Finding Forty

Chosen in a life that began unchosen.

I remember the moment like it branded itself into me.

I was a preteen, standing in the middle of an argument with my birth mom. Words were flying—sharp, careless, heated. And then she said it.

“I would have had an abortion… but I didn’t have the money.”

About me.

My life.

Time didn’t just slow—it split.

At that age, I was firm in what I believed. Pro-life, no exceptions. So in my mind, it wasn’t just rejection—it was something deeper. It felt like I was hearing, You were almost erased… and not even worth the cost.

I fired back quickly, loudly—

“Then you should have given me up for adoption… or left me in foster care!”

Bold. Confident. Sharp.

But inside?

A little girl collapsed.

Because what I was really saying was,

My feelings are real. My momma doesn’t want me… and never has.

Maybe it was said in anger.

Maybe it was just a moment.

But repair never came.

And years have a way of telling the truth

that apologies never did.

We are estranged now.

And for my peace—I’ve made room for that.

But the truth is…

you don’t just walk away from something like that untouched.

I have walked this life as an unchosen child.

For nearly forty years.

And then—

God did something I never saw coming.

He rewrote the narrative without erasing the past.

He chose me.

Not in a loud, performative way.

Not in a way that demanded perfection.

Because God already knew.

He knew I would get overstimulated, overwhelmed,

and lose my patience sometimes.

He knew I would make mistakes

and doubt myself.

He knew I would worry—

feel stretched thin trying to hold it all together

and figure it all out.

And still…

He said,

I choose her.

He intentionally entrusted me

to be their mom.

Through a husband who chose me—

through the messy, stretching, unraveling seasons of

postpartum,

perimenopause,

ADHD overstimulation,

and the raw weight of motherhood.

Through two little boys

who don’t question if I belong to them.

Who reach for me

like it was always meant to be this way.

And maybe… just maybe…

this is what healing looks like.

Not pretending you were always chosen.

Not rewriting the story to make it prettier.

But standing in the middle of both truths:

I was unchosen…

and still, I am chosen.

Chosen to be loved.

Chosen to be held.

Chosen to mother.

Chosen to break what tried to break me.

Chosen by God

in a way no human could undo.

And for the first time in my life—

I’m not chasing belonging.

I’m learning to rest

in the quiet truth of it.

That even in a life that began unchosen—

I was still, somehow,

always held.

Always seen.

Always chosen.