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Walk This Journey With Us

Have you ever come close to finishing a puzzle, only to discover there are a few pieces missing?

Have you ever read a mystery that has no resolution?

Have you ever forgotten a word or a name that sends you on a search for clues to help you remember?

Have you ever heard a song and felt it was missing a verse?

Have you ever become lost in a place that should be familiar to you?

What if those missing puzzle pieces were your family medical history?

What if the unresolved part of that mystery involved the names and information about your birth parents?

What if that forgotten word or name was actually a key to unlocking a past that you have forgotten or is entirely unknown to you?

What if that missing verse could reveal vital details of your birth and your life prior to your adoption?

What if that unfamiliar place is the racial or cultural community with which you identify?

Please do not ever tell an adoptee who is grieving their losses or searching for answers to get over it, or focus on living in the present, or to just leave their past behind them and move on.

By doing so, you are attempting to disenfranchise our grief.

It may help you feel better about the situation, but what you are actually doing is attempting to minimize or invalidate our pain and our feelings about our lived experiences.

And, that is not so much about us and what is in our best interests—that is about you.

Because you are uncomfortable allowing us to sit with our pain.

Because you are worried about what we might find and whether those answers will somehow reflect on you as a parent and your perceived importance in our lives.

Because you don’t understand how we can be stuck in a state of grief and emptiness when you feel you have given us the world.

Because you feel threatened by the fact that we could love someone who chose not to or was unable to parent us as much as we love you who adopted us.

Because you cannot fix our pain or fill the void in our lives—and it is heartbreaking to know your child is hurting and not have the ability to heal their wounds.

Please remember that this is not about you, nor is it a reflection of you as a parent.

It is about our need to grieve our losses,
to sit with and process our pain,
to work through our trauma histories,
to search for information that may be vital to our identity formation,
to reconnect with our roots,
to find a place to belong,
to find out who we are and where we came from,
and to work on healing the hurts from our past.

Support us and do your best to understand what we are going through.

If you don’t have the words that we need to hear in the moment, don’t say anything at all.
Just be there.
Sit with us in silence.
In those moments, your presence will speak louder than your words.
Because sometimes there are no words.
And, that is okay.

Walk this journey with us, but please don’t ever ask us to stray from or abandon it.

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I Am Someone’s Daughter: Supporting Your Child as a Transracially Adoptive Parent

Note: I want to acknowledge the fact that transracial adoption encompasses a diverse spectrum of family compositions. However, a vast majority of the transracially adoptive families with whom I have worked include white parents who have adopted children of color. This disproportionality is reflected across the board in all types of adoption, so this post was written with this specific family composition in mind.

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I truly appreciate those who do not experience the world as people of color who are fighting the fight for and alongside people who do. Because the onus of educating others about how it feels to be a person of color in this world should not fall on the shoulders of those who experience it. Because—regardless of the messages people of color attempt to convey—the messages are often somehow viewed as more valid and more accepted when they are shared by those who are not people of color.

Because people of color need to know their place.
Because people of color need to assimilate.
Because people of color must remain silent.
Because people of color are more accepted when they don’t fight back.

It is your responsibility, especially as transracially adoptive parents, to educate yourselves and those around you.

To read.
To listen.
To open your hearts and your minds to the messages being shared.
To wholeheartedly immerse yourselves and your family in the communities with which your child identifies.

I have written about and shared my thoughts on many issues relating to adoption throughout the years, but the one issue that exhausts me the most to write about is race. Because there are people who refuse to believe that racism exists. There are people who refuse to accept the fact that the world will view their children of color differently. There are people who refuse to accept the fact that their children of color will experience the world differently.

Because they don’t see color.
Because they know and are friends with people of color.
Because there is a family of color in their neighborhood.
Because their family and their community are inclusive of people of color.
Because they love all humans, regardless of the color of their skin.

