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My Adoption Story: What's Life Like as an Adopted Child

Table of contents, my definition of adoption and personal story, several advantages of being adopted, some disadvantages that cannot be hidden.

• Increased Opportunities
• Large Family
• Healthier Lifestyle
• Having Time With Parents
• Identity Confusion
• Transitioning to Parenthood
• Tension Between Biological Parents and Adoptive
• Children Become Curious of Who They Really Are

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Blog > Essay Advice , Personal Statement > 3 Ways to Approach College Essays About Adoption

3 Ways to Approach College Essays About Adoption

Admissions officer reviewed by Ben Bousquet, M.Ed Former Vanderbilt University

Written by Ben Bousquet, M.Ed Former Vanderbilt University Admissions

Key Takeaway

If you’re adopted, you might be wondering whether you can write your college essay about your experiences as an adoptee.

The answer is simple: absolutely! College essays about adoption aren’t overly common. And because the topic tends to be such a personal one, you don’t have to worry too much about being cliche or general. Reflecting meaningfully on your own experiences is enough.

In this post, we’ll go over three strategies for writing your college essay about adoption, and we’ll talk about two mistakes to avoid.

The first way to approach your college essay about adoption is to focus on the theme of identity. In general, topics related to identity tend to lead to outstanding college essays because they’re inherently personal and vulnerable—two foundational traits of a personal statement . Adoption essays are no different.

When writing about adoption and identity, applicants tend to focus on their identity prior to and after being adopted. For some, a personal statement might detail the journey of reconciling their identity at birth with their identity in their adopted family. For others, it might center on an identity they’ve held all along.

Whatever your story is, you can be authentic in how you present your journey with your identity.

Biology or Psychology

You could also take a more academic approach to your personal statement by exploring your adoption through a biological or psychological framework. This approach may work especially well if you want to go into either field.

Exploring your adoption through a biological or psychological lens might look like an investigation into your own experience of nature versus nurture. Where do you see similarities between you and your adoptive family? Do you have any traits you think are genetic?

With this approach, you can show a keen academic interest in a subject while also exploring your own background and identity.

If you were adopted into a family whose culture differs from that of your birth family, then you might choose to write about your identity through the lens of culture.

The majority of applicants who take this approach write about their journey reconnecting with their birth culture. Others write about what it was like to adapt to a new culture when they were adopted. And others yet discuss the feeling of being in between cultures.

No matter what your own experience has been, you can write a strong essay by reflecting on how your cultures have shaped who you are today.

Two Mistakes to Avoid

While you don’t have to think too much about avoiding cliches, there are two common mistakes to be on the lookout for as you’re writing and revising your personal statement.

Focusing too much on negative or difficult emotions

Adoption can be a challenging subject to write about under any circumstances. In a college essay, it can be especially difficult because the stakes are high and you’re writing for an audience of faceless admissions officers.

While you may have heard that you need a “sob story” to get into college, the truth is that college essays are most successful when they don’t dwell on the negative. That’s not to say that you can’t write about anything difficult that you’ve faced. But you want your admissions officers to have positive emotions when they think back on your file, so your essay should ultimately resolve with some kind of light, hope, or positivity.

Telling a story that is about your adoption, not you

As we’ve already covered, adoption is a solid topic for a college essay. But you don’t want your college essay to be only about your adoption. It should, in the end, be about you .

Whatever you reveal to your admissions officers through your adoption story should serve two purposes: 1) to give insight into who you are, and 2) to reveal something about your core strengths. (If you want to know more about either of those purposes, hop on over to our guide to college essays .)

So don’t simply detail your adoption or focus only on the aspects that have been positive or negative for you. Write about them only for the purpose of telling admissions officers something about yourself.

The bottom line

If you feel so inclined, go ahead and write your college essay about being adopted. You might approach the topic through the lens of identity, biology, culture, or something uniquely your own. Whatever approach you take, make sure to keep the focus on you, not your adoption, and to conclude your essay on a positive note.

