Three-Decade Searching and Pains

Narrated by: Lily Zeng

Chinese Writer: Jin Yang

English Editor: Clyde Xi

Date: November 20, 2025

Abstract

This memoir is a firsthand testimony of a mother separated from her child under China’s one-child policy and her thirty-year journey through fear, loss, endurance, and eventual reunion. Through lived experience rather than retrospection alone, the narrative documents how state policy intruded into the most intimate realms of life, turning pregnancy into risk, motherhood into resistance, and family bonds into crimes. While reunion ultimately brings connection and relief, the story insists on remembering the irreversible damage inflicted on countless families and the scars that time itself cannot erase.

The text that follows is presented in its original form. No content has been altered, abridged, or rewritten. Only section subtitles have been added to assist reading.

Fear under the Policy

For these thirty years, I have been haunted by nightmares, often jolting awake in the middle of the night, feeling as though my memories keep returning to those days of hiding. Helplessness, coercion, and utter powerlessness weigh on my heart like a heavy stone. Time and again, I struggled, only to be left bruised and battered by reality.

It was from the 1980s to the early 1990s, a time when the enforcement of the one-child policy still allowed for some flexibility. In rural areas, many families whose first child was a girl, influenced by the agrarian notion of “continuing the family line,” would secretly plan to have another child. They dared not go to a proper hospital or seek out a private clinic. They should have worried about fatal complications during childbirth, but they feared being reported for violating the policy even more. They could only grit their teeth and deliver their babies at home, entirely on their own. After the child was born, they would discreetly pay some money or an “over-quota birth” fine. Only then would the matter be barely settled, without further investigation. Meanwhile, the belief that “only sons can carry on the family legacy and strengthen the household” was deeply ingrained in the countryside. Families without boys were considered “weak and easy to bully,” unable to hold their heads high in the village. Yet the one-child policy was upheld by society at large as an “ironclad law benefiting the nation and its people.” People around us blindly believed in it and resolutely enforced it. No one dared to question whether this policy concealed the suffering of families being torn apart.

Pregnancy in Hiding

In 1995, my sister-in-law and I became pregnant at nearly the same time. It was her first child, and she calmly enjoyed the attentive care and support of both families. I, however, was pregnant with my second child and had already heard troubling rumors: that year’s birth quota in our town had been issued, and it would be strictly enforced. As my belly grew day by day, what I could no longer hide was not only the gradually forming life inside me, but also the anxiety and panic weighing on my heart. Relatives and friends who had initially encouraged me to have a second child quickly changed their attitude upon hearing the news, advising me “not to go against the general trend.” But I could already feel the fetal movements clearly—signs of the child struggling and striving to grow inside me. She was so healthy, so eager to come into this world. How could I bear to snuff out this vibrant life? Whether a boy or a girl, she was my own flesh and blood! I was more educated than the average rural woman and genuinely believed in gender equality, but when confronted with reality, this conviction felt fragile and powerless. I had heard of several cases in which women hiding their second pregnancies were discovered by the Director of the Women’s Union. Those pregnant women were forcibly taken to hospitals for induced labor, their babies already five or six months along. Just thinking about it felt unspeakably cruel—this policy truly pushed people to the brink.

My father was still working as a middle school teacher then. He sympathized deeply with my situation and suggested that I go to his home in SC Province, more than 1,000 kilometers from JY, to have the baby. At the time, we had been married for only five years, and I had no control over our finances. The elders in the family, afraid that taking such risks would affect future generations, firmly opposed my having a second child and refused to offer any financial support. My husband had to borrow money from everywhere he could, scraping together the travel expenses. Carrying this “life-saving money,” holding the hand of my elder daughter—who should have started kindergarten that fall—and wearing an ill-fitting coat to tightly conceal my protruding belly, I boarded the train to SC. I simply could not bear to leave my young daughter behind, choosing instead to take her with me on this difficult journey rather than entrust her to others in JY.

The days in SC were the only bright spot in that dark period. At the time, many young people in SC had left to work as migrant laborers elsewhere, and the one-child policy was not strictly enforced there. Combined with my father’s standing in the local community, I was able to spend a peaceful and joyful final trimester. My older daughter learned to speak authentic SC dialect there. Though she did not attend kindergarten on time, she was showered with affection by her grandparents, made new friends, learned to sing and dance, and was utterly adorable. On the night of November 1, 1995, my second daughter was born. The doctor said she was healthy and had a strong, resonant cry. In that moment, I felt that all the running and hiding had been worth it. Bringing her into this world against all odds was the most correct decision I had ever made. Little did I know that my husband, back in JY, was being repeatedly interrogated by the family planning office. Under immense pressure, he refused to disclose our whereabouts, tried to maintain an appearance of business as usual, continued going to work to earn money, and secretly sent us support. He later recalled that hearing my voice and that of our older daughter over the phone each time was the only small relief from the pressure—his ordeal was no less severe than mine.