You cannot truly love or accept people of color if you refuse to listen to them.
If you refuse to accept their reality—their truth.
If you refuse to hear their messages because they hurt too much—because they may reflect realities about yourself that are difficult to acknowledge and accept.

If you are not willing to listen and learn from people of color—regardless of how difficult the messages are to hear—you cannot truly love or accept them.

No, I absolutely do not attribute all of the evils and injustices of the world to race.
Yes, I absolutely believe that we should hold ourselves accountable for our words and our actions.
No, I do not believe that everything is about race.
Yes, I do believe that a lot of the hate and political unrest that currently exists in our country is race-related.

Because some things ARE about race.

As a child, every time I saw someone pull their eyes back when looking at me, I learned that the world saw me as different.

Every time I heard the taunts about “dirty knees”, I learned that the world saw me as inferior.

Every time I heard someone tell me to “go back to where [I] came from”, I was reminded that I didn’t belong.

The first time I heard someone call me a “chink bitch”, I learned that the world was not a safe place for people like me.

And, the first time I heard my brown son say, “Mom? People are going to treat me differently because I am darker than my brother, aren’t they?” I knew that the world was not a safe place for people like my sons either.

The world teaches people of color how to externalize racism when we experience microaggressions and macroaggressions;
when our experiences and truths are invalidated, minimized, or completely denied;
when we are told that we have created our own oppression;
when we are told that we make everything about race;
when our messages are met with defensiveness and hatred and vitriol;
when we are forced to assimilate;
when we are forced to remain silent.

When you look at your child, you may see them as beautiful;
you see them as a gift;
you see their talents and abilities;
you see possibility;
you see their future;
you see them for who they truly are.

When others see your child, they will immediately make judgments about your child based on their outer appearance. What others see in your child will determine the way they interact with your child—if they choose to do so at all.

And, the reality is that the world may view your child as “cute” or “adorable” or “safe” now, but god-willing—your child will become an adult some day—and the world will undoubtedly view your child differently as they age.
The world may grow to fear your child as your child grows—for no other reason than the color of their skin.

It is your job as their parent to help prepare your child for the realities of the world. Because that is an aspect of what you signed up for when you chose to adopt transracially or transculturally.

If you are unable to hear the messages of people of color who are not known to you, and your first instinct is to put your defenses up and attack—how do you expect to create a safe and open environment in which your child can talk to you about race and their experiences with racism?

While it may be easy for you to hide behind your computer or phone and spew hatred or vehemently deny the experiences of people of color—it is exhausting and heartbreaking and infuriating to be a person of color who is pouring our hearts out to you and sharing our thoughts and experiences with you (or elevating the voices and experiences of other people of color), only to be attacked and to have our realities invalidated in such hateful and hurtful ways.

When I write posts like these or anything race-related, I literally have to brace myself before posting.

Because the responses are often the same.
Because there will always be people who don’t want to hear the messages I am attempting to convey.
Because there will always be people who are so offended and so angered by our truths, that they choose to attack blindly.
Because I am not their daughter.

I am telling you now that I am someone’s daughter.
And, what I have to say matters.

Please listen.
Please learn.

Because what I am telling you will undoubtedly become your child’s truth or experience at some point in their lives—and it is your job to prepare them for the realities of the world.

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Yes, I Am Racist (And I Am Doing Something About It)

I, like many others, believe that racism is inherent and that we all harbor racist beliefs—to a degree. Yes, you read that right. I am saying that I am racist.

Am I comfortable saying that about myself? Absolutely not.

Do I fear the ramifications of my acknowledging my own biases? Yes, absolutely.

Am I going to put this out there any way? Hell yes.

Why, you ask? Because I would be doing a great disservice to myself and to others by refusing to acknowledge that aspect of who I am.

By definition, racism is the belief that one’s own race is superior to another. Racism is also further defined as the belief that some characteristics or abilities are specific to a certain race and, in turn, determine the superiority or inferiority of that race. These beliefs can often lead to discrimination and prejudice against people whose racial identities differ than our own.