Looking for inspiration? Check out our college essay examples . We have a bunch—and they’re all graded and annotated by former admissions officers.

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College Essay: Identity in Adoption

“Where are you from?” is a  common icebreaker that I’ve struggled with my entire life. I was born in Huehuetenango, Guatemala, and was adopted and raised in Blaine, Minnesota. For some people this question is easier to answer than others. However, I am from two places and find difficulty in choosing a side. It wasn’t until ninth grade that I stopped thinking I had to choose between the United States and Guatemala.  

Growing up  I  attempted to fit in with my classmates; I began rejecting learning Spanish, and started to stereotype the language and the people. In fourth grade my family sent me to  a cultural immersion camp, La Semana, so I could learn more about my culture and language. Despite going to the camp and being surrounded by people who wanted to learn about their culture, I continued to renounce my heritage and tried to assimilate with what I assumed Americans were supposed to be. 

My perception of what an American girl was included activities like cheerleading, dancing and jumping rope. Since I never participated in those activities, it made me feel like I was an outsider to my classmates. I believed there was something wrong with me and thought I wasn’t “American” enough. At school, I had trouble fitting in with most of my friends because I didn’t look like them. On the other hand, there were times when I felt like I didn’t belong among other Hispanic people, especially when I was with the group of kids at my church. They unintentionally made me feel embarrassed because I could  not speak Spanish fluently and wasn’t able to comprehend people speaking it. 

In school there were a few times when my friends would start speaking about their cultures and I wasn’t able to contribute since I was confused about my own cultural identity. One of my friends from Bulgaria made me feel jealous because she had the ability to learn her native language and dances. She even went on yearly visits to Bulgaria. 

I haven’t returned to Guatemala since my adoption. However, looking back, going to La Semana and finding community with other adopted people makes me want to learn more about “home.” It also makes me wonder about things like my birth mother, birth family, or even what happened to my foster parent. Despite not wanting to immerse myself in Guatemalan tradition at the beginning, something started to bloom in me and spark my desire to let myself accept my heritage.                   

It is something I continue to struggle with. Recently, I have begun applying myself in Spanish class. Growing up, it was embarrassing to look Hispanic and not speak the language. The embarrassment from not speaking Spanish created more shame about my culture.  A moment that was defining for me was when I looked around and saw how many people also had multicultural backgrounds. I still have a long way to go but I am beginning to see that I can be Guatemalan-American and don’t have to choose one culture to live with.

I know I want to go into a social science field in college, specifically anthropology. My own experience with accepting my background and traditions would help me with analyzing past human culture and help me have an easier time with acceptance of their cultures. College will help me understand how I fit in the world while learning more about different cultures. It would help me form an idea on what I want to do with my future as I am exposed to new topics and ideas. College would be a rewarding experience since my birth mother gave me up so I could have opportunities she never had, including college.

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Adoption: An Essay

What is it like to suddenly be contacted by the birth parents you've never met.

Posted October 27, 2011 | Reviewed by Davia Sills

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Adopting an Identity

It's a day just like any other in my freshman year, and my mom tells me my dad cried over the contents of the envelope she just handed to me. I have a hard time believing her, because I've never seen my dad cry and because dads, by the laws of nature, aren't supposed to cry. But the envelope concerns me, and it concerned my dad enough to cry about it.

Pretty soon, I'm crying, and my mom's crying. Our faces are like shiny red beets while tears fall into our open mouths as we try and fail to talk to each other through the tears. We only manage blubbering, guttural noises.

Inside the envelope are letters and pictures. My mom says they're from my biological parents, and that idea doesn't process, because the handwritten letter from my bio-father looks so much like my mom's handwriting that I think she's playing some sort of trick on me. She's not.

I flip through pictures of Chimene and Richard, these accidental lovers, and of the two half-siblings I never knew about. It's surreal; I feel only half awake as I flip among the pictures and wonder who these people are and wonder who I am because of these letters.

