Ruth Wylodene Sturdivant Ramey had a big name and an even larger presence.

She weighed just 89 pounds when she got married; a diminutive beauty, with tiny bones, delicate features, and blazing green eyes. My father, his hand wrapped tight around her waist, beams with pride in their wedding photo. When I was a child, I’d stare at this picture for hours trying to decipher what happened between the promise of that time and the realities of mine.

My mother is a complicated blend of waif and warrior, princess and martyr- a southern belle whose white gloves masked an iron fist. Prone to screaming fits, spanking, and combustibility, my mother is loved but not trusted. I watch in awe as she applies her makeup, believing her to be the most beautiful mother on earth—yet shrink in fear when she suddenly yanks the television cord from the wall, shrieking “You watch too much TV!”

I try harder to be good, but a tight bud of longing takes root until I become a shapeshifter, too, never sure of my center.

I reject femininity as an act of rebellion. To be female is to be like her—weak, irrational, narcissistic. Instead, I embrace the “masculine” within me, becoming a relentless overachiever, driven by results. Invulnerable, I cut ties without hesitation when things don’t go as planned.

My ‘take no prisoners’ approach works—for a while. Control keeps me safe, distant, and comfortably numb. It doesn’t feel good, but it feels familiar.

I don’t see the hole until I’m already falling, reaching blindly for handholds that aren’t there.

"Maybe my therapist is right," I think mid-fall. "My angry resistance only feeds my sense of inadequacy."

I hit the ground hard, the impact reverberating alongside her words: "We all become some version of our parents if we don’t do the work, Tina."

There’s a sliver of light above, but I can’t move. I lack both the faith and the will to try.

Because there’s more to my Mother story. Before Ruth Wylodene Sturdivant-Ramey became my mother, there was another—the one who gave birth to me.

Rose Ann Walker Weigel is twenty, a young mother with a son, when she meets my birth father. Both are students at the University of Missouri-Kansas City—he studies engineering; she majors in chemistry. She’s blonde with light blue eyes, but I inherit my father’s dark hair and brown eyes.

When she tells him she’s pregnant, he leaves. Maybe she knows she can't raise another child alone because she surrenders me at birth to the nuns at the Florence Crittenton Home for Unwed Mothers.

Perhaps Rose Ann was the first to plant those seeds of doubt and shame—because even in the womb, you can sense when you’re not wanted.

In my early forties, after giving birth to three sons, I decided it was time to find my birth mother. But in Missouri, where adoption records were sealed, I had to hire a court-appointed investigator.

Laura Long, my legal intermediary, could reach out and bridge the gap I’d spent a lifetime trying to understand. She could know my birth mother’s identity—but I couldn’t.

“I found your mother, Tina,” Laura reports on a call several weeks later.

“Oh my god, you did?” I say breathlessly, “What did she say?”

“Nothing,” she replies flatly. “I haven’t told her about you.”

“Oh, I thought—“

“You can write her a letter,” she interrupts, “and I’ll deliver it to her,” she pauses, “That’s usually how it’s done. Do you want to do that?”

“Oh, all right.”

I carefully craft a letter, including photos of my sons, husband, adoptive parents, and siblings. I reassure my birth mother that I am happy but have questions—questions only she can answer.

"When you're adopted," I write, "it's like having your portrait painted on glass. With nothing to fill in the background, you can see right through it. I’m asking you to fill in that background by telling me my story."

I add, "If you tell me my story, I promise not to ask for more." Lowering expectations is how I manage them.

But the process drags. My anxious requests for updates go unanswered—Laura Long is frustratingly unresponsive.

A few weeks later, I got a phone call at the health club where I worked.

“Tina, this is Laura.”

I don’t get many personal calls at work, so it takes me a moment to realize who it is. She’s talking, but I can’t make out what she’s saying.

“No more contact,” she repeats.

“What?”

“Your mother returned your letter.”

“No more contact?” I ask, bewildered.

“Those words were written in big red letters across the envelope,” she replies, her voice edged with impatience.

“What does that mean?” I ask. I can’t wrap my head around it.

“It means,” she says slowly, “no more contact.”

“Did she even open the letter?” I ask. “I don’t understand.”

“It came back unopened,” she says, more gently now.

“So… what, this is it?” I croak, sounding like the child I suddenly feel I am.

“I’m afraid so,” she sighs. “There’s nothing more I can do.”

“Uh… okay.”

I hang up the phone, sobbing. Embarrassed, I search for a corner to disappear into.

