A Mother’s Search with an Aching Heart

Original Author: Jin Yang

Editor: Clyde Xi

Source: Nanchang Project

4/15/2023

Birth Parents

Two days ago, I met a mother in Zhenjiang, Jiangsu Province, who has spent many years searching online for her daughter. In phone calls and WeChat messages, she told me that she has not gone a single day without thinking of her child since the moment the baby was taken from her.

Her daughter was born on September 30, 1995, her second child. The birth took place in secret in Xinba Village, Yangzhong. At the time, China’s family planning policy did not permit a second child, and the penalties were far beyond what her family could afford.

She never wanted to give her baby away. But under the pressure of fines and enforcement, she felt she had no choice. Through an intermediary, she looked for adoptive parents—hoping to find a family with stable living conditions and no other children. She believed this would give her daughter a better life and thought she might still be able to see her again someday. About a month after the birth, on October 30, 1995, the intermediary found an adoptive family and took the baby away.

From that moment on, the ache of her child’s absence never left her.

Nearly five years later, in 2000, she contacted the intermediary again and managed to locate the adoptive family. She learned that the adoptive mother was blind, as was her son, and that the family had hoped to raise a healthy child. When the birth mother arrived, the adoptive mother held her and wept. She explained that local family planning officials had discovered the adoption did not meet official requirements.

The child had stayed with that family for only about one month before being taken away by force and sent to the Zhenjiang Dingmao Welfare Institution. The adoptive mother later tried to return the baby to the birth mother through the intermediary, but she was unable to make contact.

When the child was about six months old, the adoptive father went to the welfare institution to ask about her. He was told that the child’s photograph had already been sent overseas. When he returned later, he was informed that the child had been adopted.

That same year, when the birth mother learned for the first time that her child had been sent to a welfare institution, she went there herself to search. Staff refused to provide any information. She noticed that only three disabled children remained and realized her healthy baby was no longer there. From that point on, every lead went cold.

She has never stopped aching for her child. She often cries alone late at night. She dreams repeatedly that her daughter is still an infant, sleeping beside her. When she wakes, the dream dissolves, and time rushes back—her daughter has grown up without her.

In Chinese culture, giving up a child carries deep stigma, and searching publicly requires enormous courage. The mother said:

“I live with profound guilt for not protecting my child. Any loss of face means nothing compared to the guilt I carry for her. I do not ask for forgiveness, and I expect nothing in return. I only hope to know that my child is healthy and safe. Only then can my heart be at peace.”

She added:

“Another reason I keep searching is my fear that my daughter will grow up without knowing her own history. If one day she looks for her birth family, I don’t want her to lose her way. That is why I must step forward. I will submit my DNA to every database I can find, even though it is an arduous process. I will put my search information online as a lighthouse to guide her home. When she looks for me, the light will be there. I will be waiting. She will not have to search in darkness. She will not be afraid. The door of our home will always be open.”

As a searching volunteer, I want to offer these words to adoptees:

You were not abandoned. What happened was a tragedy shaped by a specific time and a specific policy. Many separations were not choices. Your birth parents have carried you in their hearts all these years.

I see myself as a bridge—across time, distance, nationality, culture, religion, and language—helping birth parents and adoptees find one another, and, where possible, move toward understanding and healing. 

Editor’s Note

Stories like this are not rare, but they are rarely spoken aloud. For many families separated under family planning enforcement, silence became a means of survival. Records vanished. Choices narrowed. Grief was carried privately for decades.

This mother’s search reflects a larger, unresolved history—often labeled “abandonment,” but more truthfully understood as separation under pressure. To tell these stories is not to reopen wounds, but to acknowledge them, and to remind us that love does not end when separation is forced.

Since this story was first written, the mother has located her daughter, now living in San Diego, California. Although the daughter has done well, rebuilding their relationship has been difficult. Some losses cannot be undone, and some years cannot be recovered—but truth still matters.

Clyde Xi

February 4, 2026