Adoption that lead to Jamaica

By the time I was 16, I found myself pregnant. It wasn’t planned, but it was real. Three days after my 17th birthday, I gave birth to a beautiful baby girl. But this wasn’t the fairytale of becoming a young mother, full of joy and expectation. No, this was something else—something raw, something painful.
I had run away with my boyfriend, Darrel, to Shuswap Lake in the interior of British Columbia. We went there to hide, to escape the prying eyes of the world. I didn’t want anyone to know I was pregnant. Darrel, however, was no savior. He was abusive. At first, I tried to ignore it, thinking maybe it was just a phase. But it wasn’t. He would lock me in the cabin every night while he went out to strip clubs. When he came back, I was his punching bag. I lived in fear, but I couldn’t leave—I was trapped, physically and emotionally.
Then, one night, I snapped. I couldn’t take it anymore. In a moment of fury and self-preservation, I stabbed him. It was the only way I could defend myself. The manager of the place called the police. They came and, instead of pressing charges against me, they called my parents. I was sent back home, but this time, it wasn’t just me coming home—it was me, pregnant, with no idea what to do next. The
The moment I walked back into my parents’ house, everything changed. I had to explain myself, and there was no way to sugarcoat it. My parents were furious, scared, and shocked. They didn’t want anyone to know about my pregnancy, and they certainly didn’t want me to keep the child. Their solution was simple: give the baby up for adoption.
With the help of a pro-life agency, they arranged for me to live with a Christian family 150 miles up the island. I was supposed to wait out the pregnancy, give birth, and then hand my baby over. At the time, I thought this was reasonable—maybe even the only option. By the time I left, Darrel had returned to Victoria, and I heard through the grapevine that he had a new girlfriend, a stripper. I was devastated, heartbroken, and broken inside. I was 16, pregnant, and utterly alone.
I moved into the Christian home at the end of July, and the five months I spent there were the longest of my life. I was lonely, isolated, and lost in a world that didn’t feel like my own. All I could do was lie in bed and talk to my baby. I spent hours crocheting, watching Lawrence Welk (which, in hindsight, felt like the strangest way to pass the time), and walking along the beach, wondering about my life. What was I going to do? Could I keep my baby? I dreamed of a life that felt impossible.
Finally, my due date came in December. I went into labor on my 17th birthday, but the process was long—five days of grueling, exhausting labor. At one point, Dean, the woman I was staying with, offered to stay with me in the room. I refused. I didn’t want her there. I wanted my mom. I wanted the comfort of someone who understood me. But when I called my mother, she said she couldn’t come, I knew she wouldnt come.
On December 5th at 5 a.m., I gave birth to my daughter. When I was brought back to my room, I immediately asked the nurses to bring her to me. But they refused. They didn’t think it was a good idea for me to be with my baby, and that infuriated me. I was still weak, still numb from the birth, but I couldn’t let go of my daughter. I tried to get out of bed, desperate to hold her, and when my legs gave way, I fell straight to the floor. The nurses rushed in, angry, and demanded to know what I was doing. I told them, plain and simple: I want to see my baby. Now.
Reluctantly, they brought her to me. When I finally held her, I looked into her eyes, and I knew this wasn’t the first time we’d met. There was something so familiar about her, something that connected us beyond time and space. She was mine, and I loved her with all my heart.
I spent hours lying in bed with her, holding her, and pouring all my love into those moments. I had no idea how long I would have with her, but I wanted every second. My legs were still numb, and I worried about her crawling away while I slept. I called for the nurse, explained my concern, but the same nurse who had found me on the floor earlier simply told me, “Babies can’t crawl.” It stung, but I didn’t care. She was my baby, and I needed to protect her.
The nurses came in and wrapped me tightly to stop my milk from coming in. They told me I couldn’t breastfeed, and the pain of that tight wrap was unbearable. Every day they replaced it, and every day, I felt like I was losing more and more of myself. My parents lived in Victoria, and Dean was an hour away, so no one came to visit. I was alone, struggling with the weight of the decision I was being forced to make.
I called my parents at one point, pleading with them to take her, to keep her. My father’s words were final: “If you keep her, I’ll disown you. Don’t come home.” The choice had been made for me. I had no one to turn to, no way out. My father paid for my stay at Dean’s house, but that was the extent of his involvement.
For six days, I stayed in the hospital, watching my baby cry in the nursery, begging the nurses to bring her to me. They ignored my requests until finally, a doctor intervened, ordering the nurses to bring me my daughter whenever I asked. When I could finally walk, I would push her bassinet back to my room, and when I touched it, she would stop crying. But every night, when I fell asleep, the nurses would try to take her. I would wake up, tell them to leave, and protect her as best I could. I had no idea how I would leave her, but I couldn’t think about that right then. Instead, I focused on being her mother, pouring all my love into her in whatever time I had left.
When the day came for me to leave, I’ll never forget it. I packed my things, trying to stay strong, telling myself everything would be okay. But when I reached the door, I could feel the weight of the stares from the doctors and nurses. Their emotions mixed with my own, and I couldn’t take it. I collapsed, sobbing uncontrollably. Dean and the doctor helped me into the car, but I don’t remember much after that.
The next morning, I called my parents. I begged them to come for me. They picked me up and drove me home. As we passed the hospital, I asked if they wanted to stop and see the baby. My father’s response was cold: “We don’t have time.” That was it. The finality of it hit me like a wave.
Looking back, I can say with certainty that this moment changed everything for me. It ignited the next 20 years of my life. Giving up my baby for adoption wasn’t my choice. I had been forced into it, and it shook me to my core. I was in shock, and soon after, I turned to drugs. They numbed the pain, but deep down, I knew it wasn’t my destiny. Something inside of me kept telling me this wasn’t who I was meant to be. But for a long time, I didn’t listen. I didn’t know how to.