I felt out of place in my family. I would see families stockpiled with love. But love felt awkward since I didn't know how to give it, because I didn't, and in some ways still don't, appreciate everything my family does for me.

And I didn't see myself in my parents. They didn't read; they didn't like the kind of movies I like; they didn't share my atheism, my cynicism , or any personality quirks. I didn't understand the concept of all this familial love, because I wasn't sure how to love my parents when I felt disconnected from them.

My mom lingers. I think she feels as though she's obligated to help me along this emotional journey because she's my mom, and that's her job. All I can think about is how similar this is to the moment in the second grade when I was told I was adopted. I laid on the king-sized bed in my parents' room, talking about my day, wide-eyed at the fact that a girl in my grade was adopted. And then my mom told me that the girl and I had similar life stories.

My mom claimed she told me when I was young, but I didn't remember. At 8, I was told I was unique in a way I didn't want to be. We sat in silence for a while, and I wanted nothing more than to go away and cry. So I excused myself and got a Pepsi from the fridge. My mom accompanied me, and I can't remember feeling more sad, embarrassed, and angry in my entire childhood at the fact that she wouldn't leave me alone.

My biological mother uses an abundance of "teehees" in her structurally strange, typed letter because apparently she's funny, and laughter can't be captured on paper. I can't connect with her "teehees." I can't see any humor in the impersonal black ink. I can't connect with a person whose letter is like a resume, a list of altruistic hobbies and likable characteristics. Yet, I look at this paper and see myself in her love of books, her terrible humor. And I feel almost a sense of... relief.

I can't relate to my parents. And now I'm reading about this woman, seemingly so foreign, this woman who's training for the Iraq war and likes to plant, whose first love is God followed by her husband John, this woman who's half like me. Only half, but that's half more than I can say for my parents.

I sift through her computer-paper memories printed in the dull-colored ink. Then I move on to Richard. I already like him. He gave me actual pictures, glossy, without fingerprint smudges, true and genuine, just like his handwritten letter that tells me he took time and effort in this compilation.

I almost feel like an intruder looking at his best friends, his brother, his beard that makes him look like The Dude from The Big Lebowski . Richard begins by feeling obligated to tell me that I wasn't a mistake, that there was a good reason why I was brought up by a different family, blah blah. I don't need comfort from a man I don't know.

But I do know him. It's terrifying to the point where my hands begin to shake.

I know him because I'm the carbon copy of him, from his cheekbones to his aspirations. Our canines are identical, our eyes mirrors, our dimples cousins, our smiles duplicates. As I read the letter, I grow more and more dumbfounded. I want to major in film, and I think NYU is just about the most amazing school there is. So when I read that he majored in film production at NYU, I'm literally scared.

The similarities don't stop there. We're both adopted, we both love movies to no end, we like math, we prefer Judaism to other religions, we're both this, and we're both that. This letter is staring me in the face, telling me that I'm not random, that it's OK to not be like my family because I'm not exactly a part of them.

It's natural to want to believe that humans are independent. We all like to think we have freedom, that we're not controlled by anyone or anything. But science suggests that we are biased creatures with predispositions originating from either our genes or our environments. The nature versus nurture debate has been going since the dawn of psychology. Some say that we are a product of our environments; how we grow up and the conditions we grow up in help determine who we are today. For instance, someone can be a bitter adult due to a poor upbringing or a selfish adult because of a spoiled childhood.

The opposing view of this is that we have genetic predispositions that shape who we are. It's in our genes to like or dislike something; we're already programmed to be a certain way. Scientists have looked into this study by observing twins who have grown up in different environments. Theoretically, if nature wins out, they should be very similar people; however, if nurture is the dominant factor, they would be completely different people.

