adoption

By Alethia Stern Decades ago, when I was a young girl of four or five, my mother won a free family portrait session from a local grocery store. One Saturday afternoon, she decided to cash in on her winnings. There was a whirlwind of activity around the house, and everyone was putting on their finest. Hair, makeup, and accessories were coordinated too. I was off to the sidelines in observation mode. Eventually, my mother made her way toward me. I sat motionless wondering how I would get the royal treatment. She looked at me, looked at my hair, looked at me again, looked at my hair (which was referred to as the Brillo pad), and shook her head. She quickly left and returned with a pair of scissors and began cutting away at my Afro. I immediately started to resist, squirming in my seat. “Sit still damn it!” she shouted. I obeyed the order, but one by one the tears began trickling down my cheeks. I hated the fact my hair was different from everyone else’s. It was coarse, unmanageable, brittle, without beauty, and vilified. Still, it was my hair. And it was short and now being made even shorter. I wanted long hair like everyone else. When I was growing up people often mistook me for a boy on account of my short hair; this completely annoyed me. I wanted to shout, “I’m a girl damn it!” Perhaps that’s why I get offended in this age of political correctness when someone asks me what pronouns I use or identify with; it triggers the memory. During the photo shoot, the photographer made two attempts to get me to smile for the camera; in retaliation for getting my haircut I refused. I was both flaming mad and simultaneously depressed. The family portrait no longer exists, it burned in a house fire. People often take for granted genetic mirroring in birth families, but that’s not always the case. I can’t emphasize enough the importance of having someone at home whose physical features resemble your own, who understand your plight. It was certainly lonely for me being the one and only NPE (not parent expected). No, I didn’t need a consumer DNA test to enlighten me; I have known all my life just by looking in the mirror. I had an Afro and tan complexion, unlike anyone else in the home. I grew up in an isolated community deprived of my culture and identity. Birth families and foster and adoptive parents are obligated to acknowledge the genetic differences, including race and ethnicity, of the infants or children they bring into their care. These differences should be celebrated and not ignored. Nor should families superimpose their own preferences with respect to hair textures and styles. I remember reading about Colin Kaepernick, when his adoptive mother reportedly told him his chosen hairstyle, cornrows, made him look like a thug. This insensitive comment reminded me of my Brillo pad days. In the television series This Is Us, Randall was the minority in the household. His experiences were different than those of his adoptive parent’s biological children. Had he been adopted with another Black infant or child, his issues with anxiety and self-perception may have been lessened. Click on image to read more.

By Kris Neff You will change her name, you will give her a new birthday; erase her past. You will smile at me, full of promises you don’t intend to keep. You will tell me I’m brave; tell me I’m selfless, deny my grief, refuse my tears. You will amend her identity, and replace mine with yours. You will tell me I’m brave, tell me I’m courageous, while you hold your breath, your need to ensure there will be no reunion between us. You will tell her I couldn’t give her all that she needed. Tell us, both, now we can have the lives we deserve. You will tell me I’m brave, tell me I’m selfless. But It will be you that others will perceive to be selfless; allowing me little glimpses; allowing me just a taste, never allowing me to quench my thirst. You will see me in her, in her eyes; and her smile. You will hear my voice every time she speaks. She will never stop wondering. I will never stop searching. You will never find peace. Eventually you will tell me I’m bitter; and need to let go. With the swipe of a pen you will make her who you want her to be. Not allowing her to be who she was; who she is. Don’t forget about me, or your promises and your hope you took back. Don’t forget that her smile is my smile too. Remember it was my face that her eyes saw first. It was me she was crying for as she was handed to you. And her first breath of air was a breath of mine too. You will hope I stay brave. Pray I stay selfless. While you deny my grief and refuse my tears.

