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Key Fob Not Detected

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It was one of THOSE mornings.  My husband and I switched cars at the last minute so our teen could drive his car later and not the loaner car I was using while my car was in the shop.

Mornings can be sticky, but today we were ready to go on time.     I hopped into the jeep to start the car -“KEY FOB NOT DETECTED.”  Huh.  The key fob was in the back seat but that’s never been an issue before.  Ok, key fob now up front, let’s try it again.  “KEY FOB NOT DETECTED.”  WTF???? Again.  No luck.  Again.  FUUUUUUCCCKK!!!  Quick dash around the house to discover that hubby’s key fob is not in the house.  Try to call him but he’s on his way to work and on a daily conference call.  Keep calling – maybe he’ll get the hint that he needs to pick up?

I’m on a call.

I know! Car won’t start.  Where is your key?

With me.  Put the key fob near the start button.

Did that, not working.

Keep trying.

I have.  Need to get G to school.  Need a working car today.  You need to come home with key.  It is not starting.

By the grace of God on the 25th try, it starts.  I tell him to meet me at school because the warning light now reads “key fob has left the vehicle” even though the engine is now running, and my key fob is in the car.  I know that once the car shuts off, it’ll be a challenge to start it back up with my key fob. 

I was not my best self when I shouted curse words in frustration.  Our son was watching me and told me to calm down.  “It’ll all work out Mama.”   On our drive to school, he told me that it always works out and I needed to chill.   I called him a prophet and he called me a “mean old witch in a Disney movie.”   It made me laugh.  And it got me thinking.

I am thrilled that my son believes that it’ll all work out.  Not thrilled about the “mean old witch part,” but then again, he is a pre-teen and gets annoyed by what he considers my “arbitrary rules,” like putting his phone away by 8:45 PM.  

It will all work out. 

This is something I’ve been working hard to embrace for the past six months.  I didn’t realize how much I thought it didn’t apply to me.  I believed that things didn’t work out for me – that I had to try harder than everyone else and I couldn’t trust in the process.   Good things happened to other people, but not to me.    This realization has been a part of my process of “coming out of the fog” as adoptees call it.  “Coming out of the fog” means when an adoptee becomes aware of the impact their adoption has on their life.  And no, it’s not because I had a bad adoption experience.  Being separated from my biological mother at birth caused trauma.  I had a subconscious belief that there was something wrong with me, which is why she didn’t want me.  I constantly performed, trying to fit in, to please, to make sure that I wasn’t rejected again.  I couldn’t just be me because me wasn’t good enough to keep.  I internalized these feelings and had no idea how much it colored my thinking until I started to untangle all of this over the past few years.

I have been working on reminding myself that it always works out, but in times of stress, old habits die hard.  I lost my cool this morning.   My son did make it to school with two minutes to spare. My dog made it to the dog park and still had time to romp with friends. It will all work out.  Maybe not the way you planned, but it does.  Or at least that is what I’m still learning, but my son already understands.

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Time Warp

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I’ve journaled for as long as I can remember.  I recently came across a notebook from my younger self with complaints about how my parents always favored my brother scrawled out in my 8-year-old handwriting.   The page has always been a place where I can vent, work out issues, or just be myself.

This morning I opened my notebook to write down a topic that I wanted to explore later, only to discover that the last time I had written was before we said our goodbyes to my mother-in-law and before we buried her.  It has only been 2 ½ weeks.  The last time I wrote, I had no idea what was ahead of us. 

All the gurus urge us to stay in the present moment, that we only have this breath.  In times of crisis, I understand this point completely.  Time essentially stood still while I sat by her bedside.  So much has happened in the span of 2 ½ weeks and it has also flown by as time usually does. 

The other indication that time did not stop, aside from the date in my journal, was the flowering cherry tree in our neighborhood.  When did that happen?  Just a moment ago, it was winter, my mother-in-law was alive, but now she’s gone, and the trees are flowering.

The only other period I can remember experiencing this time warp was when our children were born.  Life was going on all around us, while we were living in the moment-to-moment of bringing a new life into the world and home to live. 

Birth and death strip it all down to the heart of the matter.  Only this moment, only love matters.  The rest of it is all noise.  Things come and things go.  Trees blossom, leaves fall, and weather changes. It’s nearly impossible to live every day in the immediacy of the moment that you do while ushering a life in or out of this world.  That said, slowing down to take a breath, pausing to look out, being fully present with those you love, and enjoying time in nature may be a small start.