When I acknowledge that I am racist, I am not referring to the perpetuation of the stereotypical vile and hate-filled bigotry that we often see attached to the term. I am referring to the fact that I lack the knowledge and understanding of what it means to be a member of a different racial group, and that can sometimes lead to my making snap judgments about others before actually knowing who they are and what they have to offer the world.

I am acknowledging that I lack the knowledge and understanding of what it means to be a member of my own racial group as well. I was not raised within the Asian community. I was raised in a Caucasian community with the understanding that I was different and the more I embraced assimilation, the easier it would be to exist as an outsider within that world. When I am surrounded by other Asians, I feel lost and completely out of my element. I don’t know how to exist in that world to which I belong only by virtue of physical attributes.

Do I choose to avoid situations in which I feel uncomfortable due to my race? Absolutely not. Because it is through those moments of discomfort and insecurity that I end up learning the most about others and myself.

I am not going to lie. When I engage in conversations about race with people—especially whose racial identities are not reflective of my own—I often feel very insecure and somewhat overwhelmed. Not because I don’t want to be surrounded by people who don’t look like me, or because I don’t want to be a part of those conversations. I feel uncomfortable because I don’t know what it is like to live in their skin. I can be supportive of their lived experiences and the battles they face on a daily basis because of the way the world views them, and I can stand in solidarity with them, but I will never be able to fully understand what it is like to exist in the world with a racial identity different than my own. While I cannot walk in the shoes of others—nor would it necessarily be appropriate for me to attempt to do so—I can and do make a concerted effort to seek out opportunities to learn and grow in my knowledge of the issues. This includes learning about the historical trauma deeply rooted within their race that may affect the way they have been taught to interact with the world.

Conversations around race would be a lot more effective if we would stop being so defensive and so focused on finding reasons as to why we aren’t racist and start acknowledging and owning the truths about why we are. Too many people avoid true introspection because of the fear of what they may learn about themselves. It takes a lot of strength and courage to acknowledge our shortcomings—to walk into the darkest parts of ourselves with eyes wide open. What we often fail to realize is that—it is within those places of darkness that we will find some of the most important and enlightening opportunities from which to learn.

The thing about acknowledging your own racist beliefs and personal biases is that you can also make the choice to not allow yourself to remain stuck there. Do you acknowledge the racism inherent within you, own it, and do the work to educate yourself and grow in your understanding and knowledge of the issues in an attempt to rise above? Or, do you refuse to open yourself up to the possibility that you may be racist and knowingly (or unknowingly) continue to perpetuate those racist beliefs?

You, alone, have the power to make that choice.

Educating yourself in an effort to rise above the racism inherent within you means just that—you seek out the opportunities to learn and grow. While engaging in conversations about race with people of color is extremely important, you also need to be willing to do your own work and not rely on people of color to educate you about their race. Because, honestly, it can be hard enough to exist in this world as people of color, that trying to educate other people about your race can be a greater burden than many of us can bear. And, while truly learning about race and privilege is not possible without a willingness to be vulnerable, it is often the people of color who are attacked for trying to educate others or sharing about their lived experiences. If you are able to lower your defenses long enough to truly listen to the messages of people of color, though oftentimes somewhat difficult to hear, you will discover that a majority of us share about our experiences to educate others—not to attack.

It is not easy to acknowledge the unfavorable aspects of who we are. And, our responses to messages about racism, privilege, entitlement, and fragility are often reflective of our own insecurities. Conversations about race and privilege are often wrought with “us vs. them” mentalities—which often lead to heightened defensiveness and messages falling on deaf ears.

These conversations would be much more effective if we are willing and open to acknowledging that, as humans, we are deeply flawed and we all have work to do—starting with ourselves. We need to be willing to truly listen to the messages that are being shared and think introspectively about how we unconsciously perpetuate racist beliefs and our personal biases and what we need to do to break the cycle. We need to attempt to see the world through diverse lenses and engage in meaningful conversations about how we can work together to more peacefully and productively coexist.