I don’t know who I’m angrier with - her for rejecting me, or myself for thinking she wouldn’t.

I gather my things and rush out. It’s the middle of my shift, so I call in and say I’ve gone home sick. Instead, I sit in my car for a long time, staring blankly, until it’s time to pick up my youngest son from school. Sean is eight.

“I’m taking him to a dentist appointment,” I tell the neighbor who usually drives him. I don’t know why I lie.

He’s surprised and happy to see me—until he looks closer.

“Mom! What’s wrong?” he asks, staring at my red, swollen face.

“Nothing’s wrong, sweetheart,” I say with a weak smile. “I’m just tired. I got off work early so I could pick you up.”

But we both know it’s not true.

We drive in silence. I can feel him watching me.

“Mom,” he says, reaching for my arm, “what’s WRONG?”

“I’m fine,” I insist. “Just had a bad day.”

He starts to cry, “Mom, you’re scaring me. What’s wrong? Are you sick?”

I search for a place to pull over and swerve toward the curb. We sit there in silence. I stare ahead, trying to find the words.

“Look,” I say, turning to face him, “something happened today, and it has nothing to do with you, Sean. And I’m not sick.”

“Then, Mom…why are you so sad?”

I take a deep breath and tell him the truth—that I was adopted, and for years I’d wondered who my birth parents were and why they gave me away.

“I didn’t tell you or your brothers because… it felt private. And I didn’t want to hurt Grandma and Grandpa. But I hired someone to help me find my birth mother because I’ve always been curious about where I came from.”

“Yeah?” he says, tentative.

“Well, today the woman I hired called. She said she found her.”

He goes still.

“I wrote her a letter,” I continue, my voice cracking, “but it was returned—with the words NO MORE CONTACT scrawled across the envelope.”

The tears come fast. I feel foolish and guilty, ashamed for letting my son witness this indulgent grief from a wound that isn’t his.

But he doesn’t pull away. He throws his arms around me and says, “Well, I’m sorry, Mom, but she must be a ‘B,’ because who wouldn’t want to know you?”

His innocent compassion slams me back into the present—into love, into enough.

Years later, I learned that the Hopi believe we each have an invisible twin before we’re born. This twin looks out from the womb to see if the world is safe. If it is, she says, Come on, let’s go. But if she senses danger, she stays behind—and you’re born fragmented, incomplete.

They call this soul loss.

To heal it, trusted members of the community gather around the wounded, surrounding them with love and safety. In a sacred ritual, they call the soul back home. This ceremony helps reintegrate what was lost, allowing the person to become whole again.

Indigenous cultures have long intuited what science now confirms: trauma is inherited. DNA methylation and epigenetic research show that we are biologically imprinted with the experiences of our parents, grandparents, and generations before them. Their pain becomes our legacy, encoded in our genes, shaping our neurobiology, our immune function, and our risk for disease.

This inheritance begins in the womb—and continues long after.

I was born to parents who couldn’t love me. Separated at birth, I spent my first eight months in institutional care. By the time I was placed with my adoptive family, I had already succumbed to the terror.

For an infant, it’s not just abandonment—it’s annihilation.

Adoption, no matter how well-intentioned, is traumatic for the baby. When attachment needs go unmet, the child’s ability to self-regulate breaks down. Trauma floods the nervous system. Unable to fight or flee, she freezes. She dissociates. An overactive limbic system traps her in a biological loop of fear and reactivity.

I know, because I lived it.

I grew up in a constant state of fear, anxiety, and shame—shaping dysfunctional relationships with food, family, work, and men.

With help, I’ve learned that healing begins with self-compassion. But for the longest time, I could only blame myself for the ways I learned to cope and survive.

So, when Laura Long calls with news of my birth mother’s second rejection, I’m not just heartbroken—I’m shattered.

Sitting in the car on the side of the road, feeling my chubby third grader’s arms wrapped tightly around my neck, I see that crack of light again. My son loves me. I am his mother. That’s what matters—not a stranger who, for reasons I may never understand, can’t accept herself or me.

For better or worse, Rose Ann Walker and Ruth Wylodene Ramey are my family. Learning to have compassion for myself has made it easier to have compassion for them, too.

For most of my life, I felt like a motherless child. But the truth is, I’ve had two. One brought me into the world; the other made it a lot more interesting.

Having sons of my own forced me to confront the wounds of my past so I could become a more present, whole parent. I failed often. And yet, they remain—my own Hopi healers—surrounding me with unconditional love and safety, reminding me I don’t have to be a perfect mother to be a good one.

And that is everything.