The Art of Forgiveness I: The Reunion with My Biological Mother

In life, our culture and upbringing can sometimes condition us to harshly judge those who have made mistakes. We then accumulate resentment, which, even when buried deep within us, eventually affects our daily lives. It influences our decisions, making some experiences heavier to bear. But is this resentment really useful? Is it a driver of success, or merely a burden that slowly eats away at us from the inside?
Sometimes, we believe that this emotion is justified, that we have no choice but to feel it toward those who, in our eyes, have wronged us. Yet, this conviction leads us to live in pain, to nurture wounds that limit our ability to grow. But what if, instead of letting this resentment consume us, we learned to transcend it? Not by forgetting, but by changing our perception of what we’ve been through.

I myself have walked this path ; a journey where forgiveness, resilience, and gratitude have allowed me to rewrite a part of my story. A story marked by the reunion with a person who has profoundly shaped my life: my biological mother.

On May 10, 2010, I was 23 years old and aboard a plane from Zurich to Bucharest. This moment had been 20 years in the making. It was the day I would finally reunite with my biological mother, the woman who gave me life and whom I hadn’t seen since early childhood. Though I was both nervous and excited, I felt surprisingly calm, enveloped in a serene stillness that seemed almost mysterious. I didn’t know it yet, but I was about to experience an unforgettable week filled with warm family reunions, where I was welcomed with immense kindness. I also uncovered many untold stories about my past in Romania, hidden truths that suddenly surfaced, answering so many long-standing questions. These revelations illuminated parts of my past that had remained in the shadows for so long.

Meeting one’s biological mother after so many years is a unique experience. Not knowing the woman who brought you into the world feels as though a part of yourself is missing. Yet, even though I had no clear image of her face, an inexplicable, profound love connected me to her.

Over time, I came to understand that our separation wasn’t an act of abandonment, but rather an act of love on her part. This revelation inspired me from a young age and helped me shape my identity. I wanted to become someone she could be proud of, someone who carried within them a distinct signature, a resilience born from that separation. And so, I transformed that painful moment into a driving force, a force for personal growth and evolution.

I had never actively sought to find her, but a few months before this trip, fate intervened. My biological aunt found me on Skype one autumn evening. A few exchanges in English, some shared photos… and for the first time, I saw my mother’s face in a picture. I saw a beautiful woman, though her face bore the marks of life’s trials. I felt an overwhelming sense of gratitude for her.
I made them a promise: once my exams were over at the end of April, I would come to Romania to meet her. The day had finally come. My biological mother would be waiting for me at the airport.

For weeks, I had been counting down to this reunion. Finally, the plane landed in Bucharest. I was just minutes away from the reunion I had long dreamed of. I walked through the airport corridors, trying to maintain a confident posture despite a slight sense of nervousness. Each step brought me closer to the moment that had existed only in my dreams for years. I felt good, alive, in perfect harmony with the present moment. This deep sense of calm during pivotal moments in my life had always been there, like a quiet strength that allowed me to fully savor each moment, no matter how intense.
At last, the doors opened, and I saw her. She was there, standing behind the barrier, signaling to me with emotion. I looked straight into her eyes, and instinctively, a wide smile lit up my face. I watched as she burst into tears and rushed toward me. We embraced tightly, and with a trembling voice, she whispered, “My son, my son…”

I reassured her with simple words: “It’s over now, I’m here, we’re together again.” The shock was greater for her. Standing at 5'4", she had once said goodbye to her child who was just three feet tall, and now she was welcoming him back as a 6'3" man.

This reunion was a powerful event, one whose magnitude I may not have fully grasped in the moment, but my past experiences had taught me to remain calm in difficult situations. I was able to comfort her, soothe her, and help her regain her composure. This moment was not just a reunion with my mother, it was a reunion with myself, with that part of my story that had long been left unresolved.

Once she had regained her composure, we began to talk. She spoke French, which made communication much easier. I looked her straight in the eyes, with newfound confidence, and in a soft but firm voice, I said, “Thank you for what you did. It was an incredibly brave act.” These words came straight from my heart, filled with deep gratitude.
What struck me, however, was her response. She seemed to believe that I hated her, that I resented her for leaving us. But for me, there was no reason to hate her. Despite my sincere words and the truth behind them, she struggled to accept this, as if she were trapped by the judgments others had cast upon her over the years. Her community had condemned her, and I could understand why she found it difficult to free herself from this guilt.

Perhaps her reaction was a form of self-protection, a way to shield herself from the wounds of the past. Isn’t it easier to sink into self-blame when those around us have judged us so harshly? Yet, those who would have had the most reason to judge her were my sister and me, and we never did. Through my words and writings, I wanted to shed light on her actions for what they truly were: an act of deep love, almost heroic, far from the abandonment others had seen. Through the art of forgiveness, I wanted to help her find peace, to free herself from the pain, and to rediscover a joy in life she had long thought lost.
If I had chosen resentment, if I had allowed bitterness to cloud this story, it would have served no one. It would have deepened her sorrow, a sorrow she didn’t deserve, and would have hidden the beauty and positivity in this incredible story. Resentment would not have healed our wounds, it would have stifled the power of this story, a story that, through forgiveness, reveals the strength of love and resilience.

Forgiveness does not mean forgetting. It means understanding that every trial, every separation, and every act can be a lesson in love and resilience. Today, I carry within me immense gratitude for this journey, for this reunion that has allowed me to grow, to learn the art of forgiveness, and to celebrate life with greater serenity.