Putting the Pieces Together

Have you ever looked at a puzzle with a mix of wonderment, bewilderment, and a quiet, “what the eff did I get myself into?” kind of moment?

All the pieces laid out in front of you—some obvious, some confusing, some that don’t seem to belong at all—and yet, somehow, you know they will fit together… eventually.

Being in quarantine offered so many different perspectives—especially when it fell on my birthday. It was a time to slow down and reflect on what makes that day feel special. The calls, the hugs, the familiar rhythm of being surrounded by people who love you.

But birthdays, as an adoptee, have always held a slightly different texture for me.

Of course, I loved the presents and the chocolate cake, but there was always a quiet curiosity about my “birth story.” The one so many people grow up hearing—how labor began, who was there, and what those first moments were like. For a while, I filled in those gaps with imagination (and a little humor). My favorite version involved my birth mom riding an elephant to the grocery store—because, of course, that’s how royalty travels. Somewhere along the way, the elephant took off at a full gallop, giving her a ride straight to the hospital. And just as they pulled up… out I came, sliding down the trunk into someone’s waiting arms.

I told that story more than once—and people believed it every time. It still makes me smile.

As I’ve gotten older—and especially now, at 41—my relationship with that missing piece has softened. I’ve come to understand that while I may never hold every detail of my beginning, that doesn’t mean my story is incomplete.

On this day, I often think about the woman who brought me into the world. I imagine strength, love, and a moment in time that changed both of our lives. And I also think about my parents—the ones who were waiting, preparing, hoping. The ones who built a life where I would be held, cared for, and deeply loved.

Over the years, I’ve also discovered pieces of my story in unexpected ways. A phone call in college from the caregivers at my orphanage, who remembered me by my cradle name, Vidya. It was a jolt to hear that name spoken aloud—at the time, only those closest to me knew it. Hearing it from someone across the world, from a place I came from but didn’t yet fully understand, stopped me in my tracks.

They shared stories of extra milk, extra blankets, and being held often. They told me they had “picked me out of the litter,” and even took me home with them because I was always attached to their hip—a trait, might I add, my parents still lovingly had to uphold!

Later, I came to honor that name in a new way. I gave it to my oldest child, carrying forward what it means—wisdom. And, in true fashion, I eventually realized I had been mispronouncing it my entire life. (Cue forehead smack.)

Birthdays for me are a blend of celebration and reflection. Joy and wonder. A quiet honoring of what I know, and a gentle acceptance of what I may never know.

And now, as a mother myself, I’ve created a new kind of tradition.

Each year, at my children’s birthday dinners, I tell them their birth stories. I watch their eyes light up with anticipation, and I fill in the details—sometimes with help from their siblings if I miss something. It’s become one of my favorite rituals.

Because while I may not have my own birth story to tell in the traditional sense…
I’ve found a way to create meaning, connection, and storytelling in my own way.

And maybe that’s the point—creating something that comes from truly getting to know yourself.

So for those of you wondering “what if,” or feeling like you’re missing pieces of your puzzle… you are not alone. Your story is not unfinished—it’s unfolding.

I’ve come to realize that I love these jagged edges. I love the pieces that fit so easily, the ones that made me tilt my head, turn them over, and study them a little longer to figure out where they belong—and the ones I had to set down, line up just right, and maybe even give a little slap to get them into place.

Because that’s what creates a beautiful picture.

One filled with gratitude, heartache, and wonder.

And maybe the truth is… we were never missing the pieces—we were just learning how to see the whole damn picture.