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Unclenched

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I’ve been coming to terms with my adoption trauma over the past few years.  It all started when a cousin contacted me on 23andMe, yet if I’m honest, it started when I decided to do the genetic test.  Before then, I pretty much lived in denial with a CAPITAL D and when mentioning my adoption, it was “all great, I’m so lucky,” the most typical party line we adoptees of a certain age were told to share with the world when asked about our adoptions.  But that is not the truth.  And I’m tired of living a lie and carrying baggage that is not mine.

Adoptees refer to the awakening I’ve had as “coming out of the fog.”  This process is not for the faint of heart.

One of the realizations that has come out of this process is that I don’t know how to relax.

“Just relax!” has been a common refrain my entire life.   I was reminded of this again last night in the middle of a restorative yoga class, while struggling to allow the floor to support me.   My mind raced as I was lying down holding a pose, forced into stillness.  Relaxing is incredibly challenging.  In fact, I have been uber critical of people who are good at relaxing and I usually call them the “L word” – the word my kids know I can’t stand…LAZY.  I read somewhere that what you judge is what you need more of in your life, and I thought about that while attempting to relax in yoga.  I don’t like it, but it is true.  I need to relax more, let go, rest, let my guard down, and embrace laziness.  Typing that makes me shudder.

To make matters more complicated, our society rewards busyness, and I’ve come to learn that constantly being on the move has its benefits.  There are the accolades from the outside world and if you are busy, you don’t have time to sit down with those troubling thoughts and feelings.  I know this firsthand because I am always on the run. After all, I did get my Master of Science degree at night while working full time, volunteering, working as a teacher’s assistant and as an adjunct professor, all while managing a NYC single social life.  That makes me tired now to think about it.  Not that my days are much calmer now, balancing work, and my two boys’ schedule.  The shadow side of all that action is that I’ve run from the very truth that I’ve been avoiding – the truth that motivated me to apply to graduate school in the first place.  When you are still, things bubble up to the surface. 

While on the outside I seemed super together, the truth has lived in my body, just ask any massage therapist or my long-time chiropractor and she’ll tell you.  I’ve lived my life clenched, rigid …. tight…. gritted jaws, neck, shoulders…. waiting for the proverbial shoe to drop.   My shoulders are usually up around my ears and the second I feel any tension, it ends up in my neck and shoulders. It is only recently that I’ve made a concentrated effort to remind myself to put my shoulders in their “pockets” and breathe.

Not that this knowledge slowed me down.  Marriage, kids, work, parental demands…. you name it.  I kept whirling around keeping all the balls in the air.  Busy busy busy.  Look at me, I’m not lazy!  There’s nothing to see here.  I’m fine! I have it all together!

Then COVID19 hit. 

Life screeched to a halt.

When I was contacted by my birth cousin a year earlier, I had begun working with a therapist untying the knot of my adoption, but the extra pause of COVID gave me more time to dig deeper, as there were no external distractions, nowhere to “run” to avoid sitting with the pain and uncomfortable truths of my life.  I’ve been shedding layer upon layer – some more painful than others.   I had no idea that being unable to relax was a common phenomenon for adoptees until I read a post written by another adoptee.  Another book further confirmed adoption’s impact on children, even those of us who were adopted shortly after our birth.    

The trauma we adoptees feel is very real and has long term impact.  I learned quickly after my birth to fold into myself when my cries weren’t answered, when I wasn’t held or coddled by my birth parents.  I spent the first month of my life with strangers.   There was no one person for me to count on because the adult caregivers were constantly changing. It was always believed that I was fine because I was adopted within the first months of my life – after all, what could a little baby remember, but research shows that the first few months are vital to helping a baby regulate their nervous system and like other adoptees, I was in a constant state of “fight or flight.”

Once I was finally placed with my adoptive family, I learned to adapt but I could never quite let go of the fear that I’d be given to someone else. Within a span of a few weeks, I was in the care of yet another adult.  How long would I stay with these people? Because my parents were not biologically related to me, they never really understood me or the way my mind and body worked.  I can’t tell you how many times I heard, “who do you think you are,” when my mother was frustrated by my behavior.  Something as simple as “tanning easily without trying” made sense when I finally met my biological cousin.  My Mom constantly accused me of intentionally forgetting sunscreen in hopes of a ‘Ban de Soleil’ tan– I wasn’t – it turns out that I simply have more melanin in my skin, like my biological family.   But that is another post.

It was quite comforting to learn that I’m not the only adoptee who does not relax easily.  It made me feel less foreign and more understood.  There is work to be done to heal from a constant state of “fight or flight” from my early years.  Just look at my face in the picture, taken around eight weeks old.  My expression says it all.

