insecure

My husband asks me, What are you feeling?

I reply with my usual, I don’t know.

He reminds me that I don’t know usually means I’m afraid to say what I’m feeling, because I don’t know why I’m feeling what I’m feeling.

Insecure, I say.

That is the only word I can dig up to summarize what I have been feeling for the past week.

I feel so insecure. But I don’t know why or about what.

He and I continue to talk, but to no avail. So he says, do you want to pray?

I say half-heartedly, That’s fine. You go first.

Within minutes I am sobbing uncontrollably, and I begin to realize what the word insecure means to me.

* * *

We are in the fragile beginnings of a reunion process.

In some ways the word insecure is an understatement.

Initially, the word insecure refers to how unsure I currently feel about who I am and where I belong. It refers to how fragile and delicate this all feels.

But ultimately, it refers to this gnawing and implacable sense that I have placed myself in a position in which I could potentially lose everything.

I could end up with less than what I had with which to begin. I could end up losing those whom I love.

I could end up with nothing and no one.

* * *

Not only do I fear the possibility that my Omma and Appa could suddenly decide to renege and back out, but I also fear that I am endangering my relationship with my Mom and Dad.

I fear that this process is simply too painful and too hurtful for all four parents, and that consequently they will begin to pull away from me—that they will decide this is too much, and subsequently, snatch their hearts from me and flee.

I fear that I will lose all four parents—and be left with no one.

* * *

Some would attempt to comfort me by saying these fears are irrational and foolish.

That’s why I appreciate my husband. He does not know how to lie. He must tell the truth.

He tells me that although there are very real risks and fears involved, we can always hope. It is never wrong to hope, or to love.

* * *

I knew the risks involved in searching for my biological parents.

I had seven years to consider all the possible scenarios for a reunion.

I would be deceiving myself to say that the fears I experience are invalid. They’re quite real.

I would be deceiving myself to say that it is not possible that my Omma and Appa could one day decide that they would prefer to sever contact.

I would be in denial to tell myself that the introduction of my biological parents into my life has not created tension, awkwardness, and uncertainty in my relationships with my Mom and Dad.

We’re not dealing with fairy tales here. We’re dealing with real life involving real human beings—all with our own flaws, fears, and imperfections.

All I can do is hope and pray and fight to love all four of my parents with truth and honesty—in the same way that a mother can love all her children. She may develop a unique relationship with each child, yet her ability to love each just as much as the other is not compromised in doing so.

Why can the reverse not be true? That I could love each parent just as much as the other in the midst of inherent differences and dynamics? Why not? I have a different relationship with my Mom than I do with my Dad, but I love them just the same.

* * *

Yet I must surrender to the truth that I cannot control how people will respond and react to what is happening. I can only guide my own heart.

I cannot control whether my Omma or Appa will choose to remain in contact with me. I cannot control whether my Mom and Dad will open their hearts to my biological parents. I cannot control what each involved person will choose to do.

I can only choose what I will do.

I choose love.

And I only hope that such a choice, even with all the risks involved, will triumph in the end.