By Heather Massey On January 6, 2025, Congressman Rob Wittman (VA-01) announced the re-introduction of his Adoption Information Act. According to a press release, this act “…would require family planning services to provide information on nearby adoption centers to anyone receiving their services. A family planning services’s eligibility to receive federal grants or contracts through the U.S. Department of Health and Human Services (HHS) would be contingent upon providing this information.” An adoptee, Congressman Wittman also shared his perspective about adoption: “A lot of people say they would not be where they are today without their parents—for me, that is the absolute truth….When I was eight months old, my mom and dad adopted me. My birth mother’s decision to choose adoption gave me more opportunities than she felt she could provide, and my parents’ decision to adopt instilled in me a passion for public service and a desire to give back. That’s why I’m proud to reintroduce my Adoption Information Act so that all mothers know what options are available to them. This legislation is a simple step that can make a world of a difference.” In addition to being a constituent of Congressman Wittman, I’m also an adoptee who believes the Adoption Information Act would cause more harm than good. I was born in 1969 and adopted nine months later. I was part of the Baby Scoop Era, the period between 1945 and 1973 when infants born to single white mothers were plentiful as were couples desperate to adopt. About four million babies were placed for adoption during that period. My parents’ infertility prompted them to adopt. They told me my first mother was a nineteen-year-old college student when she became pregnant with me. She relinquished me because she couldn’t afford to raise me. My parents emphasized that my birth mother had chosen relinquishment for my best interest—an act of love. Sound familiar? That’s because my story is eerily like Congressman Wittman’s adoption narrative. My adoption was closed, which meant the state forbade contact between my birth families and me. I always wanted to meet my first mother, but reunification with her seemed forever out of reach. Until it wasn’t. In 2022, my first mother reached out to the agency that arranged my adoption. Soon after, the agency informed me that a letter from her was waiting for me. Excited beyond belief, I couldn’t read it fast enough. Then we had a glorious reunion. As we became acquainted, I learned some shocking details about my relinquishment. One part of my adoption narrative was technically true: my first mother had no money or resources to raise me by herself. However, her parents certainly had enough money for the job. Furthermore, my first mother would have kept me if not for their lack of support. Ironically, I was adopted by a couple whose socioeconomic status resembled that of my maternal grandparents. My adoptive father was a professor at a college in the same city where my biological grandfather lived (they worked three miles apart, no less). My adoptive mother juggled employment and being a stay-at-home parent, just like my biological grandmother. Click on image to read more.

A review by Michèle Dawson Haber In What They Never Told Us: True Stories of Family Secrets and Hidden Identities Revealed (Skyhorse Publishing, December 2024) Gail Lukasik picks up where her 2017 best-selling memoir, White Like Her: My Family’s Story of Race and Racial Passing, left off, describing how telling her mother’s story of racial passing catapulted Lukasik into the public spotlight and transformed her into a spokesperson for others encountering sudden genetic surprises. Strangers began approaching her looking to share their stories. and it was this experience that convinced her to write What They Never Told Us. “The first step toward understanding the impact of family secrets is to give them a voice.” Lukasik does so with respect and care in this fascinating collection of interviews with adoptees, donor conceived people, and individuals who have uncovered previously hidden genetic histories. The book is divided into thirds, with each part focused on a different grouping of people affected by sudden identity shocks. The first group consists of those who, like Lukasik, discover their racial or ethnic identity is not what they thought it was. In 1995, while looking up census records of her family, she discovered the grandfather she’d never met was Black. She realized then that her mother had been passing as white, never telling her husband or her children about her racial background. Abiding by her mother’s wish not to reveal the truth to anyone, Lukasik waited until her mother died to begin exploring what this new information about her ancestry meant to her. Thirty years later she’s still exploring, asking questions, and challenging perceptions of racial identity. The second part of What They Never Told Us is devoted to stories of adoptees whose parents withheld crucial information about their identities. In some cases, their parents withheld the very fact of their adoption and in other cases the ethnic origins of their biological parents. In part three, Lukasik talks with donor conceived people, including four half-siblings who meet after discovering they were conceived with the same sperm donor. Click image to read more.