The fight against racism starts with you. It starts with me, too. And, I will forever be a deeply flawed work in progress with an infinite amount to learn in this regard.

How about you? Are you willing to do the work?

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The silence is so deafening and the depths of loneliness can sometimes feel like an endless abyss. There are many, many days where I am very present in the moment and I can feel my heart open to the love and support around me. I cherish those moments and hold onto them for dear life in hopes that they will help me through the inevitable dark moments—the moments that feel so suffocating and heavy where I am surrounded by loved ones, but can’t seem to shake the feeling of being so completely and utterly alone, or where I find myself briefly letting my walls down and pouring my heart out—only to be left feeling so heartbreakingly dismissed and unheard.

Can one ever truly understand how excruciating, hopeless, and complex it can sometimes feel for some people to simply exist?

There will always be people who understand your heartbreak and your grief in their own way, but they will never truly know how you carry your pain and how you feel your pain. They can never know what it feels like to spend your whole life trying to repair the broken pieces of your heart. They can never truly know what it feels like for you—the despair in knowing that the missing pieces of the puzzle will always exist…the heartbreak in acknowledging the voids in your life that no amount of love, or answers, or connections will ever be able to fill.

There will always be people with lived experiences similar to your own, but they can never truly know how you have experienced your life and what life feels like for you.

I fail to find the words to adequately describe what it feels like to sit in a room with people you have known and loved your entire life and feel like you don’t fit and that you never truly belonged. Like you are the consummate stranger. Like you will spend your entire life forever trying to prove yourself and prove your worth and that your life has value when the actions of others have caused you to feel otherwise. Like you have somehow failed your loved ones by never being able to fully heal, to fully let go, to fully embrace them and let them in, and fully believe that they won’t one day decide to leave you or decide that you’re not good enough.

No words can fully describe the guilt of knowing how hard they tried and how hard they have fought for you…how hard you have tried and how hard you have fought for them.

But you just…couldn’t.

Because, even as adults with partners and children of our own—it can feel impossible to shake that ever-present fear of loss. It can feel impossible to allow yourself to open your heart and trust the people in your life after being hurt time and time again. They may not even be the source of the hurt or the broken trust, but they pay for it.

You pay dearly for it, too.

It sometimes feels as though it has cost us everything.

Our relationships.

Our ability to open our hearts to give and receive love.

Our ability to believe that love can and should exist without condition.

Our ability to embrace who we are and find value in our existence and all we have to offer the world.

Our ability to experience life and be open to truly living it.

How do you grieve the loss of someone you don’t remember knowing? How do you miss a voice you don’t remember hearing? How do you miss the warmth of an embrace you are not sure you ever felt?

The ever-present messages intending to minimize or explain away your pain and disallow your need to grieve your losses demand a level of acceptance, submission, healing, and resiliency that some may never be able to achieve.

Because how do we get over it, really?

How do we trust the people we love and care about to sit with our pain without attempting to fix it—to fix us? How do we trust them to not attempt to minimize or explain away our pain? How do we allow them to attempt to understand the level of pain we are feeling if we are too afraid to open up to them in that way? If we don’t understand it ourselves? How do we allow them to acknowledge and validate our pain and show empathy and compassion without feeling like a victim or like the poster child for brokenness?

How can anyone—including ourselves—attempt to understand how profoundly we have been impacted by our lived experiences when nobody will ever know the whole story?

An Adoptee Unsilenced

I have worked in the child welfare and adoption field for well over a decade—starting out as a volunteer Guardian ad Litem, and as an adoption professional working with parents and young adults who have experienced foster care and adoption. I also have my own journey as an adoptee to add to that experience. I would never say that I have seen it all, but I have certainly seen and heard a number of different adoption-related stories and perspectives throughout my life.