Chapter: The Breaking Point

As long as I was willing to give her up for adoption, my parents stayed supportive. Their approval felt nice, and I desperately wanted to please them. It took weeks to finalize everything, and after I signed the final papers—the point of no return—things changed. My family went back to ignoring me, and my brothers resumed their abusive words, which cut even deeper now. I only lasted two months at home before realizing I had to leave.

I landed two jobs to support myself. One ran from 8 a.m. to 4 p.m., and the other from 5 p.m. to 9 p.m., both in telephone soliciting. Shortly after, I moved out of my parents' house and into this old mansion in the city—a place shared with seven party guys. It was a chaotic environment. The house was constantly full of people, most of them high, with drugs flowing freely.

I was barely 18 but looked 21, so I was going to house parties every night, clubbing every other night, taking mushrooms regularly, and even selling them. On the surface, I was making new friends, but deep inside, I knew this wasn’t my life. These people felt shallow to me. Something inside kept telling me there was so much more out there.

One night at a party, I met a guy named Wayne. He became infatuated with me. Wayne was nice enough but short, and something about him just turned me off. Despite his advances and all the things he bought me, my answer was always no. Still, we spent a lot of time together over the next few months. He had a car, always had weed, and liked doing too much coke—so he was always happy.

During this time, Derek and his girlfriend reappeared in my life, haunting me in the worst ways. They’d started hunting me down at night, throwing bottles as I walked home from work. At other times, they’d look for me at parties and clubs, pushing me around. It was relentless. I had no idea why they were targeting me. I hadn’t even spoken to Derek since the night everything fell apart. They moved in the same circles I did, so I never knew when or where they’d show up. I didn’t have any super-close friends, which left me constantly on edge, feeling like an attack could happen at any moment.

One day, I saw Derek parked by the roadside. I had just received pictures of our daughter. Against my better judgment, I approached his car. The passenger-side window was down. Hesitantly, I leaned in and said, “I know you don’t want to talk to me, but I have pictures of our daughter. Would you like to see them?”

He turned to me with a look I’ll never forget. His voice was cold as he said, “Anything from you is a monster.”

That was my breaking point. Without thinking, my fist connected with his face. I saw his girlfriend out of the corner of my eye and started running. I didn’t even know if she was chasing me; I just kept running until I reached Wayne’s house. I banged on his door, out of breath, and when he opened it, I collapsed inside.

“What happened?” he asked as I tried to catch my breath. I told him everything. We sat on the couch, facing each other, and I finally said the words that had been building inside me for months.

“I’m done. There has got to be more to life than this, and I’m tired.”

A map was spread out on his coffee table. I stared at it, then reached out and placed my finger randomly on the map.

“That’s it,” I declared. “I’m going wherever my finger lands.”

It landed on Jamaica.

And just like that, my next chapter began.