By Julie Ryan McGue My twin sister and I were adopted during the Baby Scoop Era—post–World War II through the early 1970s—when closed adoption was the only option available to birth moms. Back then, adoption agencies matched babies with adoptive parents without any input from birth parents. Birth parents were promised anonymity, and future contact with their birth child was prohibited. This arrangement granted adoptive parents’ full autonomy to raise their adopted children as they deemed fit. But what all parties––birth parents, adoptive parents, adoption agencies, state lawmakers, and even civil liberties organizations––failed to do was provide for the long-term health and well-being of the adopted child. For most of my life, I gave little thought to the fact my twin sister and I were adopted, something we seemed always to have known. Did I ponder the “big three” questions–– who are my birth parents, where are they, and why was I adopted––details about which most closed adoption adoptees admit to ruminating? You bet I did. But as much as I dwelled on the big three as a child, I did not consider how my lack of family medical history would affect me as an adult. I also didn’t understand that adoption meant I had two birth certificates: the OBR (original birth record) that was sealed with my closed adoption, and a redacted one that contained my adoptive parents’ details. It would be years before I comprehended the difference, and a lifetime until I appreciated the role my OBR played in my long-term health. In our formative years, my adoptive parents would periodically bring up our adoption, quizzing my sister and me about whether we wanted to seek information. “No, we’re fine” was our standard reply. In truth, we were quick to dismiss our folks because we feared our curiosity would be misinterpreted as disloyalty. As an adult––and a parent myself––I wish that instead of asking how we felt about searching, that our folks would have taken a proactive role, advocating and securing information that might keep us healthy as we aged. Besides those adoption chats with my parents, the only other time I was confronted with the realities of closed adoption were during routine doctor appointments. When asked to fill out my medical history, it was with deep shame that I admitted my status. “I’m adopted. I don’t know anything.” Even as I child, I was aware that if a doctor was asking about ailments, medical conditions, allergies, and sensitivities that ran in my bloodline, it wasn’t good to come up lacking. As I matured, I developed a burning anger around what closed adoption had denied me. I’d sit in a doctor’s waiting room, the stack of intake forms filling my lap, and scrawl in large letters across the entire form, “Adopted. N/A.” As a young woman going into marriage, I was athletic and healthy. I was blessed with four normal pregnancies. Then at forty-eight, suddenly I wasn’t fine. “Six areas of concern” appeared on a routine mammogram. I was sent for a biopsy. My twin sister and I agreed it was time to claim what everyone else who isn’t adopted has the right to know: family medical history. Click on image to read more.

By Moses Farrow When people ask me about adoption, I tell them the truth. The best conversations start with what they know and believe about adoption. These days, people bring up the abandonment and loss issues, the human rights violations, or the moral dilemmas of how children are being taken from their parents and given to others willing to pay for them. Many others also ask me what the solution is for children in need and for people who want to raise a family. Let’s first understand what the word “adoption” means as we believe it to be today. As an adoption trauma therapist and educator I help people arrive at this realization about adoption. My trainings and presentations address three main issues aimed at getting to the truth. Deprogramming For years, I’ve written about connecting the right dots in framing our experiences and the issues common among those impacted by the adoption industry. At this point, there’s no denying an industry exists that drives the process of adoption. Defined as “the act or fact of legally taking another’s child and bring it up as one’s own”—Oxford Languages, adoption has been readily accepted as such by people around the world for generations. I admit I didn’t question it until a few colleagues presented a different definition. Thanks to Arun Dohle, executive director of Against Child Trafficking, and Janine Myung Ja and Jenette Vance, aka The Vance Twins, who have authored and curated books, most notably Adoptionland: From Orphans to Activists, and Adoption: What You Should Know, I now ask people what does “legally taking” mean? That’s when the topic of the industry comes up in the conversation. The issues of supply and demand, costs, policies that legalize the practices of taking children from their parents and families then monopolize our minds for the next hour. By the end, we’re left scratching our heads—“are we even talking about adoption anymore?” This is how we deprogram ourselves from the industry’s propaganda. Coming to the realization that we have effectively been brainwashed all the while industry leaders maintain and profit from a child supply market. The question remains, where are these children coming from? And perhaps more accurately, how are they being sourced? A key part of the deprogramming process is learning of how the industry has conflated the act of taking children (in questionably criminal ways) and calling it a child welfare solution. Social justice advocates have been saying adoption is “legalized child trafficking.” Today, there are a number of investigations, documentaries such as One Child Nation and Geographies of Kinship, along with testimonies of victims that are providing such evidence of children (and their mothers) being trafficked through adoption (TTA). How can this be considered an acceptable child welfare solution? It presents a conundrum, a moral dilemma that needs immediate rectification and redress. To start, trafficking mothers and their children needs to stop. Their rights must be protected. Child trafficking is not a child welfare solution. Click on image to read more.

