 By Cindy Shultz In my mid-twenties, I was raising two children by myself while caring for my mother, whose ever-changing mental health needs kept me on notice. I began seeing someone twelve years older than me. He drank a lot and told me stories about his chaotic adventures, like growing up traveling with the circus and getting lost in the desert while hopped up on meth and peyote. Though the stories should have been a red flag, they sounded like adventure to me. His handy nature was helpful for home and car repairs and his vibrant personality and exotic tales brought excitement to my otherwise laborious existence. By the time Emerson Blake Bennett came along, I was a beautifully broken mess. I grew up in poverty with both mental illness and alcoholism in the home. My parents barely had adulting skills, much less social-emotional ones. As such, I had a hard time making friends, and my schoolmates picked on me. So, I spent the long days of my childhood bicycling around the vast rural countryside with my imaginary entourage, exploring abandoned houses. I couldn't wait to be free from the chaos at home, but pregnant at 17 and again at 20, my freedom came in the form of buying a mobile home on an acre of land with money from my deceased father’s life insurance policy. Within three years, my mother moved in after a stroke exacerbated her schizo-affective disorder. The emotional emptiness of my childhood—stemming from parentification, unmet needs, and a lack of friends—created a void that I filled with reckless behavior, codependent relationships, and late nights at a country bar in West Lodi, Ohio (population 223). Huppy’s was one of the bars I frequented with my dad as a child, and it felt like home when the world seemed too big. The owner, Ed, was Dad’s good friend. He missed him and loved to tell me stories while pointing out the old rusty foothold traps, vintage metal signs, and shotguns my dad donated to decorate his bar. The bartenders, who were local housewives, became my friends. This latest relationship brought an exciting distraction, like a ripple through stagnant water. I had grown accustomed to casting emotional dependency on unsuspecting partners who had little to offer. It was the life I knew. Familiar felt safer than the unknown. A few years in, I realized I had feelings for this man in a way I’d never experienced. Was this… love? Then, in October of 2004, I found out I was pregnant. I was over-the-moon, excited to tell Emerson, but hope hit head-on with rejection, much like a bird colliding into a newly cleaned window. He wanted an abortion and would not be swayed. “I'm a worthless drunk and no good for a kid,” he repeated. He wasn’t wrong about that, but he was wrong to insist I terminate the pregnancy. Dependent on his approval, I was afraid to anger him. My self-doubt lived quietly right on the surface somewhere between fear and low self-esteem, and though my resistance was loud, I lost my son.
The woman at Catholic Charities, who had no kids of her own, was skilled at speaking to my deepest insecurities. She framed it as though I were making a choice, but her underlying message sounded more like—your son deserves better than you and there are hundreds of people who want a baby. “Think of how happy you will make another woman.” Twenty years later, I wonder why that other woman didn’t care how it shattered me. As soon as I signed away my rights, Emerson left me too. Now I was alone and more broken than I’d ever been. Though it was an “open adoption,” I was not allowed to have a relationship with my son. Fond of the word “boundaries,” the adopter made it clear that my presence was permitted as long as I only engaged with her and observed him from a distance. I was forced into this performance of friendship only to steal glimpses of my son. On the outside, I smiled, but internally grief weakened my bones and awakened ancestral rage. She saw my anguish and knew I didn’t want to go through with this adoption. A friend would have handed my baby right back upon seeing how tormented I was. How was I to maintain a relationship with her despite this violation to our biology? So I drank. The loss of my son caused a spiral that people may say was destined. The void of my childhood became an insatiable black hole, and a cold Busch Light to my lips promised a numbness that I welcomed daily. My dad drank himself to death by the age of 57, and in the aftermath of this complicated living loss, I secretly hoped I would experience the same release. For fourteen years, I moved through life on dissociative autopilot. I looked for relief through substances and distraction through therapy, marriage, and a psychology degree, but nothing mattered anymore. I was irreparably damaged and now drowning in alcohol. Well-meaning people often uttered platitudes as if they were fact. One I heard a lot was, “He’ll be eighteen someday and come back to you.” Though that would not be what happened, I clung to this hope because it was the only light I could see. Eighteen was fast approaching. I don’t want him to find this broken mess of a Mother. If I'm going to get sober, I need to do it now. The thought of him coming home was the motivation I needed. Just before COVID, in September of 2019, I took my last drink. I didn’t yet know that I would have to address all my underlying issues to remain sober. All that I had lived through didn’t just happen to me; it had become me, etched deeply in every fiber of my being. The isolation, losses, and betrayals became muscle memory. There was a lot of inner work to do, and with alcohol out of the way, I had the ability to do it. Not knowing where else to turn for help, I began attending Alcoholics Anonymous. Bonnie became my sponsor, and she spent months taking me through the steps. She insisted I journal. AA would not be the end of all of my troubles, but it was a good start. There, I found a community and foundations for living that my parents