Confessions of a Secret Mom

I recognized her right away. Big green eyes, small chin, blue overalls. My daughter. I hadn’t seen her in 14 months.

In the spring of 2024, I gave birth to a healthy baby girl, six pounds one ounce. My mother was in the room with me, and I was so depressed that I barely remember the delivery. My baby locked eyes with me for what felt like long, beautiful minutes. She hiccuped and cried, and took to the bottle quickly — I couldn’t breastfeed because of the papers I would be signing the next day.

I have Bipolar Disorder Type 1, and here I was in the midst of a depressive crash after being in a manic state for most of my pregnancy. I lived alone — my partner left me when I was two months pregnant. I could lean on my family — my parents (who are long divorced) and my brother — but there was a limit to what they were willing to do. They would help as much as possible, but said they were not going to raise a child if my mental illness sidelined me with depression or mania for long periods of time, which had been my reality for the last 10 years. 

It is typical for those who suffer from bipolar disorder to quit their medication in a manic phase; they feel euphorically good and are convinced they no longer need it. I had experienced this many times, with devastating consequences. Another cruel caveat: mania is often accompanied by anosognosia — a neurological condition where the person is unaware of their psychiatric illness. So I wasn’t in denial when I was manic — I simply had no awareness I was manic, despite others trying to tell me. 

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I was convinced I was protecting my unborn baby by not taking my meds, but my behaviour became more and more erratic until I was forcibly hospitalized in my first trimester. It wasn’t until my last month of pregnancy that my mania receded, and the reality of my situation gradually dawned on me. The joy I had felt at the impending arrival of my daughter was morphing into fear and distress.

I knew I was descending into a depression from which it might take many months to recover. Would I have the energy and wherewithal to care for a newborn? I met with a social worker to discuss my options: keeping the baby, which I desperately wanted to do, putting her in foster care temporarily, or giving her up for adoption. It all seemed unreal.

My anxiety was through the roof, and I agreed when my psychiatrist suggested a scheduled delivery rather than waiting for Mother Nature to break my water. So there I was, back at the hospital on a sunny Wednesday afternoon of spring, this time in the maternity ward, where I became a new mother the very next morning. It was an indescribable moment to hold my baby in my arms, and an unspeakable cruelty that I now had just over 24 hours to make a decision that would hugely impact our lives. 

I hesitated and agonized, changing my mind every hour. I can do this, I can make it work. No, I can’t, it’s not realistic. OK then, I’ll put her with a foster family, and then I’ll get to see her — in a specified place for a specified time, under the supervision of a social worker. No. I don’t want that for me or for her. Especially not for her. 

I finally chose to place her with a stable family that had been waiting over 10 years to adopt a baby. I knew almost nothing about them, yet I was about to give them my everything. It would be a closed adoption, which meant I would not get to be part of my daughter’s life — no visitation or direct contact for years to come, and only if and when she was ready to reach out to me. 2,000 children are adopted in Quebec each year, with 30,000 children aged 1 day to 17 years waiting to be adopted. There’s a long waitlist for newborns, so I knew my baby would find herself in a loving family immediately.

I sat in the hospital bed with my baby sleeping beside me, waiting for two social workers from youth protection services ( the Direction de la protection de la jeunesse, DPJ in Quebec) to show up at 3 p.m. I felt foggy, anxious and disconnected when they arrived and ushered me into a small room. They sat across from me with a stack of papers and talked at me like the voice in Charlie Brown — wah wah wah. What I understood was: sign here and lose all rights to your daughter. 

I felt cornered. Defeated. Empty. I was stamped with an illness that gave me nowhere to go and no way out. I signed and went back to my room. My baby was now in another room, with a nurse that I knew and trusted. My psychiatrist came and hugged me, said she was proud of me, and told my parents I was a high suicide risk. I was not to be left alone for several weeks.

In a surreal moment, I went to say goodbye to my baby. It just seemed impossible that I had to leave her there and yet and yet and yet. I held her closely and whispered, “You’re going to have a great life, do you hear me? You’re going to turn into a wonderful human being, and you will always be loved.”

Back at my Plateau apartment, I fell into bed. A haunting wail escaped my body, and I cried until there was nothing left inside me. I wanted to be left alone.

I stayed in that bed for two months, watching the sun rise and set, coming out for an occasional glass of water. I lost all the baby weight and more. My parents, my brother, my friends came and went, called and texted, but I wouldn’t say a word about that day. 

The baby room sat decorated and filled with diapers, clothing and toys until my mom and friends took it all away, giving most of it to charity. For other babies and for other mothers who got to be mothers. 

I started grief therapy when I was able to start speaking about it. My therapist told me I was going through “ambiguous grief” as I had no closure. She recommended Postpartum Support International, an online support group for “birth moms” — a new term for me. It was cathartic. 

Some of the women had been forced to give birth under President Donald Trump’s anti-abortion laws in the United States. Others had addiction or mental health issues, or were just 16 when they got pregnant. No question was taboo in this group: “Are you afraid to have sex now, with the risk of becoming pregnant?” “Do you feel guilty for giving up your child? “Are you jealous of the adoptive parents?”

Five months after I left the hospital, my daughter’s adoptive parents reached out with an email address that we could use to communicate. This was an unusual decision on their part; most families had to communicate through social services. I was in heaven. Pictures, videos and descriptive emails brightened my day and complicated my feelings of loss and grief. We agreed to communicate twice a year. 

Around my daughter’s first birthday, I got an email that would change my life: “Would you like to meet her?” I reread this astounding email over and over. Three weeks away. I was the healthiest I’d been in 10 years, and was so excited I couldn’t sleep.

Nervous, I arrived at the Montreal Biodome an hour and a half early — a place where our little one, 14 months and walking, would have things to look at while I got to know her adoptive parents. And finally, there she was. Coming toward me, smiling and laughing in her mother’s arms. “She’s a bit fussy with strangers, but we can do a group hug!”  A group hug it was, and I touched her warm little arm to calm myself. I was shaking.

Her mother generously gave me a quilt made of squares cut from various pieces of clothing our daughter had worn in her first year. I would have cried but the medication I take numbs my emotions, making it difficult to shed a tear.

We spent two hours wandering around with our toddler, looking at fish and penguins, squealing “baby!” at every animal. She confidently pushed her way through other kids to get a better view. That’s my girl. 

I fed her cookies and clementines, and without fail, she threw the fruit back at me, laughing. As I left the Biodome, I worried I would forget her beautiful face with time. I have another year to wait before I can see her again. I feel full and empty at the same time, like everything was just a dream that could fade away. So I wrote our story, hoping other birth moms could relate and feel less alone.

My daughter’s adoptive parents told me they had spoken to other, older adopted kids and to birth mothers who concluded it was better to keep the child’s original name (which they did) and to introduce the birth mom as soon as possible, allowing me to get to know her, and give her the chance to ask me questions about… well, everything. I am ready when she is. I’ll be there early.

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