By Monica Stoffal My mother once told me: If you think someone is going to be your friend, tell them the worst thing about you; a true friend must know your worst thing. In December 1971, I was twelve-years-old and pregnant from the incest I’d experienced since I was five. On April 16, 1972, labor started with its vice-grip of contractions, bringing me to my knees just outside the hospital, where I pulled my mother to the ground as she tried in vain to hold me up. A kind stranger helped us to the hospital door. While the on-call doctor considered whether to give me an epidural, he said, “If this baby even lives, it will be small.” Eight hours later, a seven-pound boy was born—a boy I never saw or held. The adoptive parents and older brother were overjoyed. I followed my mother’s advice for a while, believing that a true friend had to know my worst story. I considered Robin to be that true friend and, when she shared her hardship story about growing up with an alcoholic mother, I told her my incest story. I was nineteen at the time, and Robin, who was eight years older, seemed trustworthy. I was naive about how hard my story truly was. Unbeknownst to me, Robin gossiped, telling her long-time friend, Colleen, about my childhood sexual abuse. I happened to be renting a room from Colleen, and when we had a disagreement, she accused me of sleeping with my stepfather. I was stunned. Not only by her calloused, out-of-nowhere comment, but by the shocking realization that Robin told someone else my hard story, something I rarely shared. After that, I kept my story all inside, hidden by my Cheshire Cat grin, my cool, aloof self. Marriage, two children, college, a teaching job, gave me many years to stuff the story down deep enough that I realized I could live my entire life without ever telling it again. Click on image to see more.

By Maelyn Schramm My Dearest Biological Mother, You don’t know me. Well actually, I suppose you do. You grew me in your belly for nine months. You held me in your arms when I was born. You cradled me likely with tears streaming down your face as you left me on the doorstep now 29 years ago. You don’t know me, but I am your now thirty-year-old biological daughter, Alexia Maelyn Schramm. I write you to share my half of the story. I write to tell you I’m OK. I write because I love you. *** Firstly, my story: a Caucasian, middle class American family adopted me. I grew up in North Texas, where I still live today. My parents—Tim & Denise—are still married. My older brother still pokes fun at me, my younger brother still annoys me at times. But I love them. In fact, my family has grown! The oldest of us siblings married and has two sons—“The Boys,” as I lovingly refer to them. The Boys are sweet and wild and rambunctious. They make me laugh and give me hugs. They usually remind me of my brother, but sometimes I see a little of me in them too. I consider their childhood, and at times compare it to mine. I consider how the current me can love the version of themselves now, Little Them, to make up for the pain and hurt and longing Little Mae felt. A little more of my story: my childhood was simple, yet sweet. I had friends—mostly Caucasian. I played sports (basketball, ultimate frisbee, volleyball, swim, track, and softball). I took art lessons. Water color was my favorite followed closely by sculpture. My dad’s mom taught me piano until I was seventeen-years-old, and I taught myself a touch of guitar and ukulele. I accepted Christ as a young age and plugged into our Baptist church’s youth ministry. The latest of my story: I studied public relations at Baylor University in Central Texas, and minored in poverty studies and social justice. (I’ve always considered myself a social justice warrior). After graduating, I moved back to Dallas, where I nannied, then worked for several law firms, then worked front desk at climbing gym, then studied law, then stopped studying law, and then wound up managing full-time in the climbing industry—where I am today. The last 10 years of my life have truly been a whirlwind, though I’m thankful for all of it. Click on image to read more.

By Louella Dalpymple I, Louella Dalpymple, am an avid learner, so when I became an adoptive mom, I immediately labored to read a wide array of adoption agency websites so I’d be fully armed to endear myself to my children for all eternity. Now that my adoptees are adults, I feel obligated to share “lessons learned” with the rest of you. While it was a blow to my self-esteem to not contribute my genes to the gene pool, adoption provided me multiple ways to repair the damage from that blow, thanks to my two darling children. When I set out to learn everything necessary to be the best mom ever, I was surprised to discover that there wasn’t much to learn that I didn’t already know. I spent three whole hours (honest!) scrolling the feeds of several adoptive parent influencers to make sure I was up to speed. Adoption is one of those wonderful things that everyone already knows and loves because in adoption, everyone wins. The Republicans and the Democrats love it. The churches and the heathens love it. White people, Black people, Brown people, Yellow people – the whole rainbow of humanity loves adoption! (Maybe not the Red people). What’s not to love? When drug epidemics and earthquakes and wars and one-child policies hit, all the poor babies can make their way to better homes, American homes. With my children successfully out in the world, living their own lives, I want to share with you 8 proven strategies (not yet patented, but I’m working on that) for what adoptees need from their parents. You might want to hang these on your fridge. Click on image to read more.