Homelife, culture, and peers definitely play a role in the makeup of a person. But then there are people like Oskar Stohr and Jack Yufe, identical twins reared apart. One was raised as a Catholic and a Nazi while the other was raised in the Caribbean as a Jew. They both liked sweet liqueur and spicy food, tended to fall asleep while watching television, flushed the toilet before using it, kept rubber bands on their wrists, and had quick tempers. When they met, they were both wearing blue, double-breasted shirts, mustaches, and wire-rimmed glasses.

And this might seem like a freakish coincidence, but it's not an anomaly. Among other examples, there are also the two Jims; twins reared apart named Jim who had sons named James, first wives named Linda and second wives named Betty, dogs named Toy, vasectomies, a woodworking hobby, fondness for Miller Lite, chain- smoking habit, and more similarities they shared.

It seems that nature wins this debate. But I didn't need studies to tell me that. I learned it in a letter.

I don't resent my parents because I'm not able to relate to them. What used to bother me was my brother. It's clear to see that Gerald Singleton King, Jr. is my father's son. They have matching hot-heads and hairlines and a knack for business. My brother borrowed my dad's eyes and my grandpa's height to become who he is. And when you turn to my mom, you can see how G.J. has her social skill and empathetic demeanor.

Then there is me. The shortest person in my entire extended family, the only blue-eyed girl, the sort of person to read Infinite Jest for fun while everyone else has a magazine in their hands. My entire family always told me I was an artist, but I'm pretty sure that's because they didn't know what else to call me.

I always wanted to do something different, and I'm not sure if that's because I was already labeled as different or because I genuinely wanted to. But then my brother went to Brown University and then to Stanford. I had no room to do something awesome because my brother was better; my brother was biological.

It took me a while to stop comparing myself to G.J. I stepped back and remembered: Yeah, I'm different. We don't share the same biological source, so how can my brain cells compare to his?

And I have to remember. It doesn't happen often, but I have to remember that my parents aren't useless. I know I take them for granted; every suburban teenager does.

If they didn't raise me Christian, I wouldn't have found my voice through atheism. If they didn't provide for me well, I wouldn't feel the need to provide well for others. If they didn't teach me the laws of the world, I wouldn't know how to rebel against them. While I found solace in the letters, I had to remember—have to remember—that my ability to relate to strangers doesn't compromise the fact that my parents are, and always will be, superior because they raised me.

Richard is rather poignant. All bio-fathers should be as cool as Richard. No one has ever told me that I'm special the way Richard is telling me I'm special. He writes, "Your existence in this world means a lot to me. It's difficult to put into exactly the right words, but it's kind of like... When you were born, it validated my existence. No matter what I did or did not accomplish from that point forward, there would always be you."

I think I needed Richard's letter more than Chimene's letter. Maybe that's because I was able to relate to him so well, and I needed a father figure to relate to. My dad always had my brother; they bonded over sports and muscle. And I had my mom, which was fine.

But I think I rejected my dad a lot, not only because he was sports-crazed, and I wasn't, but also because I only ever remember the bad things about him. Like the time he threw mashed potatoes in my hair at Thanksgiving. Or whenever he would yell something rude at me, then adopt a gentlemanly Southern accent for his customers on the phone. Or when I called 911 when he collapsed unconscious on the stairs and never received a thank you.

I'm not saying I needed a father figure or that Richard would fulfill that gap I (perhaps) have in my psyche left over from an unrequited relationship that was never really formed. The bottom line is, it's nice to hear that I'm special.

My mom told me she's scared that when I'm upset, I lock myself in my room and look at the battered envelope and dream of a life with a family that would accept me. I don't. I hadn't even touched the envelope for a second time until last week, trying to write this paper and remember why my bio-parents are still important to me.

I wanted to meet them when I was younger. I wanted to live a different life when Hinsdale was too small or too dull for me. I dreamed of the day I would turn 18 and find them wherever they were lurking. It frightened me to think that there were people walking and talking and living out there who came together under erroneous circumstances of which I was a product.

I struggled with the idea that I had two sets of parents, four sets of grandparents, double order of everything, and I'd never get the chance to know half of them. It didn't seem fair that there were two people whose blood I shared living normal lives without me. I never grasped the phrase "blood is thicker than water," because I didn't know whose blood ran in my veins.