One thing I have often seen and experienced that I have found increasingly upsetting is the double standard that exists within the adoption conversation—especially between parents and people who were adopted. Time and time again, I have seen people contributing to the adoption narrative who are given a free pass to say really awful and insensitive things about adoption and adoptees because they “didn’t mean any harm”. And, while others defend their ignorance and lack of understanding, adoptees are shamed for speaking out and our feelings about the issues are minimized and disregarded.

Adoptees are constantly subjected to attempts to minimize or explain away our thoughts and feelings surrounding our adoption journeys and the way we—and adoption in general—are portrayed. We have a right to feel the way we do about our experiences. We have a right to acknowledge and mourn the losses in our lives. We have a right to share what is on our minds and in our hearts without being subjected to a barrage of comments about how we need to be more positive, more tolerant, more understanding, or more grateful.

I realize the messages that are shared are not always easy to hear. It is difficult to learn that you might be doing something wrong, and it can be downright disconcerting and defeating at times. I get it. I truly do. And I can tell you that as an adoptee, a mom, and an adoption professional—I often feel disheartened and defeated, too.

I understand that it’s difficult to not take it personally. But, it’s important to know that adoptees’ feelings about adoption are often very complex, and that isn’t necessarily about you or who you are as a parent. It is often about our need to process it all and find a way to shape our identities and fill the void caused by the unknowns and missing pieces in our lives.

We are fighting so desperately to be heard, to have our feelings about our experiences acknowledged and validated—to feel like, if we say it loud enough and often enough, that what we have to share might actually make a difference and might begin to change the narrative that too often only allows for positive perspectives on adoption.

Please stop trying to silence us.

Please stop trying to explain away our pain.

Please stop making excuses for people who don’t understand the issues and need to be educated and willing to have the conversations that are necessary to reach a place of understanding.

Please understand that the entire trajectory of our lives has been shaped by decisions that have been made by other people. As adults, the last thing we want or need is to deal with people who attempt to control and censor our thoughts and feelings about our lives and issues that affect us because what we have to say doesn’t align with their beliefs or because it is uncomfortable to hear.

Those of us who have been doing this for a while have heard a lot and have learned a great deal throughout the years. We know what people who share insensitive comments are trying to say and we know that, for the most part, they truly “don’t mean any harm”. But, the fact of the matter is that we are humans with feelings and we can be hurt—we have been hurt very deeply by our circumstances in life. We call attention to the things that upset us because we are trying to educate others on the complexity of adoption. We are trying to improve the narrative and the language surrounding adoption, not only for ourselves, but also for future generations of adoptees.

I am a pretty open-minded person, and those who have followed my blog throughout the years would probably agree that, for the most part, I am pretty patient, understanding, and supportive of adoptive parents. Attempting to gain a better understanding of adoptive parents and their experiences has truly helped enrich the work I do and has also helped me to embrace different aspects of my own adoption journey in unique ways. However, understanding where adoptive parents are coming from and being tolerant of inappropriate and harmful views that, frankly, do not belong in the adoption narrative—are two very different things.

Please stop asking us to be tolerant of things that hurt us. Just as parents use a variety of experiences as teaching moments for our children, adoptees need to be allowed the space to share our teaching moments with parents as well.

I speak only for myself when I say this, but when I choose to share my thoughts on an issue or an aspect of my adoption journey, I do not share with malicious intent. I share my thoughts and experiences in an effort to educate parents, to help them better understand what their children may be going through, and to help others who were adopted feel a little less alone. I attempt to share the messages in ways that might be a little easier to digest, but sometimes there truly is no good or respectful way to say that something really sucks.

I am not someone who is particularly judgmental of people who view adoption differently than I do. If you want to accompany your social media posts with hashtags like “#AdoptionRocks” or share about how happy you are to be an adoptee or to have been able to adopt—go right ahead and do so. But, I ask that you do so in a respectful manner and be aware of and open to the complexity of adoption and the fact that, while “#AdoptionRocks” for you—adoption may be extremely rocky and traumatic for others.