By Dawn E. Packard Have your clothes already laid out. Get up early before your family does. Make a cup of strong coffee, but you won’t really need it. You may never be more awake. A little light makeup. No mascara. Some tissues in your pocket against need. Calculate again the time and distance from your hotel to the restaurant. Run a cloth over the boots you’ll walk in. Stand in front of a full-length mirror and know that this is how she will see you. Discard any notions of eating. Don’t take anything to take the edge off. Fifty-three years is a long time to wait; you won’t want to miss any of it. Swallow one last slug of the coffee you don’t need. Kiss your sleeping son and close the door softly as you leave. You will not return as the same person. Walk to the restaurant and breathe deeply of the sharp winter morning air. Firmly tether your mind to your body. Stay present. As you walk, gather all the selves you’ve ever been who’ve dreamed about this moment. The child who didn’t understand. The teenager lashing out at not-my-mother. The graduate, the bride, the new mom. You’re all going to breakfast together. Take a moment to compose yourself before you grasp the handle of the door and pull it open. Run a hand through your hair. Arrange your scarf. Do your best to not look nervous. Scan the dining room and push away tendrils of panic when you don’t see her. Remind yourself that you would’ve never come if she didn’t seem trustworthy. Believe that she’ll be there and try not to sag with relief when you spot her at a corner table. Maintain your composure. Walk to the table projecting a confidence you do not feel and watch as she unfolds herself from the booth and rises to embrace you. Clench your jaw and swallow as you hug. She will smell warm and nice, like a baby blanket. Breathe her in. Calm your galloping heartbeat and savor this moment. You will never have another like it. Order more coffee and some food you’ll barely touch. Pick at your toast as you will yourself not to stare at the woman who gave birth to you. Try to adjust to seeing your own eyes looking out at you from someone else’s face. It’s a weird feeling. Remind yourself to breathe. Click on image to read more.

By Cindy Shultz Dakota “Levi” Stevens deserved a long life. He had a family that loved him and wanted him. In April 2024, he was suffocated in his foster home. No charges have been filed, and Levi’s family is calling for change in a petition. The state of Indiana failed Levi and his family. The Indiana Department of Child Services claims that prospective foster families go through “intensive training and education,” yet Levi’s death is not an isolated incident. Throughout our country a crisis is unfolding that demands our immediate attention. It’s a crisis that sees our most vulnerable—our children—subjected to unthinkable horrors. The torture and murder of foster and adopted children is ongoing. These children are more than just victims; they’re human beings who deserve love, care, and protection, not death. A few current murder cases include those of 4-year-old Bryan Boyer (FL), 11-year-old Arabella McCormack (CA), 6-year-old Isabella Kalua (HI), 3-year-old Sherin Mathews (TX), 14-year-old Grace Packer (PA), and 6-week-old Lucas Birchim (NC). The stories of Asunta Fong Yang and Aundria Bowman—both murdered adoptees—are garnering attention in two different Netflix Series: “The Asunta Case” and “Into the Fire: The Lost Daughter,” respectively.” These stories are horrifying but not unique and stand as irrefutable evidence of an industry failing children and their families. Can you imagine losing custody of your children because a government agency says you are a danger to them only to find out they were victims of torture and murder under watch from that same agency? According to a 2019 study, children in foster care have a mortality rate 42% higher than that other children. This number is not just a statistic; these are real human beings, real children, real lives, and real suffering. Imagine the fear and confusion a child must feel when the very people who are legally responsible for protecting them become their abusers. These children, already vulnerable due to their adoptive and foster care placements, are further victimized by a system that fails to safeguard their lives. Click on image to read more.

By Lori Black I am still searching. I have been for quite a while. It’s tiring, this never ending need I’ve always had to prove my existence, but the need has not and will not leave me alone. My parents adopted me as an infant in the 1950s, when secrecy was an art form nigh unto gospel. My lack-of-information-wound has always festered at whim. In the year 2000, that wound split wide open when I acquired a life-changing piece of paper— my pre-adoption birth certificate, courtesy of a new law passed that year in my home state of Oregon. Since that day, I’ve met a few maternal birth family members, including an aunt. Aunt Mary knew of my existence and delighted in meeting and getting to know me, as long as I asked no questions about my beginnings. Believe me, I tried, eventually coming to realize that, of all the secret keepers surrounding my origins, she had to be in first place. Mary remained tight-lipped even after all the important players had passed away. Then she passed away. So did my birth mother, after having declined to meet me. Through what she had shared with the adoption agency, I knew my father had been middle-aged at the time of my conception so he had likely passed away. Despite all of this (or perhaps because of it), the legacy of secrecy still churned within. Quietly, I demanded more. The year my birth mother died was the year I turned my attention to the pristine blank space on my pre-adoption birth certificate just above the word father. *** The date is summertime. It is 2006, the year my birth mom dies. Between the information on the pre-adoption birth certificate listing my birth mom’s home state as Nebraska and the information I’d gathered from the adoption agency years earlier saying both my birth parents came from a small town in the Midwest, I had a strong suspicion that I hail from Nebraska, at least conceptually speaking. But I was born and raised in Portland, Oregon, and the closest I’d ever been to a farm is a Christmas tree lot. Rural happens only on vacations, and I’ve killed marigolds with a single glare. Nebraska seems as alien and as far away as the moon to me. Yet such a confluence of rural biology and urban adopted upbringing has whetted the moth-to-a-flame instincts that I’m convinced I inherited. It compels me to journey to the heartland, privately hoping there will be clues about father. Click on image to read more.