As I learn more about myself, both in therapy and from biological family, I can slowly relax into who I am as a person.  I may never be able to completely shed the initial response of “fight or flight” – but if I can remain open, practice yoga as often as possible and breathe into the moment, perhaps I can learn to let go, be light and free.

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Coming out of the Fog

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At 50 years old, I’m coming out of the fog and for the first time, understanding how my adoption impacted me.  I was the poster child for adoption success stories, or rather I told the story adoptive parents and birth mothers wanted to hear.  Frankly, I believed it.  What I’ve come to realize is that I’d been living in complete denial.

I never heard the phrase, “coming out of the fog,” nor had I known that I was living there.  My awareness came to light by accident, as it does for many – an event, a crisis, or a loss wakes them up to a new level of understanding. Two years ago, a birth cousin reached out to me on 23andMe and all that I previously believed about myself began to unravel.  I had never considered how my genetics played a role in who I am as a person. There was no space to explore that part of my story even though I always felt a little bit different from my family.  Ironically, it was my parent’s request for Ancestry for Christmas that prompted me to do 23andMe to find out more about my health history.

I was adopted domestically at almost three weeks old. I was told about my adoption while I was young, so I thought of it as a trait, like the color of my hair or eyes.  I looked “enough” like my family so there was no reason for anyone to think that I wasn’t biologically related.  My adoption was rarely brought up.  The one time I approached it, I was told that my biological mother had moved on when she gave birth to me and would likely be upset by my contacting her. My adoptive mother made it quite clear that she was my only mother.  It made me feel that the case was closed.  If I searched for my biological mother, my Mom would think I was disloyal and ungrateful, and I could potentially lose the only family I had.  This is not to say that my adoptive parents were bad or got it wrong.  They did many things right.   It is just that as I’ve come out of the fog, I can own that adoption impacted me.

I realize how differently I experience my place in the world when I look at my children’s behavior.  They have no problem expressing exactly how they feel – even if it makes me upset.  There is an underlying confidence, a knowledge that no matter what they do or say, they are supported and loved.  I did not have the same certainty growing up.  I was always a little bit nervous that I would say or do the wrong thing and it would cost me my family.  Because of this, I can read a room and know how to act to make other people happy. I know how to push aside what I think, feel or need, to put someone else’s desires before mine.  I’m quick to diffuse a tense situation and the first to offer “I’m sorry,” even if it isn’t my fault because tension makes me want to crawl out of my skin.  I say “yes” when I mean “no” because I hate disappointing people.  I don’t like the feeling of being left out. 

Adoption impacted my behavior in ways I never understood.  For example, my husband once commented on my near panic to be one of the first parents at pre-school pick up.  When I was 4 years old, my mother was late picking me up and I remember being inconsolable because I thought she had decided that she didn’t want me anymore. Consequently, I am never late picking up my boys. I now recognize that behavior stems from my abandonment issues – normal people don’t have that same underlying panic about being late to pick up their children.  I never once considered how my adoption colored my actions or my behavior. 

At 50 years old, I am a recovering people pleaser.  I’m learning that I can say “no” and the world won’t fall apart. I share my opinions instead of keeping them inside because I understand that I can have an opinion. I don’t adopt a “role” anymore to make someone else feel comfortable. I can be myself.  Adoption has taught me how to be highly adaptable, able to interact, connect and feel comfortable around all types of people.  I am a good listener. I’m learning that I can be myself.

Now that my eyes have opened, I know this for sure – adoption is complicated and impacts children, even those who were too young to remember what happened to them.  This fact can’t be glossed over or emphasized enough.  Adopted children need to know where they come from and have access to their genetic roots.  Adoptive and biological parents need to hold space for the child to explore her many parts of herself.  Children should no way be burdened by either parents’ insecurities or be forced to withhold feelings to make an adult feel better.  Parents should talk honestly with their children and provide them with the support needed to navigate this complicated experience.    

I’m still a work in progress.  I feel lucky.   I may not be the poster child for adoption as I once was, but I believe as I continue with my metamorphosis, I will grow into a better, well-rounded and more honest voice for adoption.  Let us make space for all experience and voices.

Loss

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Some days the words just flow out of my fingers, as if someone else is making my fingers move.  On other days, like today, I feel stuck.   I know this is common.  Anyone who has ever written anything talks about writer’s block, imposter syndrome, or the need to clean your desk and file your taxes instead of writing. 

