When Compassion Was Nowhere to Be Found

I gave birth to my daughter in a quiet, sterile hospital room, surrounded by the sounds of monitors, beeping machines, and fluorescent lights that felt far too bright for such a tender, life-altering moment. The weight of the decision I had made, to place her for adoption, was already pressing on my chest like a thousand bricks. But I never expected that the heaviest blow would come from someone whose job was supposed to be rooted in compassion and care.

Within 24 hours of delivering my daughter, I was cornered by a nurse. She didn’t speak softly. She didn’t hold space for the complexity of my choice. Instead, she looked me in the eyes and told me that what I was doing was wrong. She told me, point-blank, that if I really cared about my daughter and her adoptive parents, I would “stay out of their life for good.” No mention of open adoption. No acknowledgment that this decision came from love, not abandonment. To her, I was just a “part-time mother” who was giving her child away. And nothing I could say or do would redeem me from that.

She told me it would be better if I stayed away completely. That once I left the hospital to never bother them and or my daughter again.

The words felt like a punch to the gut. I was already grieving. My heart was already broken in a million places I didn’t even know existed. And now, in the place where I should have been given support, understanding, and a little grace, I was instead being shamed for my love. For my strength. For choosing what I believed to be the best possible future for my daughter.

It didn’t stop there. This same nurse tried to make sure my daughter’s adoptive parents and I couldn’t even leave the hospital together. She didn’t want photos, shared goodbyes, or any moment of transition that might give a sense of unity or peace. As if separating us physically would erase the emotional bond we had all built together, the trust, the hopes, the dreams we had for this little girl.

Then, the cruelest blow of all. She brought up my other daughters, my sweet, innocent children who were home waiting for me. She said, “Your daughters are going to question why you kept them and not their sister. They’re going to wonder if you’ll ever get rid of them too.” That sentence has echoed in my head more times than I can count. In one breath, she reduced my motherhood, my intentions, and my love to a cruel caricature. As if I was a danger to the children I carried, birthed, and love with every part of my being.

What she didn’t see though, and what so many people don’t see is that placing a child for adoption is not giving up. It’s not walking away. It’s not selfish. It is the most painful act of love I have ever experienced.

She didn’t ask about the hours I spent thinking through every scenario. She didn’t care that I had met and carefully chosen parents who would love and protect my daughter. She didn’t see the tears, the counseling sessions, the sleepless nights, or the deep desire for my child to grow up in a home that could give her everything I couldn’t at that time. She saw only a woman who was “giving away” her baby.

But adoption is never that simple.

What this nurse did was more than unkind. It was harmful. It was degrading. And while she had the right to her opinions, she did not have the right to weaponize them against me in a moment of such deep vulnerability. As a nurse, she was supposed to care for me. She didn’t have to celebrate my decision. She didn’t even have to understand it. But she should have treated me like a human being with feelings, with dignity, and with a story she knew nothing about.

And unfortunately, my story isn’t unique. This is the reality for so many birth moms. Behind the term “birth mother” is a human being who made a heart-wrenching choice. And so often, we are met with judgment instead of grace. We are told we are “less than,” that we failed, that our love isn’t real because it looks different.

This kind of hate and ignorance is what keeps birth mothers silent. It’s what keeps us from sharing our stories. It’s what keeps people from understanding that adoption, especially open adoption, can be a beautiful and healing path for everyone involved, including the adoptee.

I am still her mother. I didn’t stop being that when I made the decision to place my daughter. I became a different kind of mother, one who carries her child in her heart instead of in her arms. One who shows up with love, with hope, and with the courage to be part of her story even if it’s from a distance. Open adoption, when it is safe and supported, allows for connection. It allows children to grow up with the truth, with answers, with love from all sides. But we need a world that believes in that. We need medical staff, family members, strangers, and systems to stop tearing us down and start lifting us up.

Birth mothers deserve better. We deserve compassion. We deserve to be seen for our bravery. We do not deserve to be shamed for our choice. We deserve spaces that hold our grief, acknowledge our love, and honor our voice in our child’s story.

If you’re reading this and you’ve walked a path like mine, I want you to know that you are not alone. Your love is real. Your pain is valid. And your decision, no matter how misunderstood by others, was yours to make. And it was likely made from the deepest, most selfless place in your heart.

To anyone who interacts with birth parents, especially in vulnerable moments, please lead with empathy. Don’t assume you know their story. Don’t project your own fear or judgment. Just listen. Just care.

That simple kindness could mean everything.