It takes a lot of strength and courage to share our experiences and perspectives on adoption. There are times when, after writing a post or reading and responding to comments, where I find myself so emotionally exhausted that I don’t know if I want to cry my eyes out or curl up into a ball and sleep for days. I have been called every name under the sun and have been told that I should kill myself on a number of occasions. But, I continue to push myself to do this because it matters—because I truly believe that our voices are helping to create an adoption narrative that is more inclusive and accepting of the complexity of the feelings and experiences of all members of the adoption constellation.

Please stop trying to censor us.

Please open yourself to listening to and considering our diverse perspectives—especially when the messages are difficult to hear.

All parents know that children don’t come with instruction manuals, but if you open your hearts and your minds to really hearing what adoptees have to say—you might find that you have come across a wealth of information even more valuable than any instruction manual could ever provide.

Please hear us.

An Adoptee’s Perspective: 10 Things Your Child Needs to Know

10. You have a right to feel the way you do about your adoption journey.

Adoption is complicated and messy and wonderful and heartbreaking. Life may feel wonderful to you now or it may feel confusing and awful. Know that your feelings about being adopted are valid and will likely change throughout your life—and that is completely normal and okay. There is no right or wrong way to feel about adoption, and there is no right or wrong way to navigate your adoption journey. You have a right to explore what it means to be adopted in your own time and in your own way. Your experience is your own and you are the only one who knows what is truly in your heart.

9. Know that you may see and feel the world differently due to the traumatic losses you have experienced in your life.

Many adoptees are also mental health warriors and brave their battles valiantly every day. Know that you are not alone in this and it is okay to ask for help if you reach a point where you no longer feel as though you can brave your battles alone. You don’t have to do this alone—we don’t want you to go through this alone. Your life has value and your light is so very needed in this world.

8. You have a right to fight until you feel safe.

Regardless of the age at which you joined your adoptive family, you may find that forming a connection with them is extremely difficult. Whether you joined your family who adopted you as a baby, as a teenager, or even as an adult—the fact of the matter is that you were biologically connected to your birthmother for nine months before you came into this world. You heard her voice and you felt her heartbeat from inside her womb and you have her blood running through your veins. That matters. The connection you formed with your birthmother matters. And, that can make it difficult to form a connection with the family who adopted you. You may have endured traumatic experiences in your life beyond the loss of your birth family and your culture and community of origin. While you are not what happened to you, those experiences can very much affect the way you view and form relationships with others. You may need to fight against forming connections or receiving love from your family until you can truly believe in your heart and in your gut that you are safe and that nothing you can do or say will be enough to push your adoptive family away from you or make them love you any less. It won’t be easy for anyone involved, but you need and deserve to know that you are worth fighting for and that there are people in your life who will fight to stay just as hard as you fight to push them away.

7. Your sense of identity is your own.

Adoption is the result of a series of decisions that have been made for a child. As an adoptee, you may feel as though there are many things in your life that are out of your control. You may have had your name changed, you may not know your true date of birth, or you may have been raised in a racial and cultural community that differs greatly from your race and culture of origin. All of these decisions that are made for you can profoundly impact your sense of identity and the world’s perception of you. As you mature and grow in your understanding of yourself and your adoption journey, you may begin to see yourself differently and reject or embrace parts of who you are. There is no right or wrong way to form your identity as you navigate your adoption journey. And, the way you currently identify and see yourself may completely change in a few years. The process of forming your identity may include exploring your past and seeking connections to your family and culture of origin. You have a right to seek out the missing pieces of the puzzle, and you have a right to search for a connection to the people and things that may fill a void in your life and help you feel whole again.

6. You should never have to choose between loving the family who brought you into this world and the family who adopted you and chose to raise you.