Today I’m tired.  It’s the bone weariness of grief that I’ve been carrying around since the end of January while trying to keep everything afloat for my family.  You see, my mother-in-law was diagnosed with cancer at the end of January and passed three and half weeks later.  One second she was here, and the next she was gone.  Or at least that is how it feels.   We are all happy she didn’t suffer, and we know how lucky we are that it wasn’t a car accident or some other sudden event that wouldn’t allow us all to say our goodbyes.  Still, the loss is a big gaping hole in all our lives. 

I held it together at home so my husband could be present with his mother and his sisters.  I ordered the funeral suits, notified the teachers, made sure the schoolwork was completed, and held my children while they cried.   I rubbed her legs, arms, and head as we sat by her bedside on our last weekend with her before she passed.  I found a stuffed animal horse that my son insisted his father bring to his grandmother when he first heard she was sick.  When the hospital lost that one, I quickly ran out to replace it.   I found a cozy blanket in a beautiful dark purple color that she would like and sent that with my husband.  She was a big reader, and my first instinct was to find a book until I realized that she was too sick to read and that the topics were all inappropriate for someone who was dying.  Even then magazines seemed frivolous.  Who cares about “the best color for your bedroom” or “great places to travel in 24” when you are dying?   There was nothing that I could find that would be remotely appropriate. 

When we got up there to visit, time did its thing – slowed down and sped up, as it does when you are in a hospital—hours passed in what felt like a minute.  You look up and realize that you’re hungry only to discover that you missed not one, but two meals.

We shuffled in and out of her room because it didn’t have enough space for all of us.   Those of us from out of town traveled to be there on the same weekend, which was nice for my boys to have their older cousins with them.   What a testament to what a wonderful mother, grandmother, and mother-in-law she was to all of us.   We huddled together in the lobby when not in the room sharing snacks, stories, and laughs.   It was hard to leave at the end of each day, but it was a comfort staying with family, and being together helped us maneuver the utter disbelief and shock we were all experiencing. 

The hardest part has been watching my children mourn her loss.  I know what it feels like to lose a beloved grandmother, but I was an adult when both of mine passed, which somehow made it easier, or at least that’s how it feels. I don’t want them to feel unnecessary sadness and yet the depth of pain they’re feeling is the depth of love she had for them and that is a gift.

I’ve picked up the phone countless times over the past few months to share something funny or talk about a book I’m reading that I know she’d love.  Like my children, I was lucky.  Not everyone gets along with their mother-in-law like I did with mine.  She treated me like one of her own.    We had much in common – the love for her son and grandchildren, the love of books, and the fact that we could and would talk to just about anyone.  She spent weeks with us when both my boys were born, taking care of all of us.   She yelled at the nurses when they tried to get me out of bed too soon after my c-section and when the lactation consultant came in to impart her wisdom, she told her “If breastfeeding was so easy, you wouldn’t have a job.  Give her a break!”

We bonded quite a bit over the years.  She made it a point to be in town for both boys’ birthdays yearly.  She read to their preschool classes, and attended every special event, even though we lived several states away.   Alicia was easy to talk to and my friends would come over to hang out with her when she was in town.   She advised one friend on her wedding hairdo and picked bridesmaid dresses for another.   One friend canceled her date night and came over to have dinner with my mother-in-law when we were out of town.    Many of these friends made the trip north for her funeral. 

I’m having a hard time putting into words all that she meant to me, perhaps because the grief is still raw.  I miss having her in my corner.  I miss calling her and telling her the ridiculous and charming things that the boys do.  She loved them and was as proud of them as we are.  I miss her laugh.  As we rounded the corner towards Mother’s Day this year, her loss felt no more magnified than it has every day since she’s been gone.  These Hallmark holidays miss the point that it’s the day-to-day that matters, and that is how she showed up for all of us.  I miss her and I am grateful that I had her in my life for 20 years. 

At a loss

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Yesterday I got hearing aids.

A little more than 20 years ago I had my hearing tested and discovered that I had hearing loss due to what was described to me as hormonal hearing loss.  This news triggered feelings of worthlessness and I remember wondering who would ever love me with this loss.  I didn’t understand it at the time, but growing up as an adopted person I didn’t have an inherent sense of value and believed that I had to perform and be perfect to be loved and accepted.  Understanding of my value and worth would come years later, and even still I’m working to untie the untruths of my adoption and how it plays into my existence.

My hearing loss required surgery, which I did a few months after getting married.  I was told that the surgery results would ‘last’ for about 15+ years.  The pandemic with all the concerns about staying alive, masking, and home-schooling my children superseded any need to test my hearing over the past few years.  

Fast forward to last fall when I got my hearing tested again and learned that my hearing loss would benefit from hearing aids.  Hearing aids conjure up images of my grandmother and the huge devices she had in her ears that were constantly squeaking.  Hearing aids meant you were old and old meant you had little value, at least in our society.