A poem by S.D. Kilmer, BPS Long is this pain,  The grief,  And the unbelief. The sorrow, Without a yesterday      difficult is a tomorrow. The impossible longing For a place I have never known.  A place never seen.  A place I know I’ve been. And yet, it was once home.

By Ari Spectorman March 23, 2022 was our final day for the winter season at our home in Key West. The SUV was fully packed for the long ride home to New Hope, PA. My husband, Tony, and I biked over for one last dinner at El Siboney, a favorite Cuban joint a few blocks away. During dinner I went to the rest room and urinated nothing but blood. “This can’t be good,” I thought. We quickly biked back home. Perhaps it was a kidney stone? There were no previous symptoms of any kind. But soon there was intense, painful pressure and I could not urinate at all. We rushed to urgent care in Key West. A quick CT scan revealed a mass in my left kidney. I needed a catheter inserted right away to release the pressure and was sent to South Miami by ambulance, a 3-½ hour slog. Tony followed soon after in the already packed SUV. I was frightened and worried Tony would be overwhelmed. I spent a week in a South Miami hospital trying to clear all the blood clots through my catheter, while undergoing various tests and scans. The devastating news was not only a most likely kidney cancer diagnosis, but also the appearance of a suspicious nodule on my pancreas. We flew back home and arranged for a transport company to collect and ship the loaded SUV to us. We would pursue further diagnostic testing and a course of action once we were settled in our New Hope home. An endoscopic needle biopsy at the pancreas confirmed our worst fears, metastatic kidney cancer. (Stage four, advanced, and metastatic all mean the same thing: a cancer that has spread beyond the original location.) I had a suspicious nodule in my lungs, two more in my peritoneum (a membrane in the abdominal cavity), and two on the pancreas. Three weeks later, on April 21, my left kidney was surgically removed at Doylestown Hospital. I’ve always known I was adopted; it was not a secret. My adoptive mother, who only recently passed at age 90, always encouraged me to find information regarding my biological parents. Many years ago, I contacted the Louise Wise adoption agency and was told my young Jewish mother gave no information regarding the father, only that it was a single encounter. At the time of my birth, in September 1961, she had asked not to be contacted, so my records were sealed. I was not particularly motivated to look for my birth parents for most of my life. Unlike many other adoptees, I never felt incomplete, and it just never felt terribly important to me. I had a full life. Married when legally permitted in 2013, Tony and I first met in 1979 as freshmen at our university. We owned a Greenwich Village restaurant together, bought a home in Bucks County, PA, and later, I grew a successful financial advisory business over a 26-year period. Eventually I did get around to thinking about my origins. I always thought my birth father was not Jewish—I have a tiny button nose and a somewhat darker complexion—maybe my father was from some exotic background? That would be interesting. In 2019, I joined 23andMe on a lark. 99.9% Ashkenazi Jew— boring! But no immediate relatives. Some months later suddenly a half-sister appeared using only the initials NF, from Morristown, NJ. She was born in 1958 and was also adopted via the Louise Wise Agency. She was looking for information about her family. I immediately wrote to her introducing myself. “I assume we share the same mother! I’m Ari Spectorman, from New Hope PA, who are you?” Within a week, not only had she not replied, but she removed all traces of herself from the 23anMe site. I scared her away, I guess. Perhaps because I’m gay and she is very religious? Being ghosted like this invites much speculation. Click image to read more.

