As an adoptee, my entire life I have caught myself pondering the effects of nature vs. nurture. I would think about meeting my biological family and what personality traits would be alike and if I would have similar mannerisms. I also often think about the similarities and differences I have with my adoptive parents. Now at age 30, the picture of how influential my adoptive mother has been on my personal character is clearer than ever.

My mother was born to be a mother. She just has that in her bones. She is the kind of mom that picks up random babies in the grocery store and can give you advice on any parenting issue from potty training to how to get your son to eat his vegetables. If you met her, you would think she was a mother of 5. I can only imagine how painful it was to find out that after years of agonizing health battles and surgeries she would not be able to give birth. The adoption process did not go lightly on my parents either. This was before many of the current laws and regulations existed and it was both exhausting and intrusive, something I will delve into in future posts. However, in the summer of 1987 they finally hit the jackpot. They were going to get a little girl. The poor souls had no idea what they were signing themselves up for.

As an adolescent I went through some significant growing pains and identity struggles. Puberty was especially challenging for both me and my parents, filled with highs and terrible lows. Many of you who know me as an adult might be surprised to know how painfully shy I was growing up. I hated to draw attention to myself and worked tirelessly to be like everyone else. I would keep everything bottled in at school and then when I got home I would go into frenzied, hysterical episodes that would be directed at my parents. They did not know what to do because at that age I did not have the ability to recognize what I was feeling and even more importantly why. Eventually, after a series of doctor appointments I was diagnosed with generalized anxiety disorder, something that clearly was not due to parenting style  or environment. This would be something that I would have to cope with for the rest of my life.

In the subsequent years of this diagnosis, high school and even college, we (my parents and I) worked diligently to manage my through my anxiety and depression induced by anxiety. However it was my mother who help me establish one integral principle: my emotional make-up does not dictate who I am. My values, beliefs and existence were still my own to decide.

Like many kids, I’ve called my mom for every problem, small or large because she always knew the right thing to do. She is the only person with that special touch to talk me off a ledge – it only took 18 years of training. Still to this day I call her anytime I’m sick or if I’m frustrated at work and even when I’m not sure whether to add bullion to my risotto or just let it simmer longer.  As the years go by, her guidance has changed on the tough stuff. She rarely voices her opinions on a matter but now I use her more as a sounding board to think through my decisions. She has already equipped me with the skills, but she instead provides me with moral support because her confidence in my abilities goes unwavering. Sometimes it doesn’t feel that way though. Maybe because I know that I owe her so much. I want to make her proud and show that all those sleepless nights, all of the heated arguments, all of the stop-everything phone calls went to good cause.  But to her, the greatest gift I could give is to see me happy, regardless of what that means or where it may be. I have lived over a thousand miles away from my parents for 7 years now. Not once has my mother ever pressured me to move back home or visit more or ask me when I was finally getting married and having children. I recently asked her what she really gained from being a mother. It is often a thankless job and her only child is a plane ride away, who she can only see on occasional instances. She explained to me that being a parent is not about raising them to give back to you. Her ambition in parenting comes with a simple expectation: “that I believe in myself and the good of others”. It was then that I knew that her work as a mother was more powerful than anything biology could give me. She had instilled in me something stronger than humanity itself: FAITH.