I barely spoke about my appointment, even with my family.  I felt a huge sense of embarrassment and shame– the old defect not holding up her end of the deal to be perfect.  At the same time, I grew frustrated in group settings when I had no clue what someone was saying because the background noise was too much for me to be a part of the conversation.   That, combined with reading articles that hearing loss can lead to dementia spurred me to make an appointment.

At that first appointment, I tried the different options and was told that our insurance plan fully covered the best hearing aids.  The cost would have been an easy excuse to opt out, but that was now off the table.  My fitting appointment was scheduled for yesterday, a few months after testing the options.  I was tired walking in, partly because we are coming back from spring break, and getting into the school routine is always tough for our family.  Also, in the time between the first appointment in January and yesterday, my mother-in-law was diagnosed with cancer and passed away.   The past few months have been an emotional minefield and we are still walking around in a fog, wondering what just happened to our family.   Hearing aids are a minor inconvenience compared to the storm we just weathered. 

I’m only a day into using my hearing aids and can report that I don’t have to listen to the TV at such a high volume and can now hear my slippers scuffing across the floor.  The real test will be when I’m out socially or among the soft talkers.   They are taking some getting used to – my ears are itchy after a few hours of them in my ears, but I’m sure that will change with time. 

I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t having mixed feelings.  Shame wants to rear its head, but a sense of acceptance is also present. If unraveling my adoption journey has taught me anything is that facing the truth, while scary, is much easier than trying to avoid it.

The Joy of Dogs

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This is a love story. I became a first-time dog owner six years ago and had no idea how my life would change when our four-legged angel came into my life.  I didn’t grow up with pets unless you count hermit crabs, which I do not.  My parents had all sorts of reasons for our dog less deprivation– we traveled too much, it was too much work – but really, they never got over the loss of their dog Bonnie, who passed away right before my brother was born.

Wyatt Baxter came home with us on Feb 12, a perfect Valentine’s gift for the entire family.  He was 14 pounds of love and had I realized how quickly he’d grow, his paws would not have touched the ground for the first few months of his life. 

We hit the dog lottery with Wyatt.  He is sweet, calm, loving and the most mellow Labrador you’ll ever meet.  He doesn’t walk, he saunters.  He doesn’t bark.  He’s the dog park greeter, racing over to say hello to the other dog owners every morning.  I never thought I could love anyone as much as I love my husband and kids, but I was wrong.  They’ll be the first to tell you that he’s the favorite in the house.  If you met him, I’m sure you’d agree.

Most everyone understands the joy of dog ownership.  Without a doubt, they are angels on earth.  Wyatt has opened my world in a way that I never could have imagined, beyond the obvious unconditional love and companionship.  Every morning, after school drop off and before work, we hit the dog park.  My dog park friends are of all ages and from all walks of life.  At the dog park, in a town where political parties can divide, dogs unite.  Perhaps our members of Congress should come to Old Town to work things out – it’s hard to get annoyed with the “other side” when your dogs are playing together with abandon. 

We discuss the hard and happy at the park – the personal trials and the joys. We support one another, throw balls, feed treats, and discuss diets (for the dogs, not us).  There is something about spending every morning with people – in your messiest dog park clothes, hair unbrushed, makeup-free – that allows you to let your guard down.  We discuss it all, work through issues, and help each other out while the dogs play. Some of my best travel advice has originated at the dog park.    We’ve celebrated the birth of new babies, the death of loved ones, and mourned with those who have lost their beloved dogs. 

Many of my sentences begin, “My friend from the dog park…” because, in a time when I still mostly work remotely, the dog park is where I’m guaranteed to interact in person with someone outside of my family. 

Wyatt has taught me how to slow down and be present, reminded me to greet everyone, embrace dirty clothes as a badge of honor because that means a dog jumped on you, shown me that we all have more in common than our differences, and guaranteed that I’ll never be lonely.  

Thanks to Wyatt, I will be a dog owner for life.   

A Day of Nothing

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July has traditionally been hard because it is the month of my birth.  The unease begins shortly after the 4th of July, builds until the 28th and then on the 29th,I feel immense relief because I survived another one.

I am an adoptee, and it is only in the past few years that I’ve explored why my birthday bothers me and what it means to me to be an adoptee.   I’m filled with such angst when I’m asked, “what do you want for your birthday?” or “what do you want to do on your special day?”  You see, for me there is nothing special about the day because I know nothing about my birth or the 3 ½ weeks after. It’s a day of nothing – no stories, no information, nada.  It is a day that feels empty and sad to me. 