There is room in your heart to love both. You can feel blessed to have a family to celebrate milestones and holidays and birthdays with and to have your needs met while mourning the loss of your birth family and the connections to your heritage and your past. Loving your family of origin and yearning for a connection to your past doesn’t have to mean that you love the family who adopted you any less. It is okay to miss your birth family and wonder about what might have been. They will always be a part of you. You have a right to wholly embrace the many aspects and people that contribute to who you are.

5. There is beauty and heartbreak in being perceived as different.

It is not easy being different and living and going to school in a place where nobody looks like you and nobody seems to understand what you are going through. The questions about who your “real” parents are and why you can’t be with them, the endless taunting and bullying, the assignments you can’t complete due to the countless unknowns in your life—all are incredibly heartbreaking reminders of the losses you have experienced and how different you truly feel. Being different can be lonely and terrifying, but it can also be inspiring and beautiful. We are all unique in our own ways and life often deals us cards that we aren’t prepared to play. But, it is in those moments of adversity where we discover our strength and resiliency—where we fight to hold onto the things and people in our lives that bring us joy and foster hope. It is in those moments where we are presented with opportunities to educate others and create awareness about the issues that we face as a result of our experiences in life. It is in those moments where we get to decide how we react to difficult situations—where we must gather the strength and courage within ourselves to find light in the darkness and fight to rise above the adversity—where we can choose to combat hatred with kindness, compassion, and love.

4. Allow yourself to let go of the guilt that you feel.

As adoptees, we tend to blame ourselves for the things that have happened in our lives that were out of our control. We ask ourselves questions like:

“If I hadn’t cried as much, would they have kept me?”

“If I had helped more or if I hadn’t made them so angry, would they have taken me away?”

“If I had been better or if I had tried harder, would they have stayed?”

We feel guilty for not feeling happy about being adopted and for not being able to be the children we believe our adoptive parents want us to be. We hear stories from other adoptees who have experienced trauma and abuse in their adoptive families and we feel guilty for not having had those experiences as well. We feel guilty for missing and loving our birthmothers and we feel guilty for the hatred and anger we feel towards them. We feel guilty for loving our adoptive parents and we feel guilty for not being able to love and connect with them in the ways they wish we could. We feel guilty for the constant anger and sadness we feel. We feel guilty for how lost and alone we feel. It is important to remember that we are not what happened to us. We had no control over the choices that were made that led to our relinquishments and subsequent adoptions. Adoption is so incredibly complex and there is no right or wrong way to feel about being adopted. We have a right to not feel okay about what has happened in our lives. But, we also need to do what we can to not allow ourselves to get stuck there. We need to allow ourselves the time and space to heal. We need to attempt to forgive others and ourselves in order to heal and work towards finding some semblance of peace in our lives.

3. You are worthy of love, and you are worthy of being loved exactly as you are.

There have been experiences in your life that may have caused you to feel like you are not good enough and are not deserving of love, but you are. You should not have to compromise who you are to prove to others that you are worth loving. Love is something that should be given without expectation of anything in return, and you deserve to have that kind of love in your life. You should never feel like you have to buy love or friendship or a sense of belonging with things like gifts, money, your body, good grades, perfection, loss of identity, or anything else that may compromise who you are and who you believe yourself to be. You are worthy of love without condition or expectation. You are worthy of being loved for who you are—beautiful and messy and wonderful imperfections and all.

2. You matter to this world.

It can be difficult to understand why people in your life chose to make the decisions that led to your being adopted. Some of those decisions may cause you to feel as though your value in this world is less than others whose birth parents chose to raise them. I want you to know and to hear me when I say that your life, your voice, and your story all have value in this world. Regardless of how you came to be adopted, I want you to know that you matter and you have the capacity to do amazing things in your life. Never forget that this world needs your light.

