Growing up I always wanted to be like everyone else. When it came to having the newest clothes and shoes I wanted everything my friends had.

I was always admiring my peers’ lives and the relationship they had with their parents too. At a young age my parents told me that they weren’t my actual parents but still loved me as if they were.

Even at four years old I understood and accepted that I was adopted, but it wasn’t until I was older that I really decided to dig deeper.

Even though I was only a seventh grader, I started to feel differently and become more open.

I was influenced to find my birth parents after going to all my friends’ houses and seeing how they bonded and shared the same features with their parents. Some of my friends would tell me I looked just like my brother or my dad, but I knew that wasn’t true.

I felt conflicted. I would feel guilty or blame myself for even thinking about my birth father and mother. But I also wanted to know the person who spent hours in labor just for me. I wanted to know who gave me up for a better life. All I needed was the name of my birth mother.

For days at a time, I compiled a list of questions in my journal of things I would ask her. From the simple to tough questions, I wrote until cramps filled my hand. I had health questions, questions about my dad and most of all I just wanted to know why.

At times I felt like quitting my search but every time I tried I thought about the feeling of hugging her for the first time. Also, I wanted her to know that her motherly instinct to give me up was definitely for the better, so I would smile and then continue to write down many more questions.

At my age my curiosity has declined but even now I still feel motivated to look for her. The only thing that keeps me going is one rectangular picture kept in my drawer.

It’s of my birth mother holding me after I was born with a visible tear rolling down her face. After staring at the picture I finally would find the motivation to begin writing again with tears falling down my face.

I wanted to know how could someone be so courageous and give up their own child for the better.

As I thought about it I wished I had someone to talk to that knows how I feel. But my brother seems to understand.

He is 12 and was adopted into the family back in 2004. I also have a 21 year old biological sister who I’m sure knows how I feel, but I’ve never met her. I hope that changes someday in the future.

At this time I understood that others may think that by giving even a second of my time to finding my birth mother, I am dismissing everything my adoptive parents have done for me.

That statement isn’t even close to my thought and feelings. I love my parents and have formed an inseparable relationship with them.

But I still want to know. So, when I turn 18 you might find me in Kilgore, Texas at the hospital where I was born, waiting in line to receive any information that will bring me closer to my blood related family.

I will be there with the book in hand, along with my high school diploma ready to show my biological mom everything I’ve accomplished. I will be there trying to find my 21 year old sister that I’ve never met. The sister that I never had and always wanted.

There definitely are many holes in my life that haven’t been patched, but right now they don’t need to be fixed. I am content to wait and satisfied with everything I have.