I don’t know if my mother held me, if she saw me, if she was sad giving me away.  I don’t know who cared for me in the 3 ½ weeks before I was placed for adoption.  Did they answer my cries for my mother, my need for food or to be changed in a timely manner?  I’ll never know.  My birth was not celebrated.  The first 3 ½ weeks of my life are blank.

The first story about me centers around my older brother, my parents’ biological child, which happened on the day they brought me home from the adoption agency.  Apparently, they stopped at the grocery store to buy a cake to celebrate with neighbors.  My adoption story goes something like this, “as soon as we got home, your 2.5-year-old brother told everyone we bought the baby at the grocery store.  Isn’t that the cutest?”  I used to share this story since it was all I had saying, “how sweet.”  Now I cringe because I see how sad it is that I know nothing about my birthday.  This story cemented my existence in the family as a doll, a product – not a person with a whole history that was erased when my birth certificate was changed.

For decades I acted like the poster child for adoption, parroting out the lines, “I’m so lucky and my mother loved me so much she gave me up for adoption!  No, I don’t want to find my bio family.  My family is all I need!  I am just fine!” If I was an actress, I’d get an Oscar for my role as a good little adoptee.  I always put my parents’ feelings first – all of them.  I swallowed down any discomfort or unnamed shame and chalked it up to some defect in me.   After all, my first mom didn’t want to keep me, so there must be something wrong with me.

Adoption is complicated.  We adoptees speak up about the challenges we face, and the world at large tells us we are difficult, unlovable, the problem, damaged goods.  It must be our “bad blood.”  The evidence, we are told, is in the fact that our mothers gave us away.  We should shut up and be grateful.  After all, look at how much better our lives are because of adoption.   The adoptive parents’ savior story is the only one society makes room for.  No one really wants to hear our truth.

I’m not going to air dirty laundry, but I am going to share this.  Each year until I was 21 years old, my mom made me a doll cake.  It was a tradition.  Dolls were never really my thing beyond around 8 years old.  Mostly, I wanted to be outside in the trees, riding bikes, getting dirty, playing with friends, running in the woods.    My mom collected dolls for me, baked doll cakes, bought me dresses, dance lessons, and tried hard to turn me into something she wanted me to be – a girly girl.  I was, after all, a blank slate and the adoption agency said that because I was an infant, they could turn me into whatever they wanted me to be.

I came to resent the doll cakes.  I could pick the color of the dress, while my brother could pick whatever theme he wanted for his birthday cake, and my mom would go all out – a monster, a mountain, whatever he imagined.  When I asked for a different kind of cake, I was told that I got doll cakes.  End of discussion.  I understand that my mom was just giving me what she wanted.  She never had doll cakes, fancy dresses, or dance lessons.

Doll cakes aside, my birthday carries the shadow of loss.  The unspoken truth is that I was born and immediately separated from my biological roots.  It is a groundlessness, that I didn’t quite understand until my own boys were born.

As I write, I feel myself starting to make my feelings smaller and easier to digest – to make sure my parents don’t sound “bad,” to make more space for my parents’ feelings, or for my friends who have adopted children.  I was conditioned to do this, to push my feelings aside for everyone else’s feelings because there was the fear that if I made them unhappy, I could be given back.  Self-silencing is the curse of an adopted child.  We work so hard to please, to adapt, to fit in, that we bottle up our feelings and swallow them like a bitter pill. 

This year, I’m looking to celebrate my birthday in a way that feels authentic to me – one that honors the loss and the nothingness, yet also makes space for the love, joy and connection I’ve created in my life. While my life may have started from a place of nothing, I’ve constructed a life filled with many blessings.

With the Ease of Someone Completely Adored

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Last night I had a disagreement with my husband and knew at the time I was not articulating myself well, so I headed to bed.  I woke up around 5 AM feeling unsettled and picked up my book, hoping it would lull me back to sleep.

“With the ease of someone completely adored.”  That line jumped out from the page.  This – this is the very thing I was doing a terrible job of trying to explain last night, my words getting jumbled with emotion and frustration that he didn’t understand me. 

As an adoptee, my baseline at birth is very different from people whose birth parents keep them.   Research is uncovering how the preverbal trauma adoptees experience impacts them throughout their lives.  This is not to say that we sit feeling sorry for ourselves.  No, that is not the case.  Many stay “in the fog” a term used by adoptees who have not yet confronted their adoption trauma.  I was that person for decades, exclaiming, “I’m fine!  I’m lucky!  It’s all great,” while feeling so uncomfortable inside but not understanding that discomfort was not experienced by the world at large.