By Radhika Eicher For the longest time, I never thought I’d have a baby or even be able to have one. But in the summer of 2023, my life changed when I discovered I was pregnant. So many emotions ran through my mind as I took numerous pregnancy tests to confirm I was actually going to have a baby. Finally, after six tests, I was able to say okay, this is really happening. My husband and I couldn’t have been more excited that we would be bringing a bundle of joy into this world. My baby girl wasn’t even here yet, and already I loved her more than life itself. I was adopted at 17 months old from India to a family in South Dakota. My adoptive family is great, but I still experienced adoption trauma concerning the loss of my birth mother, abandonment issues, and looking different from my adoptive family because of my brown skin. That trauma resulted in self-hate over the color of my skin. I also suffer from mental illness— bipolar disorder, depression, and anxiety—which I believe came from my birth parents and only worsened as I grew older. Now, I’m 27 years old and I still struggle with trauma. I know many people believe blood shouldn’t matter but, being adopted, I believe it really does. I love my adopted family, but they didn’t look like me and we don’t share blood, and that affected me more than many people understand. I couldn’t wait for my daughter to be born because she’s a part of me. It’s so important to me that she’s my blood. As an adoptee, becoming a mother is such a surreal thing. I get to give my baby the love I didn’t get to have when I was a baby being put up for adoption. When my daughter, Harriett, was born by C-section, the feeling I had when I first saw her is indescribable. When the doctors showed her to me, I instantly felt immense love in my heart. I couldn’t imagine how my birth mother had given me up because I couldn’t imagine doing that to my baby girl. She’s absolutely perfect. I can’t imagine her not being in my life. She’s changed me in so many ways and has helped heal aspects of my adoption trauma. I no longer have a desire to find my birth mother because she’s everything I need and more. Still, having been a mother now for more than a month, I can say my separation anxiety has kicked in. I hate leaving my daughter. That anxiety is another aspect of trauma I’ve faced for years. I’ve experienced it with my husband and now with my baby. The connection I have with my daughter is so true, wholesome, and fulfilling. It’s grounded me to be the mother I am today because I want to be her pillar so she knows she’ll never have to doubt my love for her. She will know her mom will always sacrifice for her so she can be whoever she wants to be and go wherever she wants to go. I will make sure my daughter never has to question her identity and that she knows she is always loved and can count on me. I want to teach her so many things but most importantly for her to have self-love and self-worth. I don’t want her to struggle with that as I did growing up. I love that she’ll know where she came from and who is her mom and dad. I will never make her feel like she isn’t loved, as I felt growing up. Having been adopted at such a young age made me feel that my birth mother didn’t want me. Click image to read more.

By Cindy Olson McQuay Michelle Madrid, now an adoptee empowerment coach, was adopted by an American couple when she was a baby in the United Kingdom. Growing up, she experienced the complex emotional challenges and disturbances familiar to many adoptees, including anger, distrust, and feelings of unworthiness. She addresses these issues, as well as other often unaddressed repercussions such as PTSD, suicide risk, and fear of abandonment, in her book, Let us Be Greater: A Gentle, Guided Path to Healing for Adoptees. Even though the book is addressed to adoptees, I highly recommend it for everyone. It’s an enlightening guide to personal and collective transformation. Combining introspective reflection with actionable advice, Madrid inspires readers to grow personally while contributing to their communities and the world. Organized into sections on self-improvement and social responsibility, Madrid uses personal anecdotes, motivational insights, and practical exercises to guide readers on a journey of self-discovery, resilience, and leadership. Her engaging and accessible writing, filled with real-life examples, adds authenticity and depth to her message. Each chapter concludes with practical exercises and reflection prompts to help readers apply the concepts and track their progress. It’s an inspiring guide for anyone looking to improve themselves and make a difference. Madrid’s comprehensive approach to personal development, engaging style, and actionable advice make this book a valuable resource for readers at any stage of their growth journey. Whether for overcoming personal challenges, developing stronger relationships, or taking on leadership roles, this book provides the tools and inspiration needed to achieve your goals and contribute to the greater good. Click image for full article.

