As the war on reproductive rights rages on, I can’t help but think of the battleground that both sides of the aisle have already conceded, the demilitarized zone of the reproductive rights conflict: adoption.
November is National Adoption Awareness Month, typically filled with heartwarming stories of children finding their “forever families.” Judges often refer to adoption proceedings as “the happiest day in court,” while politicians view it as a universally agreeable policy solution to unplanned pregnancies. But adoption is not the neutral area that we unquestioningly believe it to be—especially not for those like me, who, at 22 years old in my Indiana hometown, sat in panicked disbelief, staring at two pink lines that would alter the course of my life forever.
Fresh out of college, with no support from my baby’s father and still relying on my parents, I was thrust into a world of limited options and impossible choices. With abortion no longer an option and single motherhood feeling insurmountable and shameful under the weight of a conservative and religious mental framework, I turned to adoption.
Momentarily, I felt relief, believing it would solve my “problem” and maybe even redeem me from the perceived sin of premarital sex. Little did I know that choosing what society labels “the loving option” would expose me to an unregulated industry rife with predation.
In an industry where demand far exceeds supply, the price tags on our children’s heads are steep, and adoption profiteers were fiercely competing for me, their inventory supplier.
When I searched for adoption help online, it seemed as simple as finding a restaurant for dinner. I knew nothing about the process but assumed local help would appear in the search results. I contacted the first agency on the page in hopes their services could help me. I soon learned they were located in Florida, deceptively disguising themselves as local support. I declined their services, but they had other plans. For the rest of my pregnancy, they harassed me with calls, texts, emails, even mailed letters. Years later, I learned the reason behind this fervent chase: In an industry where demand far exceeds supply, the price tags on our children’s heads are steep, and adoption profiteers were fiercely competing for me, their inventory supplier.
So often, our society assumes the cruelties of eras past have been permanently archived. We naively comfort ourselves with the notion that we’d become enlightened about adoption just because we no longer mass-exile women to homes for unwed mothers.
Today’s standard narrative omits how the private adoption industry is unsafe in new ways—operating with scant regulation, oversight or transparency. Feel-good marketing tells us about the “miracle of adoption,” presenting it as the fairytale antidote to unplanned pregnancy and infertility.
But do these stories consider how the child may experience the separation from their genetic kin? Or the trajectory of the birth parent who permanently severs her parental rights? Adoption, promoted today as brave and selfless, is seen as a net social benefit with no perceived consequences. Yet, fewer than 1 percent of pregnant women choose it. Could its unpopularity be due to our failure to listen to and protect these women—our daughters, sisters and mothers—who face the prospect of knowing they lack the support to raise their own children?
The emotional toll of relinquishing a child is rarely discussed.
In the years since relinquishing my child for adoption, I’ve investigated precisely how one becomes ensnared in the system. When pregnant women search online for adoption help, they find ads that sound like unbeatable offers: “Rich Parents Looking to Adopt” or “Pregnant and Need Money? Choose Adoption.” These ads are placed by unlicensed adoption middlemen who compete for babies and couples who want to adopt them, who operate on the edge of legality in our highly unregulated private adoption industry. Thirty-three states prohibit these entities and their advertisements, but enforcement is almost nonexistent. Lack of oversight and aggressive online marketing tactics create a hazardous climate for those in crisis.
The process is opaque because informed consent is wholly nonexistent. We birth mothers choose families from pristine marketing booklets without access to more objective information found in the state-mandated home studies seen by professionals. We’re often left in the dark about the money exchanged—in some cases nearing $100,000—or how our personal information is used to market our children to eager potential adoptive parents. Most go without independent legal representation. In the rare event that we are offered arrangements that allow open contact between birth and adoptive families, these agreements are only enforceable in 27 states. In the remaining states, enforcement is either complicated or impossible.
The emotional toll of relinquishing a child is rarely discussed. As I sat in the hospital room signing away my rights just 24 hours after birthing my firstborn, tears brined my cheeks, and my ribcage rattled with agony. In the years following, I developed anxiety, depression and panic attacks—conditions I hadn’t experienced before. Though I have a successful open adoption and immense love for the family I chose, I was unprepared for the depth of my sorrow, shame and guilt—and I had been given no warning. The lawyer overseeing the process never told me about the lifelong grief, the mental toll of separation, or how to cope with an ongoing struggle with suicidal ideation. What’s more, we seldom receive the qualified mental health support we need, largely remain unaware of the potential struggles our children may face as adoptees, and are rarely advised of our roles as the keepers of our children’s origin stories and heritage.
I have proudly witnessed the Democrats take a robust and solid stance on reproductive rights this year. Yet, while I feel seen, I also feel overlooked. I am captivated by the daily stories of women bravely sharing their stories, taking back their power after facing devastating obstacles to making their own healthcare decisions. But something is missing: the voices of the roughly 20,000 women who relinquish a child annually.
In 2023, two members of Congress introduced a bill that would substantially address adoption brokers’ rabid hounding of vulnerable pregnant mothers that, since Dobbs, has become more urgent than ever. The ADOPT Act seeks to prohibit unlicensed adoption brokers and significantly curb unlawful adoption advertising. The bill is stalled.
I am buoyed by the left’s rallying cry: We won’t go back. As we forge ahead in the brawl for fundamental rights, I hope the reproductive justice movement remembers to carry with it the territory of adoption reform.