If you are an adoptee, you’ll identify with this immediately.  If you’re not, please stay with me because it is important that you understand if you have an adoptee in your life.

At birth, most non-adoptees live from equilibrium, safety, connection, security and love.   There are cases where this isn’t true – if a birth mother dies or the child is separated from the parents, but for the most part, there is this sense of ease.  I see this baseline of safety in my own children – even in their hardest moments, and they’ve had many because they have a genetic bone disorder, they have the absolute knowledge that they are loved, adored, and safe with us.  I see it in my brother – the biological child of my adoptive parents, my husband and his siblings.  I’ll think “how entitled,” when they act in a certain manner, and they are, to no fault of their own.  They don’t know how lucky they are and how much harder it is for me to feel safe and secure.

An adoptee begins life from a place of fear, the unknown, alone, loss, confusion.  After 9 months of being literally dependent on another being, we are born and torn away from this being.  She is not there.  No familiar sounds or heartbeats.  No recognizable smells or the person we desperately need to feed us, hold us or comfort us. Adoption now allows adoptive parents to be with the child at or immediately after birth, and while this allows the new family to bond, it does not take away the trauma the baby experiences.  Yes, someone is with them attending to their cries, but not the person they are seeking.   This is not to say that the baby does not form attachments to their adoptive parents, it’s just that adoptees start from a place of loss – our baseline is from a place of disequilibrium, and we must work harder to get to that place of security and equilibrium.

There is plenty of trauma-based research out helping adoptees understand and heal.  I’ve spent the better part of five years working through my adoption trauma and still get triggered.

Back to our disagreement. I created a quick medical consent form, while preparing for a quick out of town getaway.  Overkill?  I hope so.  For me, the “just in case” aspect of the form gives me comfort.   It has my children’s insurance information, their allergies and consent for my sister-in-law to make decisions in case we are not available.  My husband asked why I was all “doom and gloom” which sent me into a tailspin.  Don’t get me wrong, he’s been incredibly understanding and patient as I’ve worked to unravel a lifetime of denial.  I felt myself sputtering to explain and getting angry, so I put myself to bed.  I didn’t want to say something I’d regret because I was triggered by our disagreement and couldn’t explain myself clearly.

I’m jealous and in awe of the ease with which he moves through the world with a confidence that no matter what, he is not only meant to be here, but is very cherished.   I’m proud of myself for stepping away from a petty argument and instead waiting to explain my actions from a grounded place.

Before you say, “but you are cherished, your parents love you,” please stop.  The love I have experienced in my life does not erase the infant trauma of being separated from my birth mother.  The baby inside of me was alone.  My first weeks in life I was scared and searching.   This fear lives inside me and all adoptees.  We can heal from it, but it is always there and sometimes it is triggered. 

I hate that I must explain myself, but I’m grateful for the work I’ve done to heal.  If I look back on the fights we’ve had over our 18 years of marriage, I can now see where my preverbal trauma was running the show and I’m even more proud of myself for recognizing it last night and heading to bed.  My husband may not need a “Consent to treat” form, but if it makes me feel at ease, then this is what we’ll do until I don’t need to do it anymore.

Domestic Supply of Infants

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“Adoption is an institution that fulfills several purposes in contemporary American society.  It provides parents for infants who are relinquished by birth parents…It provides individuals and couples a means to bring children into their families when they are unable to conceive or carry a pregnancy to term due to fertility issues……Because of the decrease in the domestic supply of infants, more affluent women and couples have sought to adopt children from other countries.”  Jones, Jo Ph.D. (August 2008) Adoption Experience of Women and Men and Demand for Children to Adopt by Women 18-44 Years of Age in the United States, 2002 Centers for Disease Control, Vital and Health Statistics Series 23 Number 27) pg. 1  https://www.cdc.gov/nchs/data/series/sr_23/sr23_027.pdf

The phrase “domestic supply of infants” is beyond insulting.   I first heard this phrase in May when Justice Alito referenced the journal article above in the leaked SCOTUS document.   I saw that it was not Justice Alito who coined the term, but the CDC.  He was using it to prove a point that safe-haven laws could help increase our domestic supply of infants, thereby another reason to overturn Roe V Wade.

I’m not here to argue semantics but speak for adoptees. 

Did you know that adoptees are 4x more likely to commit suicide?   We suffer multiple traumas being separated from our birth mothers and families of origin.  Most states do not allow us to obtain our original birth certificates. Our identities are erased.   We have no access to our medical information, so therefore do not know if we have family history of various diseases.  We are over-represented in mental healthcare settings.  Often, we are not able to discuss our feelings with our adoptive parents because they are worried about their roles in our lives. 