were unable to give me. Namely, take responsibility for my actions, make things right, and change every single person, place, and thing in my life. I dove into self-help books to understand healing rather than just “trust God and clean house” as I heard often in AA. I also came to realize that drinking was only one symptom of my trauma, and AA only addressed drinking while offering an abundance of sweets, which was awful for my disordered eating. I journaled a lot—everything I read, my thoughts on it, how I embodied it, or how I wanted to embody it. I filled out workbooks, attended free workshops, and sent intentions into the universe. I questioned every single way of thinking and living I had been taught. But, something was missing. With the intent of learning more about meditation in order to start my own AA meditation group, I stumbled upon a Buddhist-inspired program of recovery, and from there, someone suggested a women's group that addressed recovery from things such as systemic oppression, overworking, and the patriarchy. Soon, I had discovered a dozen different support modalities outside of Alcoholics Anonymous. They have aided in exponential growth by holding space for the many maladaptive habits I had formed to cope with life. I quietly shifted out of the “poor me” mindset and leaned into thriving. Yet, something was still missing. These groups recognize many ways people suffer harm in life, but nothing for the millions who have experienced separation from their biology—those suffering in silence because all of society ignores us. When I would speak to this trauma, while held lovingly, the well-intentioned response can be harmful when coming from an uninformed place. In 2024, I was granted a scholarship to the Concerned United Birthparents (CUB) retreat in St. Louis, and this was the first time I had ever been in a room full of parents who had lost their children in this way. This is what was missing. This was the trauma that most needed to be addressed. My Gollum stepped into the light. Connection to parents who have lost children to adoption, and have some time recovering from this traumatic event in their lives, gave me a sense of validation and direction that I can only describe as life-resuscitating. From there, I learned of a few other organizations that offer support for the parents and grown children of those affected by adoption. I met Hannah there, an adoptee from Adoption Knowledge Affiliates (AKA), and she invited me to their group for parents of adoption loss. So I added these support groups to my growing list. I also frequent creative healing-focused groups, such as writing, art, and dance, and workshops for things such as inner child work, Internal Family Systems, and any other topic that catches my interest. Juggling all these modalities can quickly lead to burnout, so to determine my focus for any given time period, I ask myself what I most need. I also found a piece of gold in the mix just for people like me, a group for people who have experienced addiction and adoption. So I am sure to land there regularly as well. I’ve since abandoned the idea of an AA meditation group and instead certified as a Holistic Life Coach, Recovery Coach, Laughter Yoga Leader, and started Cindy’s Family Preservation Alliance, which supports pregnant women by educating them on the realities of adoption-loss, addressing their barriers to parenting, and connecting them with resources. I even assisted a woman 8500 miles away in Kenya! My goal is to open a space for wellness and healing where those of us who have experienced family separation in this way are recognized alongside those who are facing things like substance use, trauma, mental health healing, and more. Wouldn’t it be nice to address all of our issues in one place? My dedication to self-inquiry and both giving and receiving community support maintains my well-being, but it's not perfect. Some days I still struggle. However, when the darkness comes knocking now, I am able to lean in, listen to what it has to say, and give myself compassion. I recall a meme circulating the internet, an elaborated version of Gandalf’s wisdom that goes something like, “Unexpressed emotions do not die, they are buried alive and will come forth later in uglier ways.” My experience has shown this to be true, and so I am dedicated to creating space to honor and fully feel all of my emotions. My life quite literally depends on it. As it turns out, I’m not irreparable after all. About the Author: Cindy Shultz is a storyteller of survival who sows ache into wildflowers. Raised in the shadow of poverty and stigma, she journeyed through substance use and family separation to reclaim her voice and purpose. Through Cindy’s Family Preservation Alliance, she supports pregnant women with education and resource navigation. In her local community, she donates cakes to brighten birthdays and works as a Wellness and Services Coordinator at two local shelters to uplift unhoused families through holistic case management services. Certified as a Holistic Life Coach, Recovery Coach, and Laughter Yoga Leader, Cindy creates healing-centered spaces that honor the intersections of trauma, substance use, and family separation. Her work is a living testament that even in the aftermath, healing is possible—and connection is the thread that brings us back to wholeness. If you are pregnant and facing an impossible decision, reach out to Cindy here: https://www.facebook.com/familypreservationalliance SavingOurSistersAdoption.org If you are curious about healing, connect with Cindy here: https://www.facebook.com/loveandlaughterwellness or email [email protected] Cindy Recommends:
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1 Comment
9/24/2025 08:34:22 am
Cindy - I’m so sorry for what happened to you and…I love your passion for this issue. You are surely helping so many 💕 Leave a Reply. |
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