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.