Don’t get me wrong, I’m one of the “good” stories and yet my adoption impacts me in a variety of ways.  I have very dear friends who are adoptive parents.  I have no doubt that they love their children and are wonderful parents.  Being a wonderful parent doesn’t prevent your child from suffering the trauma of being separated from their biological family, even if they were adopted at birth.  Adoptees, even in the best circumstances struggle with abandonment issues, depression, disconnection, and fear.  A “better life” comes at a price, even if you do everything “right,” there are still issues. 

And let’s not forget the 1-5% of adoptees who get returned.  Yes, you read that correctly.  Parents change their minds and put the children up for “second chance adoption.”    Don’t believe me, read the 2018 article in The Atlantic, “When Families Un-Adopt a Child.”   If you deem a child too difficult or your lifestyle changes, you can put them up for second-chance adoption.  Frankly, this one takes my breath away.

It is important to point out that the adoption industry is a billion-dollar industry.  People are making money off babies.  Adoptees are treated like a thing –a product – a person to be bought/sold.  The industry has an age-old sales pitch that everyone wins – the birth mother’s “problem” goes away, the adoptive parents who can’t have children get a baby, the baby is given a better life, and everyone lives happily ever after.   Except that this is not a Disney movie.

People need to understand the dark side of adoption.  Stop saying that adoption is the solution to abortion.  Please stop using us as a pawn.  Please stop ignoring adoptee voices.  Please stop telling us that “I know of a good adoption.” Just stop.  Listen to adoptees.  Hear what we’re saying.  We can help.  But do not speak for us.  Sex education, birth control and abstinence are ways to prevent unwanted pregnancy, not adoption.  Adoption has a place in our society, but not in the way that is has been handled in the past. 

If you’d like to read a really good book about the history of adoption, check out:  American Baby: A Mother, A Child, and the Shadow History of Adoption by Gabrielle Glaser.  Not only was it well-written, but quite eye opening about the “industry.”

“Aren’t you glad you weren’t aborted?”

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A friend reached out to tell me she thought I was brave for sharing my thoughts about a woman’s right to choose.

It is assumed that as an adoptee, I would be pro-life.  Over the years, countless have said to me, “aren’t you glad you weren’t aborted?”  I’ve never been quite sure how to respond to that one.  Sassier folks may have shot that question right back to the questioner, but I’ve sat there silent and stunned.

You see, I am not a “THING,” a “COMMODITY,” “SOLUTION TO PROBLEMS.”  I am a living breathing person whose biological parents could not keep her.  I was cut off from my biological family and while I was raised in a family that loved me, that doesn’t take away my genetic roots.  My boys were the first people I met who were biologically related to me.  Growing up, I sat there silent, while the rest of the family sat around talking about who looked like whom.  Occasionally a family member would say, “you look like us, even though you are not related to us.”   Unless you are adopted, you do not understand how it feels to have no one who looks or acts like you.  It’s as if you are living in a foreign country without access to the language – you are always slightly out of step.  Maybe that’s why I love traveling so much because it feels so comfortable to me.  Just because I was loved does not mean I didn’t experience pain or trauma growing up.

Please do not tell me I should be grateful.  My whole life I’ve had to tell the “I’m so lucky” story.  I had it down pat.  Am I though?  I’ll never really know. My story starts at three weeks old.  I don’t know my birth story or anything about the first three weeks of my life.  It’s why I always feel sad and uncomfortable around my birthday, which is a trait many of us adoptees seem to share.   I never realized this was missing until I had my own children.  They love to hear the stories about their birth – the moment I first laid eyes on them or the first time I felt them kick me while pregnant.   Adoptees carry around pain that society doesn’t want us to acknowledge, we are told to be grateful and be quiet.  We are silenced because to speak our pain makes us look disrespectful and unappreciative of our adoptive parents.  Even now, I’m worried about my parents’ feelings.  We carry around everyone’s baggage – our birth parents, our adoptive parents and our own. 

Do not get me wrong, I’m not sure my biological mother keeping me would have made my life better, it just would have been different.   But this is MY reality – I was conceived, I was given up for adoption and I was raised by another family.   I am not a political pawn, an answer to infertility or an unwanted pregnancy.  Adoption is not all good and it is not all bad.  Please stop making it so black and white.   

Adoption is not a solution to abortion.  Birth control, abstinence, mutual consent – THEY are solutions.

Thanks for holding space for me.  This is hard for me to share, but if I can’t speak my truth to friends, then how will anything change?