My name is Hollie Warkentin. I am 31 years old, an adoptee, and a daughter in more ways than one. I was raised by Jim and Christine Warkentin, the two people who chose me every day and showed me what unconditional love looks like in practice. Alongside them, I grew up with three siblings, Nathan, Shaylynn, and Jonathan, who shaped my childhood, my laughter, and my sense of belonging.
But my story begins before all of that. For those who do not know, my last name was once Peters. I am Sherryl’s biological daughter, and she placed me for adoption when I was born.
For as long as I can remember, I knew I was adopted. It was never a secret in my home. But knowing something and understanding it are very different things. I do not think I truly understood what adoption meant for my life, my identity, or my heart until just a couple of weeks ago.
When we learned Sherryl was in palliative care, my mom and I packed up the car without hesitation. We drove across the prairies carrying questions, emotions, and a quiet urgency I did not yet have words for.
Walking into her hospital room, everything felt fragile. Sacred. And then I heard her voice say, with unmistakable emotion, “She’s here.” In that moment, something settled inside me. Something connected. Something whole.
Early Memories of Adoption
Although I do not have many memories of Sherryl from my early years, the ones I do have are vivid in their own special way.
I remember the day my parents sat me down to explain that I was adopted. They told me that I came from another woman’s tummy. I cried because I wanted to have come from my mom’s tummy, and my little sister cried because she wished she had been adopted too. Children understand so little and feel so much.
Another memory I cherish is the first time I spoke with Sherryl, even though I did not fully understand who she was. I was mopping the floor as a young girl when our landline rang. I answered it, and a woman’s voice asked who she was speaking to. I said, “My name is Hollie.”
She asked what I was doing and how I was doing, and I told her, probably a bit dramatically, that my mom was making me wash the floor. I passed the phone to my mom, and later she asked, “Hollie, do you know who that was?” She explained that it was my birth mother. At the time, it did not feel monumental. It just was.
A Quiet, Steady Presence
As I grew older, Sherryl remained quietly present. When I turned 18, she added me on Facebook. She never asked for more than I could give. She never pushed. She simply showed up. Every year on my birthday, without fail, she wrote: “Happy birthday, my beautiful butterfly.”
I did not realize then how much that constancy mattered. How love can exist without demands. How someone can hold space for you from afar. These moments became puzzle pieces. Pieces that did not fully come together until these last few weeks.
The Funeral and the Letter
Two weeks later, I found myself attending Sherryl’s funeral. This time, my father Jim was
accompanying me. At the funeral, I read the letter I had written for Sherryl, surrounded not only by her friends, but by both her biological family and her adopted family as well. People who, moments before, had been strangers. Strangers who I would soon come to know as an extension of my own family.
Among them were people who shared my very same eyebrow furrow, my laugh, and even some of my mannerisms. It was both grounding and surreal to see pieces of myself reflected back in faces I was only just beginning to know.
After I read my letter, I found myself surrounded by these people. They shared with me that my story, and the words I had written, were something healing. Something that needed to be shared with others. What follows is that letter.
I share it now with the hope that it might offer comfort, understanding, or connection to anyone who reads it, especially those whose lives have been shaped by adoption, sacrifice, and love that often goes unseen.
Before you read it, I want to say this. Sherryl choosing adoption for me is an act of love so profound that I believe it alone has earned her one of the most honoured seats in heaven.
It was a sacrifice. It was courage. It was love in its most unselfish form. And today, as I share these words more widely, I honour her for that love. For the life she gave me, for the life she allowed me to have, and for the brief but deeply meaningful moments we shared at the end.