In 1986, I doubt that it was easy or “normal” for a one-armed, white gay man to adopt a black newborn baby, but they made it work.
My mother lived a chaotic lifestyle, and when she became pregnant with me, she arrived at a profound realization: motherhood wasn’t a burden that she wanted to carry again. With another child already brought into this world without a clear plan for his future, adoption became an inescapable destiny for me.
I was given away to a charming stranger whom my mother met behind a bar, a man who vowed to provide me with a good life and a promising future. All things considered, I turned out alright, but I can't help but find the whole situation rather bizarre, especially given the context of the '80s.
I didn’t meet my mother until I reached the age of eighteen. We had a wild decade together, and then she died. We deserved more time with one another. I feel cheated, robbed of the moments we could have shared together. In hindsight, I wish I had mourned her differently, honoring her memory in a way that reflected our bond yet embodied graceful acceptance for the gaps.
Some of my coping methods were healthy, and some were reckless. On good days, I traveled to beautiful countries on her wish list and felt her spirit in each one. I journaled about her life on long plane rides and lit candles on her birthday. On the worst days, I would take the remaining anxiety pills and expired pain medication from her cancer treatment, and then chase those pills down with bottles of Jack Daniels. I indulged in unhealthy food, avoided exercise, and physically abandoned myself. I pushed everyone away. Nothing worked—nothing eased the pain.
Experiencing the loss of my mother, for the second time, completely shattered me. It was an unimaginable year of grief. I had experienced five other close deaths in the months leading up to my mother’s passing. When Mom received her diagnosis, she said “I don’t want to die this year. You’ll be too busy grieving everyone else.” She was funny like that. Even with her death, she wanted the spotlight.
But just when I felt my lowest, a glimmer of hope emerged. My high school sweetheart reconnected with me through Instagram, and our love story reignited with an intensity that brought me out of the dark. After nine months of long-distance love, I made a life-altering decision to leave my job in the Middle East and return to Houston to build a life together.
Our love felt like a reward after the pain I had endured. He brought a breath of fresh air and taught me that I deserved happiness. It was the most blissful season of my life – a new home, a beautiful wedding, and my first child. However, a few years into our marriage, my unresolved grief for my mother resurfaced in a way I could no longer ignore.
I was crying on my closet floor, with an old sports bra pulled up to my neck and a breastfeeding pump tugging on both breasts when I had a revelation: I needed therapy!
I was terrified of starting therapy.
I wasn’t ashamed or embarrassed—I was scared.
A few years later, the world was falling apart, and I finally opened myself up to the idea.
There were countless moments that could have driven me to seek therapy earlier, but I always found reasons to postpone it—cost, time, fear of a mismatch.
It wasn't until the pandemic, with me confined at home alongside two young children, my husband working remotely, and my eighty-year-old grandmother, that I finally took the plunge. I reached out to a trusted friend and asked for her recommendation for the best therapist in Houston. She nailed it!
My therapist was Elise, and this book chronicles ten of our sessions that helped me navigate the complexities of my mother's life, our relationship, and her untimely passing.
With these sessions, Mom’s existence felt real again. Her impact is deeply permanent. Her influence etched itself deeply into my being, evident in my recollection of cherished moments, significant days, and invaluable life lessons.
I’ve leaned into the honor of my role as a daughter—her daughter. She wasn’t flawless, but she was more powerful than any human I have encountered
This book is a vessel for my grief and love to transcend from my world into yours.
My sincere hope is that if you find even a hint of familiarity in these sessions, you will feel less alone.
Approach it with care, relate to what you can, and savor the journey.
