Got my hand up

My hand is up in the air. I used to be sitting on it. Sat on my hands for decades because I was told be be quiet. Don't dare to be seen. About once each year, I mustered the courage to raise my cold, numb hand up to about shoulder level; but shame, my vigilant bodyguard, slapped me hard and quickly I was back on both hands without a word; not even a whimper.

My hand is up now. High. So count me into the numbers of mothers who have lost a child to adoption. I am such a mother. My hand is raised and I am ready to speak of my own experience. I am ready to begin to share strength on the days I might have some. And to share the intangible thing which we all need that is named hope.

Count my hand in this number of mothers.
We are everywhere.