Anger and the Not-So-Angry Adoptee

I am angry.
Really, really angry.
It scares the crap out of me.
And, not because I fear causing physical harm to others, as that has never been an issue with me.

It scares me because anger scares me.

When I was younger, I certainly had my bratty moments, but I never raged or had moments of extreme dysregulation. There were certainly times when I could have, and probably should have—but it never really happened to my knowledge.

Because the stakes were too high.

Though my parents were very committed and weathered a lot of storms with me, I never felt like I could expose those feelings of anger to the world.

I did a lot to avoid experiencing anger from others.
Because anger terrified me.

That fear was paralyzing at times.
And, the anxiety was always there.

Attempts to avoid the anger of others came at a great cost—which continues to profoundly impact my life and who I am today.

I lost myself in my efforts to avoid conflict and making others angry. I could even go as far as to say that I missed out on a crucial part of exploring my identity by not allowing myself to feel or express anger as openly as I should have and face the anger of others.

And, those efforts to avoid anger were endless.
Apologizing for everything.
Remaining silent at times when I wanted to scream.
Giving up or giving in to avoid a fight.
People pleasing.
Flying under the radar as much as possible.
Isolating myself.
Going with the crowd.
Hiding in the shadows of others.
Allowing others to shape my identity and make decisions for me—even at the expense of my values at the time, my dignity, and the sense of who I thought I was and hoped to become.
Speaking softly in hopes that nobody would hear me.
Keeping everything bottled inside.
Not speaking at all.

As I have grown, matured, and experienced the world as an adult—I have allowed myself to feel and express my anger more freely. But, I have found that I can be somewhat immature emotionally.

Because I don’t always handle my emotions well and missed out on developing ways to cope with the emotions I rarely allowed myself to feel.

I have never harmed anyone physically, but I have said things that are hurtful more often than I would like to admit.

I lash out at those closest to me.

I fixate on things that make me angry, and even though I use opportunities to vent and process—some things are really difficult to let go of and move on from.

I use food as a coping mechanism—vacillating between overeating and not eating at all.

I completely check out.

And, every time I allow myself to be vulnerable enough to expose my anger to others—the guilt that follows is all-consuming and overwhelming.

I have been struggling for a while and my mental health has suffered greatly. And, I am finding myself in a place I have never been before—vacillating between feeling nothing and feeling so much anger.

I am so angry. So angry.

And, that scares me. A lot.

Because the one emotion that I have spent most of my life trying to escape and avoid is the only emotion I currently have the capacity to feel. It seems to be the only emotion that is reminding me that I am alive and still fighting.

I very much own where I am right now, and I am taking the steps to stop the downward spiral, take care of myself, and access the supports that I need to work through this.

I feel fortunate to be in a field where I have been able to develop skills and knowledge about being able to address situations like this safely and appropriately, but I wonder about others who have experienced adoption and foster care as a child and feel as I do, but may not have access to the same resources and supports.

As parents, we worry so much about the emotions our children express, and sometimes forget that expressing those emotions is so healthy and so incredibly important for our children to be able to do. There are absolutely cases where the dysregulation and emotions expressed are not healthy or “normal”, and that absolutely needs to be acknowledged and addressed in safe, supportive, and appropriate ways—and possibly with the help of professionals.

However, we need to also remember that through the release of emotions and the processing and support that usually follows—your child is working to form their own identity; they are fighting to feel safe; they are testing the limits of your love and commitment to them; they are navigating boundaries set for them and working to form their own; and they are working to develop self-awareness and coping skills that will profoundly impact the way they experience the world.

This world can feel pretty lonely, overwhelming, and hopeless when you haven’t developed the ability to name and freely express the emotions you are feeling and lack the supports to help you through.

The limitations in rarely allowing myself to feel and freely express emotions like anger as a child were largely self-imposed and fueled by the fear of another rejection or abandonment—another loss.

And, those limitations I set for myself as a child have made it extremely difficult for me to cope as a deeply feeling person in this world.

Even though I have a wonderful support system and access to resources—I often feel very lonely, misunderstood, overwhelmed, lost, heartbroken, and like I am a constant burden on those around me.

Please, please don’t let your kids grow up to be someone like me.



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?

The Walls My Heart Built

The walls my heart built are my protection and my prison.

I learned from a very young age that the people who are supposed to always love you and protect you may end up being the people who leave you and hurt you the most. I learned from a very young age that the people you want to trust—the people you should be able to trust without question—are not always worthy of that trust.

My heart broke for the first time at a very young age. I learned how to mend the broken pieces of my heart together, but it was never to be the same. The innocence that I once knew was gone and my ability to feel secure and love unconditionally as any young child should was overshadowed by my fear of losing more loved ones…my fear of feeling more pain. So, I built a wall around my heart. It was not a strong wall, but it gave my heart a protective barrier—one that could easily be broken down by those I felt secure enough to let in.

My walls have never been fail proof. They allowed some people in who should never have been able to inhabit my heart—even for a moment. They allowed pain and betrayal to seep in—some of which were so harmful that I never thought my heart would ever recover. These walls have also kept me from forming real relationships with people who opened their hearts to me—people with whom I could never allow myself to do the same.

With each heartbreak and betrayal, my walls become stronger and stand taller around my heart. I find myself trusting less and allowing fewer people in. I find myself hiding behind my walls, even with people who love me and people I know I should be able to trust wholeheartedly. As I grow older, I find myself being able to forgive, but never forget. If you have broken my trust, I may let you back in, but never in the same way as before.

The walls I built as protection around my heart have also become my prison. While my heart remains safe, it feels so empty…so alone. I am tired…so tired. I wish I could let people in without question. I wish for the day when I can let my guard down and show people who I truly am without worrying about whether or not I will be liked or accepted. I wish for the day when I no longer feel the need to run away or hide. I wish for the day when I can allow my heart to love fully and live without fear of pain and loss and broken trust and betrayal. I wish for the day when my heart feels whole enough and strong enough to break down the walls I built around it so long ago.

One day, my walls will come down. But, for now, my heart remains protected and imprisoned—waiting for the day when the feelings of security are able to calm the overwhelming fears and the feelings of pain and loss are no more.

But, for now, I wait.