Flight and Entrapment

After being away from JY for more than half a year, people had long suspected that I was hiding in order to have a child. Some ill-intentioned individuals began trying every possible way to find out our whereabouts from my husband. Kind-hearted and overly trusting, my husband believed the words of a so-called “friend.” This person claimed to know leaders in the town and said that by spending some money, our second daughter’s household registration could be settled. He advised us to return to JY with our one-month-old baby to “take care of the formalities.” Overjoyed, we took the two-day train journey back to JY. But the moment we arrived home, the Director of the Women’s Union barged in with a group from the family planning office, clamoring to take the child away: “You violated the policy—it’s illegal! You have no right to raise this child; she must be sent to the orphanage!”

My heart felt as if a knife had sliced through it. Holding my swaddled daughter, I knelt on the ground, pleading desperately, saying that the baby was just over a month old, and begging them to grant us a few more days of grace—just enough time for me to feed her a few more times. Relatives and friends also pleaded on our behalf, saying we were honest and decent people, and that the child was simply too small. But they remained completely unmoved. They even threatened to start moving furniture and dismantling the house, saying they would take these things to offset the over-quota birth fine, and that they also intended to take me away for sterilization surgery. My husband tried to appease them with forced smiles and offered cigarettes. Only after prolonged persuasion did they relent, leaving with the words, “Make a decision quickly—we’ll be back another day.”

During those days, I lived in constant terror of being separated from my child, often waking from nightmares. Looking at my little daughter sleeping peacefully in my arms after feeding, I could not bear the thought of letting her go—I had to find another way! At that time, my elder brother and younger sister had both settled in JT. My brother’s second child had been born in SC in 1991, when the policy was not so strict, and nothing had happened to them. My brother, deeply sympathetic to our situation, found a good family near his home who were willing to lend us an empty room as a temporary shelter. We thought we could raise the child in JT first, and once the policy relaxed, bring her back to JY to properly raise both of our daughters.

But the family planning office people were incredibly resourceful. Somehow, they found out that my brother was in JT and directly detained him for questioning about our whereabouts. My husband rushed overnight to the temporary shelter in JT, his face ashen, telling me, “They are determined to take the child this time. They won’t accept a fine; they want us to taste the pain of separation as punishment for our ‘mistake.’” Holding my child, I felt the world begin to spin. Helplessness, self-blame, and utter devastation almost overwhelmed me—she was my own flesh and blood! How could I never see her again in this lifetime?

Forced Separation

My husband asked everywhere and finally learned from a friend that a couple who had been married for many years without children might be able to register the child under their name. That way, the child would be considered their firstborn and legally recognized. Though “transferring” my child to others felt like having my heart carved out, when I thought of her being sent to an orphanage, alone and helpless, I gritted my teeth and agreed. I dressed my child in pretty baby clothes.

Watching that couple hold her with joyful expressions, my heart ached as if pierced by countless needles. They demanded that, for the child’s sake, we sever all contact from that point on, in order to legitimize their “parent-child relationship.” After several sleepless nights of agonizing struggle, we ultimately nodded in reluctant agreement.

Longing flooded me day and night like the tide. I could not help but secretly go near their home, watching my child from afar. Seeing her basking in the sunlight, drinking milk, and being comforted the moment she cried, I hid behind a utility pole, feeling a measure of comfort, telling myself that as long as she was well cared for, it was enough. But unexpectedly, less than two months later, that couple brought the child back. They said they were pregnant themselves and needed to register their own biological child, so they could no longer raise our daughter. 

The moment my child was brought back, I felt both joy and deep anxiety: joy at being able to hold her again, and worry because the household registration issue remained unresolved. As expected, the family planning office people soon took my husband away once more, detaining him for interrogation and threatening that if we did not hand over the child, it would not only affect everyone’s jobs in the family but also jeopardize the children’s future education. Alone, holding my younger daughter and leading my older daughter, I confronted them at home. They were aggressive, saying that my having a second child was “imposing a burden on society,” and that “only by taking the child away—leaving you with one child under your name—could you become a glorious one-child family.”

I still remember that, at the time, our next-door neighbors’ daughter was also pregnant with a second child. The family planning office people were hunting the family everywhere, even chasing her parents into the wheat fields, pressuring them to reveal their daughter’s whereabouts so they could take her for an induced abortion. Those days were simply a period of madness and irrational history. How many women, after induced abortions, were immediately subjected to sterilization surgery, fitted with IUDs, and plagued by gynecological problems for the rest of their lives—left with chronic health damage, their bodies never fully recovering.

