Tag Archives: Adoption

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.

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.

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.

“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?

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.

Mistake

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I’m ridiculously hard on myself and always have been but haven’t thought much about the reasons why I’m so hard on myself until recently. 

A few weeks ago, my husband made a mistake – a big, costly mistake.  In reaction he simply shrugged his shoulders and said, “Oh, I made a mistake.”  Immediately I felt myself tense up. I was shocked by his reaction. I thought to myself, are you kidding me?  THAT’S YOUR REACTION?  You make a huge mistake and you shrug your shoulders??!!!   Even typing this a few weeks later I can feel the tension building in my stomach and shoulders.  How can he react like that, so calm about his mistake?

I was startled by his response, along with being completely annoyed by his reaction (and the mistake), but I was simultaneously curious.  How is possible for him to react so casually about this mistake?  Why isn’t he taking this more seriously?  Why isn’t he yelling at himself or punishing himself?  And it was with this question that it dawned on me that I have some work to do around mistakes, especially because my children seem to be taking after me and are extra hard on themselves when they make a mistake. 

When it comes to mistakes, I am tough on myself.  I personalize it. I say the meanest things to myself, but usually not out loud.

And here’s where the hard truth comes out – the one that hurts to admit.  The one I am scared to share yet has colored much in my life without me even realizing it. 

I am a mistake.

Yes, you read that correctly.  I am a mistake.   A whoopsie, an “oh no I am a pregnant, 20-year-old un-married Catholic dating a Protestant” woman’s child.  I can’t say what I ingested while in-utero, but I suspect that the words screamed at my birth mother were not kind nor supportive.  The little I do know is that her parents were pissed, and she was sent out-of-state to have me and give me away.  No black marks on their perfect Catholic family.

So, you see, I really was a mistake.  

I was adopted and raised by loving, but flawed people.  My Mom is a perfectionist and so when I made a mistake or didn’t measure up, she’d get upset.  I understand now that my mother’s perfectionism had to do with her own trauma and anxiety, but as a child, I had no clue and would get very nervous when my mom got angry for fear that if I upset her, she’d give me back.  Spilled milk infuriated her.  She would get impatient with me when I didn’t behave in a way that she understood or when I didn’t agree with her.  I understand now that this disconnect had to do with the fact that we are not genetically related, as more research is done on adoptive families.

To me, a mistake was proof that I was damaged, and it confirmed my worries and belief that I was unworthy.  It was an earthquake, rattling the foundation of what was an already shaky sense of self.  One who was trying so desperately to please her parents, to do whatever they wanted to ensure their love, but would always slightly miss the mark.  I was fearful that a mistake would cause my parents to give me back – to return the damaged goods.  I felt like I had to be the perfect daughter in the mold they wanted – and when I fell short, which was frequently (because let’s be honest, who is perfect?), I was super hard on myself, figuring it was a character defect keeping me from this elusive perfection.

The amount of tension I feel in my body as I write this is incredible.  I feel sick to my stomach, afraid to even put this on paper.  If I’m brave enough to post it on my blog, which I don’t promote and that my parents may never see, will I still be punished for it?  Why am I terrified to share this painful truth?  I’m sure I’m not the only one who has felt like a mistake.

Whoever thought that revealing one’s self would be so challenging?

I’m doing the work, through journaling and therapy because I no longer want to go through life being hard on myself.  I certainly don’t want my boys to feel that they are anything less than the wonderful, flawed humans that they are. I am working to heal myself.  And while it is still cringe worthy when I make a mistake because old habits die hard, I’m working on being gentle with myself.   I’m going to post this without agonizing over whether it is “perfect” enough to put out there.

Here’s what I do know:  I’m here. If I was truly a mistake, I wouldn’t be here.  Maybe my birth mother and her family believed that I was a mistake, but I’m not.  She MADE a mistake by not using birth control – or having sex before marriage – however you want to look at it, but I AM NOT THE MISTAKE.   I am here for a reason, so that can’t be a mistake.  I can’t carry her mistakes or her shame anymore.  I can’t carry my mother’s anxiety and perfectionism either.   They’re on their own.  They’ll have to heal themselves because I’m focused on repairing myself.

I wish I could wrap this up with a nice tidy bow, saying that I’m no longer hard on myself, but that wouldn’t be honest.  Instead, I’m taking this day by day.  Every day is a new day to practice, to embrace my shortcomings and work on saying, “oh well, I made a mistake but I’m not a mistake.”

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.