1. You are not alone.

Being an adoptee can be beautiful and lonely and wonderful and devastating. It can be difficult living in a world of people who breathe the same air as you, but will never understand what you have gone through and why you feel the way you do about it. That sense of belonging can feel so fleeting at times—it is something you may never fully be able to experience. It is never easy to feel misunderstood. It is never easy to feel lost in a world that you are encouraged to embrace but never fully feels like your own. It is never easy to hear that you were given “a chance at a better life” when all you want is to experience the life from which you were torn away—a life you may never have had the chance to know. Please know that you are not alone. There are entire communities of adoptees who have had similar experiences and know exactly what you are going through and truly understand how you feel. Reach out to the people in your life who love and care about you. Talk to them about the things that hurt, and talk to them about the things that bring you joy. Too many adoptees have lost their lives with too many words in their hearts that they felt were unspeakable. While the words you need to say about what you are feeling may be hurtful to your loved ones—the pain will heal with time. However, the pain of losing you would create a deep and devastating wound that your loved ones would carry with them forever.

Please know that you are so very loved.

You are seen.

You are wanted.

You are irreplaceable.

You are never, ever alone.

It will get better, and there is always hope.

I Am Depression, Hear My Cry

I am depression, hear my cry.

I am the voice inside that tells you how worthless you are and how you will never amount to anything.

I am the reflection in the mirror that tells you how fat and ugly you are and that nobody will ever love you.

I am the knife that tears at your heart from the inside, leaving wounds that may never heal and scars that hide the innocence you once knew.

I am the war that constantly rages inside you—never allowing you peace and always forcing you to imagine the worst in every situation—in every person you meet.

I am the part of you that pushes away the people who love and care about you because you are not worthy of love—you are not worthy of someone who cares.

I am the piece of your soul that forces you to stop caring—to stop caring about everyone and everything that once brought you joy.

I am the words that you are dying to say—but nobody wants to hear.

I am the cries that nobody believes—the cries that are ignored and stifled by people who tell you to just be happy and to get over it and to stop being so dramatic.

I am the reason why everyone disappears—because nobody wants to be around someone who is always so sad and angry.

I am the reason why people stop asking how you’re doing—because they know before you even say a word, and because they don’t want to know.

I am the eyes that were once so full of life—the eyes that can no longer hide how hopeless and lifeless and empty you feel inside.

I am the blade that pierces your skin and the poison that ravages your body when you reach that moment of utter darkness and despair—that moment when you would give anything just to feel something again.

I am all that is left after you are gone.

I am the reason why they say you were selfish for leaving them all alone.

I am the reason why they blame you for not trying—for not fighting harder.

I am the secret they say you never shared.

I am the cries for help they say they never heard.

I am the reason why you’re gone.

I am depression.

Nobody heard my cry.

I am a person who struggles with mental illness—a person who is asking for help to find joy in life again.

I am a person who carries the burden of living on her shoulders every day and views life as a messenger of an insurmountable amount of loss, grief, and pain.

I am a person who tries to live and love with a heart that has been broken into a million pieces.

I am a person who feels she has become a burden to the people she has leaned on for support.

I am a person whose eyes people refuse to meet—because she is known as the thief of people’s joy.

I am a person who knows the pain of wanting to die every day that she lives.

I am a person who fights a never-ending battle with herself—a person who struggles just to get through each day.

I am a person who is drowning and struggling to stay above water—a person who needs help.

I am a person who is screaming for someone to listen and pleading for someone to believe that she really is hurting even more than she lets anyone know.

I am a person who is willing to fight, but knows that she can’t do it alone.

I am a person who is pleading with you to not turn away—to not ignore her pain because it’s too hard or because it makes you feel uncomfortable.

I am a person who has so much to live for, but needs someone to help her see—someone to remind her of the beauty in living.

I am a person who needs to be reminded that there is hope and that there is promise in the future.

I am a person who is more than her mental illness—a person with so much to offer the world.

I am a person who is asking you to fight with her and to not shy away from the conversation.

I am a person who is asking you to take her hand and walk this journey with her—to see her as whole, and not broken.

I am a person who is strong and brave and capable of amazing things—a person whose life is worth fighting for.

I am a person who suffers from depression, and this is my battle cry.