I clutched my child tightly, refusing to let go, negotiating with them all the while. Just then, my husband once again placed his trust in someone’s words. They said that a certain couple had strong connections within the government; although they already had a son, no one would dare question them raising a daughter. They demanded that we stay away until she grew up and the policy improved, and tell her the truth only when the time was right. We felt as if we had grabbed a lifeline, relieved that we had finally found someone who could protect the child. That very night, we secretly took the child to them, slipping them a note with the child’s birthdate—I clearly wrote: Lunar calendar, September 9, 1995, which corresponds to November 1 on the Gregorian calendar. Watching them skillfully care for the child, and thinking that with their parenting experience they would surely treat her well, I left with a heart full of pain.

By then, my daughter was almost nine months old. I could not help but violate the agreement, secretly visiting her several times. Seeing them teaching her to sit, and guiding her as she learned to stand by holding onto the wall, my heart felt both comforted and aching. These visits angered the couple, who accused me of breaking my word. Afraid that they might truly abandon the child, I had to steel my heart and never go again, burying my longing for my daughter deep within me.

But not long afterward, that couple suddenly came to tell us that the family planning office was going to demolish their house and had even threatened to jail them, so they had already handed the child over to the family planning office. Later, I realized that this was likely a staged performance orchestrated by them and the family planning office—first lulling us into a false sense of security, then seizing on a pretext to take the child away, all in one seamless move. Trembling with rage, I went to the orphanage to inquire about my daughter’s whereabouts. But the staff drove me out, coldly saying, “The children here are all orphans; there is no child of yours! If you dare claim that your second child is here, that is illegal, and you will be charged!”

I later learned that as soon as an orphanage received a new child, they would immediately contact adoptive families. Many second-born children from policy-violating births and abandoned infants were quickly adopted out. That was the year when the policy was at its strictest. From then on, I could no longer find any trace of my daughter.

Enduring Pain, Enduring Love

Life had to go on. My husband and I could only gather our strength and carry on. Our older daughter gradually grew up, always remembering that she had a sister and often talking about finding her. We also kept watch for girls nearby who resembled our older daughter, not daring to ask questions, only observing from afar. Time and again, we set out full of hope, only to return disappointed, again and again. I often dreamed of a blurred face—sometimes resembling my second daughter as an infant, sometimes as she might look when grown. I would often stare at my older daughter in a daze, imagining where my younger daughter was at that very moment, how she was doing, and what she looked like.

Finally, when the country opened up the two-child policy, having a second child at last became legal—and I felt an indescribable sense of absurdity, mixed with deep helplessness. My older daughter learned that by giving a DNA blood sample, one’s information could be entered into the Chinese Search for Relatives Blood Bank. We spent 600 yuan, and after giving the blood sample, there followed a long, anxious wait. My older daughter specifically contacted the welfare institution, asking whether there were any girls born in 1995 who had been adopted overseas. The response was negative, suggesting that we search domestically instead. For all those years, we had always believed that the child was somewhere within the country, never knowing that the welfare institution had long ago altered our second daughter’s birthdate to February 1996 and fabricated a record stating that she had been “abandoned at the entrance of the Shanguan Town Government office”—a claim that completely contradicted the truth.

After our reunion, my daughter told us that her adoptive mother had mentioned that among a group of children, she appeared to be the oldest infant, while many of the others were clearly born in 1996. And that birth certificate listing February 29, 1996, was utterly absurd—the note I had written with my own hands clearly stated November 1, 1995. How could it have become like this? Later, I came to understand. Perhaps these were all “necessary modifications” made under the special circumstances of that time: changing the birthdate was meant to prevent us from tracing her based on the real date, while fabricating the abandonment location was intended to legitimize her “orphan status.” They sought to use these methods to completely sever any possibility of a mother–daughter reunion. Looking back now, it is impossible not to see how utterly wicked and cruel these acts were. Or perhaps making the child younger also made her more appealing for adoption, since adoptive parents generally believed that adopting an infant was more suitable than adopting an older child with memories. I do not wish to dwell too much on their precise motives.

Fortunately, perseverance was rewarded. When the message announcing a successful match arrived, I could hardly believe my ears. Thirty years of longing and torment, countless days and nights of restless tossing and turning, finally found their resting place in that moment. Yet even after our reunion, I still often jolt awake in the night, instinctively reaching for my phone, opening the chat history with my daughter, and scrolling through the photos we took after we were reunited—in the pictures, she smiles with crescent-shaped eyes, nestled close to my older daughter and me, our family finally whole. Looking at these tangible traces, I can at last feel completely at ease, telling myself that this is not a dream—my daughter has truly returned. Those days of hiding, and the pain of being torn apart from one’s own flesh and blood, have long been carved into my bones; yet in the instant of seeing those photos, all of it transforms into a warmth that fills my heart.

