Back to the Past

“If you don't know who you truly are, you'll never know what you really want.”― Roy T. Bennett

The baby boom surged in the aftermath of World War II, extending its reach well into the 1970s. The peak, from approximately 1970 to 1972, saw adoptions rise by a staggering 45% compared to earlier decades.

It was an era heavily influenced by forced adoptions, cloaked under the guise of "choice." Unmarried mothers were compelled to relinquish their babies under the pretext of securing the child’s future, often told that a child’s destiny was shaped more by nurture than nature.

How many mothers were told:“Just forget about the baby.”“Move on with your life.”“The baby is better off with a good family.”

Reflecting on these words is gut-wrenching, though I try not to dwell on them. Yet, someone made these decisions, likely believing they were doing the right thing. A different set of values, perhaps—that’s the kindest way I can process these notions. After all, I don’t have a DeLorean.

But what if I did? Which date would I choose to revisit? Would it be February 1, 1964? Would I find my birth mother and warn her, "Don’t fall for my birth father; it will only bring you heartbreak, unimaginable pain, and a lifetime of regret"? Imagine having that conversation.

According to the theory of the space-time continuum, such an encounter would erase my existence. Like Marty McFly, I’d vanish from photo albums and fade entirely from the future, taking everything I hold dear with me. That’s assuming my birth mother listened to a random stranger’s warning. Remember fate?

Alternatively, would I go back to the nursery after my birth and somehow stop my adoption? Would I then end up in foster care, aging out at 18?

Each potential interaction would lead to a distinct path, each with its own consequences. While fascinating to imagine, I recognise that I exist today because of the cumulative effects of every decision made throughout my life—from conception to the moment my fingers tap away on this mechanical keyboard.

It’s sobering to realise that the legislation of the time, shaped by the Adoption Act of the 1960s, was designed to enforce adoption secrecy. The Commonwealth Attorney-General championed the idea, claiming "a new identity would offer children brighter futures, unburdened by the stigma of illegitimacy."

But reality told a different story. Many of us who were adopted during this era found ourselves placed with unstable families, harboring their own hidden struggles. Behind closed doors, it was far from the picture-perfect Brady Bunch.

Still, I acknowledge that some adoptees were fortunate—finding themselves in loving homes where they were cherished. I’m not envious; instead, I smile and cry tears of happiness for those who had the best possible experience.

For those of us born with ailments or deemed “difficult,” the placement process was often deeply flawed. Older families were considered “suitable” for children like us, with little scrutiny applied. In my case, my adoptive family mental health issues were concealed, during the application process. A neighbour who worked for Communities helped smooth the way.

The records I obtained later revealed red flags that social workers ignored, likely in a rush to place a “challenging” child and tick a bureaucratic box. Key performance indicators met; job done.

And what of the babies who were never placed with a family? Deemed unfit for traditional adoption, they were sent to institutions—a fate that seems even harsher than my own adoption.

What weighs on me most as an adoptee is that while governments come and go and societal attitudes evolve, some lessons remain unlearned.

For many children separated from their biological families, there’s a persistent void—an intrinsic yearning for familiarity that was never nurtured and can never be fully grasped. It’s like trying to hold water in your hands: you feel it, but it slips away when you try to capture it.

This longing creates a deep loneliness in a world brimming with people.