell, it was a measured, very conscious decision.

I don’t know what my mum expected, having given me the chance to read and digest all this information, but when she then told me that if I wanted to start the process of getting in touch with my birth parents, she would fully support me, I said I didn’t want to. Having the information was interesting, sure, but it didn’t change my feelings on the subject. The only thing that did pique my curiosity was knowing I had siblings out there. Since I’d never had any, naturally I would occasionally wonder what it was like to have them. But equally, you can’t miss what you never had.

So life went on, much as before. Until, shortly before my eighteenth birthday, my mum passed away after a short illness. It was a horrendous time, but my dad was always the stronger of the pair, so he and I got on with things the best we could, and our relationship actually became much closer as a consequence.

Many years later, at the age of thirty, I was to go through the whole horrific thing again—though this time with a much longer lead-up. Having more time to prepare for the loss of my father didn’t make things any easier, but again, I got on with things as best as I could, which I knew my dad would want, with the support of my partner, family, and friends.

Perhaps unsurprisingly, soon afterward my mental health began to suffer. I started to experience anxiety—sometimes warranted, mostly not—I suspect due to having the safety net that was my wonderful, reliable dad taken from me. I’ve always had wacky dreams, often completely nonsensical ones, but these developed into dreams best described as nostalgic, where my dad was still alive and life was going on as it likely would have done if he’d never passed away.

Months later, after waking from yet another of those dreams, I laid in bed and sobbed my heart out. I missed him an incredible amount already, without these repeated dreams reminding me of what I’d lost. It felt like a form of torture. Then, randomly, when I’d calmed down, I started thinking about finding my birth parents. I discussed it with my partner, who was very understanding and supportive, then didn’t do a single thing about it. The idea popped into my head occasionally, but I didn’t take action—probably because, subconsciously at least, I’d realized my thought process had been a kneejerk reaction to my grief. I hadn’t wanted to contact my birth parents before—why would I start now?

Fast forward to 2020. Well, we all know what happened then. However, amongst all of that chaos, I was experiencing multiple issues with my physical health. A raft of doctors’ appointments (mostly by phone) followed. There were tests, poking, prodding, and questions, one of which was, despite my adoptive status being right there on their records, “Do you have a family history of X, Y, or Z?”

I had to remind them, over and over, that I was adopted, wasn’t in touch with my birth family, and therefore didn’t have the slightest idea of what my family history was in terms of health. Where it hadn’t bothered me before, I was suddenly concerned. The doctors were mostly useless, fobbing me off and passing me from department to department. Meanwhile, I was panicking—not helped by my increasing anxiety—that there was something seriously wrong with me, which could end up being diagnosed too late and mean real trouble. If only I had a family history to go on, something that could potentially point the doctors in the right direction, they might actually get somewhere and be able to help me.

Finally, I was driven to use a search engine, where I found the relevant information and contacted an adoption agency operating in my area. I explained I didn’t want to meet or even get in touch with my birth parents, but rather was just wondering if there was any way of obtaining information on my biological family’s health. The answer, as you’ve probably already guessed, was a resounding no. They could definitely help me in establishing contact, though, so if I changed my mind…

I thanked the lady at the agency for her help, then drew a line under it. At that time, my health was still one of my biggest concerns, and I was determined to get to the bottom of things one way or another—but not by taking that particular step. In a weird, half-hearted attempt at getting answers, I signed up for one of the DNA testing sites when they had a sale. Some of the information it provided me was about health, but nothing that pertained to mine at the time and, several years later, still the “closest” relative I’ve got on there is a second-to-third cousin.

Eventually, after a couple more years, I found myself in possession of some semblance of an answer, my health slowly began to improve, and my mind turned to other issues. You’ve guessed it—that old adoption bad penny turned up again. In periods of low mood (a symptom of the chronic condition I eventually got diagnosed with), I would find myself thinking again about finding my biological family. I began watching TV programs and films, reading books about adoption and families being reunited, my curiosity piqued more and more each time.

I mentioned that I’d been thinking about it to a couple of my cousins, who were surprised but supportive, then my aunt (my dad’s sister), who was shocked and a little emotional. Then…nothing.

Jump to present times, and here I am, thinking about writing this article, and wondering why I’ve been all mouth and no trousers, as us Brits say, about the situation. It’s been on my mind more in the last handful of years than it has during the rest of my life put together, and still I haven’t made a move. Why?

I know there are no guarantees about what will happen. My birth family might not be able to be found, they might not want to meet or know me, we might meet and not get on. They might even have passed away, for all I know. It’s entirely possible, especially concerning my birth parents, who would be in their late seventies by now. With every day of inaction that passes, my chances of finding and/or meeting them decreases. Part of me is okay with that, because as I said before, you can’t miss what you never had.

But as a naturally curious person, part of me is still asking “what if?” I’ve often gone with the “it’s better to regret something you did do, than something you didn’t” maxim when it comes to decision-making, and it generally stands me in good stead.

As you’ve no doubt already gathered, I’ve gone over and over this in my mind. Talked myself into it, talked myself out of it. What I haven’t truly explored, up until now at least, is why I’m vacillating so much. The conclusion I’ve tentatively drawn is this: a bunch of clichés. Better the devil you know. Fear of the unknown. Don’t rock the boat. Fear of abandonment.

The latter, of course, is a common theme among adopted children. It sounds harsh, but in essence, we’ve all been abandoned in some way. Given up, whether by force, circumstance or simple decision-making. Add to that the loss of my parents—a form of abandonment they didn’t choose, but abandonment nonetheless—and it’s little surprise I haven’t yet set myself up for the chance of it happening again. It’s clearly something embedded so deeply in my psyche that I didn’t even know it was there until I started digging around, asking questions, wondering. Constantly wondering. The more I consider it, the more me having a fear of abandonment makes sense. I occasionally even dream about being left behind in places by people I know and love.

But will I ever conquer that fear and finally make the move to contact my birth family? Who knows? All I can say is…watch this space.

Nicola Marriott is a published author living in England who has decided to explore the world of nonfiction in such a way she still retains her (enormously important to her) privacy—and what’s left of her sanity.