Over the years, my nervous system has deteriorated badly, accompanied by chronic sleep disorders. Seeing numerous doctors has brought little improvement; I can only rely on medication to help me sleep. I have never dared to tell my second daughter about these sufferings. She is sunny, confident, and generous. Looking at the photos she compiled herself, tracing her life from childhood to adulthood, all of them bearing the marks of being cherished and protected, I feel my heart filled with endless self-reproach and guilt—for failing to protect her properly back then, for allowing her to endure turmoil she never should have faced—and also with boundless pride, that she has not been scarred by the past, and has grown into the most beautiful version of herself. I sincerely hope that she can carry this optimism and vitality with her forever, always living freely and happily.

Many other mothers, like myself, who endured those horrific days wish we could erase that dark and shattered period of our lives. On the surface, everything seems to have passed; but in our hearts, those memories have long taken deep root, indelible, becoming a scar etched into our lives, one that can never fully heal.

Follow-up Notes from the Searching Volunteer

On August 20, 2025, volunteers from the JY search group informed the birth mother that her daughter, Yang Xing, had been found. Before the formal online reunion, I saw for the first time a video of the birth mother recorded by the volunteers. Her visible excitement, pain, choked-back sobs, and overwhelming emotion made it immediately clear to me that this was yet another family forcibly torn apart decades earlier.

The online reunion was arranged for August 29. The family recognized Yang Xing instantly upon seeing her on screen. No DNA confirmation was needed at that moment, as she bore a striking resemblance to her elder sister. After the online meeting, Yang Xing quickly began the process of applying for a visa to travel to China for an in-person reunion in JY.

After thirty years of separation, she returned to her hometown on November 15, 2025, where she was warmly welcomed by her family. I was also privileged to attend their reunion and share in their joy. Her family held a celebratory banquet. The father spoke emotionally about his longing for his daughter over the past three decades and expressed his gratitude to the search volunteers. Yang Xing also shared photographs from her childhood through adulthood with her family and guests.

For more than ten years prior, the family—encouraged by their elder daughter—had paid to submit blood samples to various DNA databases, but received no match. In 2024, the father, with the assistance of JY search volunteers, submitted blood samples to the national DNA database. Unknown to the family, Yang Xing mailed her DNA sample from the United States through the Nanchang Project on July 29, 2025; it matched with her biological parents on August 13. This reunion felt like a quiet yet powerful testament to the unseen pull of love.

The reunion drew attention from several media outlets and generated many online comments, yet none addressed how she had been separated from her family. No one wished to touch that painful and taboo chapter of history.

Jin YangNovember 29, 2025

Follow-up Notes from the Editor

I met Yang Xin and her birth family while volunteering as an interpreter during their online reunion meetings. Over the past two years, I have participated in many such occasions, but this one affected me deeply. I felt a strong connection to both the adoptee and her birth family, and I was humbled by their trust and openness throughout our many conversations. This experience deepened my conviction that, among all the victims of the family planning policy, mothers suffered the most—yet they are the most easily misunderstood and the most often overlooked.

I followed Yang Xin’s reunion journey closely and witnessed the celebrations that accompanied it—parades, fireworks, banquets, and gift-giving. I marveled at how society and individuals are able to quickly transform past darkness into present festivity. In the Bible, Joseph tells his brothers at their reunion, “You intended to harm me, but God intended it for good.” But are we meant simply to forget the evils of the past and learn nothing from them?

Many of those who carried out these policies are still alive today, and some may continue to wield power in their communities—unrepentant and unshaken. For this reason, I have chosen to maintain anonymity by withholding real names and specific locations to protect the family. I am also unable to share photographs or other identifying materials. Nevertheless, I hope this story stands as a powerful witness to these man-made tragedies and offers recognition of the atrocities committed against millions of women and mothers.

On the website Village of the Stars, we have created a section called History Corner, dedicated to documenting and restoring the blood-and-tears history of the family planning era, in order to commemorate all who suffered. Beyond remembering history and learning from its lessons, we hope these writings will help adoptees understand the circumstances faced by their birth mothers—allowing compassion, understanding, and a measure of release to emerge—and ultimately enabling them to face their origins and identities and reconcile with the past.

We know that many adoptees and birth mothers will never be reunited, and that their pain will persist in silence. This mother’s story is offered as a tribute—and a prayer—for them.

Clyde Xi

January 25, 2026