Mothers – Who Wins?

When you’re adopted, you have two mothers: your biological mother and your adoptive mother. One loses a child. One gains one. There’s an imbalance—a tilt toward a “winning” side. And like anything in life, that comes with its own pluses and minuses.

But who’s the winner?

That depends entirely on perspective. Let that question take you on your journey as an adopted person.

As for me? I don’t know who won of the two. My adoptive mum would probably say she did—just to be spiteful. But what exactly did she win? A reprieve from a crumbling marriage? That’s what it looked like from where I stood.

My birth mother? Maybe her win was finally seeing what her family was made of. Perhaps it was the push she needed to get the hell out. Because it certainly wasn't supportive or an affirming word. All she got was "don't bring that child home with you!"

Doesn't there always have to be a winner or it's not a contest? Everyone lost something. A child. A sense of identity. Dignity. Reputation. Family. And who compensates for those losses? The government that enforced those archaic “norms”? No. We got a sorry—fourteen years ago. Hollow. Perfunctory. A placating slap in the face. And we all wore it.

When it comes to love—those two women I called “mother”—I loved my adoptive mum. She raised me. She was the woman whose approval I chased for far too long. I admired her for so many things. But those good things were too often drowned out by the damage she could do.

When I was young, she broke me. As I got older and stronger, she pushed harder. Until I finally pushed back. The inevitable worm had turned. I’d grown sharper, wiser. But it took time.

I don’t love my birth mother. Not in that automatic way people expect. That bond—the one that’s supposed to be instant, primal, untouchable—it was taken from us. And by the time we saw each other again, twenty-two years had passed. That kind of love needs nurturing, listening, and forgiveness. We didn’t get that. It never grew.

It was a wrong turn from the start. Things were never talked through. The truths that needed to be said never echoed in a room or even whispered.

And here’s the kicker—and this is the web I’ve tangled myself in over the years:

Both women shaped who I became. One through biology, one through nurture. So again—who wins?

The truth? Neither of them did. They were neck and neck—neither ahead, neither behind. Separate journeys. Parallel tracks.

It turns out that I am the winner! .Because from all that chaos—biology, silence, pain, resilience—I became a hell of a human being. One with a depth of feeling many people never get to know.

A lot of adopted people carry anger their whole lives. It clings to them, and it hurts. We can’t judge that. Every story is different, and every story leaves its mark.

I’ve had an exceptional life. Not always a happy one—but that was me. That was me making choices about my own happiness. It had nothing to do with either of the women who came before.