Breathe

Nearly 20 years ago as I navigated parenting two small children and a move halfway across the country, I began experiencing breathlessness. One day I was doing dishes on a routine day at home with my girls and I experienced this shortness of breath. Pausing, I took a moment to regain normal breathing by trying hard to fill my lungs, unsuccessfully. Over the next few days, this experience became more frequent until one afternoon while driving, I came close to a panic attack – my lungs simply wouldn’t accept more than shallow breath.

Assuming that my death was imminent, I sought references for a new family doctor and got myself to his office as quickly as possible. After a brief check of vitals, he began asking questions about my recent move to the area. How far was I from home? How has my family been acclimating? Changes to work or other routines? Details about my husband and our relationship. I interrupted him. “Thank you for caring, but I really need the most help with my breathing. Don’t you want to do some sort of lung x-ray or heart testing?”

“That won’t be necessary,” he said. “I’m nearly certain that you’re hyperventalating because of the stress in your life.”

I wanted to politely thank him for sharing and tell him he was nuts. Didn’t he understand that I’d been wanting to be a stay at home mom for years and now that I was doing that, I couldn’t possibly be more stressed than I’d been a few months ago while working crazy hours and living close to the familiar surroundings of home.

He suggested I try some medication to help ease me back into a routine, a routine that included the ability to breathe, and to check back in a few weeks.

As much as I hated to admit it, he was right. I learned that I had been experiencing anxiety, and that my body’s way of reacting was through hyperventalation. I’d been aware that there were mighty changes in our lives and that I was probably bearing more of a burden than normal, but I had no idea how much stress I’d been supressing in order to function.

I’ve since learned that my body is typically much more attuned to the reality of my world than my conscious brain is willing to acknowledge.

Today is my birthday. I am adopted. I’m having a hard time breathing.

This isn’t really all that surprising. If you read my inaugural blog, you got a peek into the way I experienced pre-reunion birthdays. All the questions; all the emotions. What strikes me as odd now is that even though I’ve been reunited with my biological siblings (my birth parents had both passed, within months of when I discovered their identity), the birthday emotions lurk.

Pretty much a regular ol’ Wednesday, filled with Zoom calls, projects, and deadlines, this afternoon I found myself gasping for breath, a sensation I hadn’t experienced quite so intensely in years. My body knew.

As my adoption self-healing has progressed through the years, several books have taught me about the trauma of separation from a birth parent, the “primal wound”, and the unique journey adoptees are on as they navigate unique (and often invisible) sets of circumstances. I’m in a good place today with deepening, loving relationships with my siblings and their families. There has been full acceptance and joy resulting from the unification for which I am profoundly grateful. And yet, my body knows. It knows things inside that my brain can’t comprehend about the toll adoption took on me.

As I consider if or how to write the longer, deeper story of my journey, I can’t help but wonder what will emerge. Is the story for me? Is it for my birth parents whose eyes won’t be on earth to read it? Is it for others who have walked similar roads (or not) for the purpose of developing empathy and broadened perspectives? Is it merely a processing excercise to help my brain catch up with my body?

Each year I cope a little differently. Some years, I wrap myself in busy-ness to numb the day. Some years, I avoid reality by choosing a long nap and a stiff drink. And there are even some years I allow myself to bask in the love and care from those within my sphere and those unseen. Predicting the emotions of February 1st is impossible.

So, today, I stare out at the frozen landscape. Snuggled inside, stuck alone in a hotel because of the storm, with a keyboard and some billowing feelings. And I try to breathe.