By David B. Bohl, MA Being adopted is one of those complicated gifts that just keeps on giving whether you like it or not. I am calling it a “gift” because I like to put a positive spin on things and because it has enriched my life—in relationships, in personal discoveries—once I understood how to deal with all the adversity/trauma attached to it. Once I knew how to navigate my own feelings about it all, it became easier to see it as something that made my life that much bigger, now that I was no longer letting it destroy me, as when I used drinking to cope with my inability to fit in. But recently the gift reared its head again. What happened is that I experienced something called a misattributed parentage event (MPE), which became an unexpected twist in my journey of self-discovery, one that I thought I had already come to terms with. An MPE—most often discovered as a result of DNA testing—describes a situation in which the person one believes to be one’s biological parent is not in fact biologically related. This can result from adoption, sperm donation/IVF, an affair, rape, or incest. For obvious reasons, learning about an MPE is often a traumatic experience. As an adoptee, I’ve always known that my biological roots were a mystery waiting to be unraveled. However, I thought I knew all there was to know and nothing could have prepared me for the revelation that the man I thought was my paternal genetic grandfather was not biologically related to me or my father. My half brother and I stumbled upon this truth through genetic DNA testing, a tool we initially used out of curiosity, but one that ultimately led us down a path of unexpected revelations. At first, the finding felt surreal, almost as if I were living in a plot twist from a novel rather than my own life. Because I had always known that I was adopted, the idea of surprises regarding my genetic lineage was not entirely foreign to me—and yet this revelation still managed to shake the foundation of my understanding of family and identity. I didn’t know this grandfather (nor will I ever know the other one) but I couldn’t help but wonder what that was like for my biological father and if he was affected in any way. Was he treated well by the man he called “father” or was he perhaps neglected? Could that explain why he was unable to show up for me? Or was it his mother who only knew the truth and was perhaps deeply affected by it? The possibilities were endless, and I’ve found myself trying to guess something that was impossible to guess as it’s been the case with most of my biological story. The one thing I did know for sure was that this was a new reality that I had to grapple with in my own time and at my own pace. One of the most challenging aspects of this discovery was navigating the implications for my family members, particularly my father’s living sisters. As I shared this newfound truth with them, I could observe the mixture of shock and confusion they displayed. This revelation changed not just my understanding of lineage, but also theirs, highlighting the interconnectedness of our family narratives. While we were all supportive and understanding of each other, I could sense the weight of this revelation as we collectively processed what it meant for our family dynamic. Click on image to read more.

By Tracy Mayo 1982 Northwest mountains of North Carolina                                                                     Tracy is 27, Thomas is 12 The elderly chestnut, lone survivor of the blight, stood as a centerpiece of all that could be surveyed from the expansive front porch. Others of its kind had once covered these Blue Ridge mountains like a shawl over shoulders on a cool evening. The deeply furrowed bark belied the ease with which an exotic fungus had slipped into the cambian and felled its brothers and sisters, once giants of these forests.   A singular sentinel—isolated, yet resilient. When weather was favorable, I would take my morning meditation in the rocking chair on the porch, facing the chestnut. In spring the flowing white catkins waved like streamers on little girls’ bike handles. Come summer the lush, saw-toothed, dark green leaves shaded the cultivated wildflowers beneath. Autumn equaled yellow blaze. But in late fall, when the burrs should have encased three chestnuts each, there were no harvests. The lone tree was sterile. Even so, it grew its canopy year by year, waiting patiently for a favorable wind to carry news of another survivor.   Most weeks I spent my day off from our business tending to the ample vegetable garden, which lay between the chestnut and our log cabin. The ancient mountains, worn down now to lush rolling hills, grew a dark sandy loam that needed no amendments other than the occasional side dressing of composted manure. I worked in the partial shade of a four-foot diameter, ground-mounted satellite dish that provided live feeds of sports and the BBC. In early fall, with afternoon’s slanted light, the bountiful harvest brought the last of the corn, the first of the autumn squashes, more tomatoes than I could put up, and the final raspberry yield. Click on image to read more.

By David Daniel My birthmother rode into town on a Greyhound bus one icy February night. We fed her roasted hen, then sat by the fire as she unpacked her scrapbook. Tucked inside a see-through sleeve was a photo of her as an acned teen, leaning back in a hospital bed, cradling the newborn she would soon surrender. Sipping her tea, she handed me a faded certificate of birth—the original one with the original name, inked with imprints of two tiny feet. Come sunup, she ambled downstairs in a paisley robe, blond hair braided to her waist, and we sat in the kitchen eating eggs my wife had made. Outside, it was unseasonably warm, so she walked our kids around the block, and as she did, I sat alone by the blackened logs, eyeing my birth certificate once again—realizing that my real name was cleaved from me as early as can be. As I saw her off at the Greyhound that night, the penny finally dropped: I had sailed through life under a cover name and never even known it.  Click on image for author bio.