Earlier today, I came across the social worker’s notes about my birth family while looking for another file.  It’s been a few years since I read them and six years since I received the more comprehensive information about my bio family. 

I felt like I was reading a story about other people until I realized, that the “attractive newborn with a very fair complexion and a small amount of brown hair” was me.  The one my mother saw through a nursery window and wanted to hold.  The file doesn’t tell me if she ever did get to hold me and since we don’t have contact, I’ll never know.

Three days after my birth I was discharged to foster care and 14 days later, I was placed with my adoptive parents.

My life began in late July, but my story didn’t start until 17 days later when I was adopted.  Between July and mid-August, there is no information about my life -I’m the blank slate that I was sold as to my adoptive parents.

Except that I’m not a blank slate.  Adoptees are not blank slates.  Birth certificates and name changes do not erase genetic ties.  My biological family is a part of me.  I carry their traits, curiosity, love of books, writing, the outdoors, and their ability to tan easily, among other things.  Of course, my adoptive family influenced me, but that doesn’t take away my biology and I’m tired of silencing my voice to uphold the false narrative that adoption didn’t impact me.

Writing about this makes me uncomfortable.  I’m always worried about hurting my adoptive family, especially my mother.  She made it clear from day one that she was my only mother.  There was always this underlying fear that if I made her upset, she could give me back.  This fear shaped my experience.   I became a chameleon, a people pleaser, I stayed small.

The truth is, she is not my only mother.  I can love my adoptive parents and love my biological family.  There is room for both.  This does not fit the narrative that is sold.

If you are not an adoptee, you cannot begin to understand what it is like for us, even those of us raised in a “good” home.  What does a good home even mean??

Even now, I find myself censoring my writing.  No more.   You don’t get to tell me how I’m allowed to feel about my experience.  You don’t get to tell me I’m lucky, I’m better off, or that I’ve been saved.

Just stop.  It’s my turn to talk.