I understand my mom's fear that I might get along with my bio-parents if I met them and abandon her to have a hunky-dory relationship. But I think my mom's fear is irrational. She's my mom. It's not as though I'd go running off with some woman I didn't know only because she gave birth to me.

My biological mother wasn't the person I talked to every day after school about my day. She wasn't the person that drove me to all the soccer games I never even played in. She wasn't the person who bought my Christmas presents, who wasn't afraid to touch me when I got the flu because I was stubborn and didn't want a flu shot, who searched online for weeks to find a replacement for my striped Ralph Lauren comforter that I ripped unintentionally while taking a nap. Chimene had nothing to do with my life, nor did she have the right to, because she had never been a part of my life.

I don't know whether or not I want to meet them now. I'm not sure I could stand the humility. "Oh, hi, my name is Maz, and I think I'm your daughter." Yeah, I'm sure Hollywood has already covered that conversation.

And I feel as though I'd be an inconvenience. Out of nowhere, a daughter of sorts comes into their lives. I know they basically plopped right down into my life with that envelope, but I needed to know who they were; I needed just a little bit of information about them in order to accept myself and the differences between my family and me.

If we reversed the scenario, if I contact them, I would feel obligated to keep talking to them, or else it would be too awkward to have a potentially life-changing encounter, only for communication to fizzle out after one or two meetings. And I'm sure that's a hassle, for both them and me, as well as my parents. I don't think my mom could handle it; all her fears would come creeping back, and horrid little ideas would form in her mind in my absence.

But, most importantly, I don't see the point in getting to know my bio-parents anymore. When I was little, I nearly begged for a different life. And now I'm off to college in a semester—I'm forced to have a different life. I don't feel that longing anymore, the sort of longing that requires endless amounts of hoping and pining for something not quite in your reach.

Because the thing is, I'm sure my bio-parents are wonderful people. They sound like wonderful people. But I don't need or want their approval. I don't need or want a relationship with them. I know they exist. And that's enough for now.

Paul C. Holinger, M.D., M.P.H. , a psychiatrist and psychoanalyst, is a professor of psychiatry at Rush University Medical Center and author of What Babies Say Before They Can Talk .

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Fiona, age three, with her adoptive grandparents. All images supplied by and © the author

The adoption paradox

Even happy families cannot avoid the reality – my reality – that adoption is predicated on transacting the life of a child.

by Fiona Sampson   + BIO

A child of four or five sits colouring at a low table. Memory can be tricky: the image is dim and rather unstable. But I know that the child is me, and that she’s been caught showing off by her grandmother, who is looking after her. (Where are the parents? I don’t know.)

‘I’m going to show my mummy and daddy,’ says the little girl, about her picture.

‘They’re not your mummy and daddy,’ says the old woman on the sofa, witchily. ‘You have a real mummy and daddy somewhere else.’

The child I remember doesn’t show her face; she keeps on colouring. But words have magic powers. Real… somewhere else. This single sentence sucks the reality out of everything around her: the red carpet, the blue Formica tabletop, the buttoned upholstery of the sofa on which her grandmother sits watching her.

The author, aged two and a half

You could call it a life sentence , for this is the moment in which I learn that I am adopted.

I will repress this memory for decades, and for all the usual reasons. Like every child, I want to be happy. Still, what makes adoption so through-the-mirror, so literally unheimlich, so ‘un-homing’, has nothing to do with unhappy families or childhood abuse. Indeed, I suspect the reason that comparatively few stories of adoptee experience make it to the mainstream is that this is not classic misery memoir territory. Instead, at its heart are existential questions of identity, about the foundations of the self.

C hildren who are adopted must ask themselves ‘Who am I?’ and ‘What does it mean to be me?’: generally when they’re still too young to manage this kind of world-shifting thought experiment. And they can never put the experiment aside. This shifty, shifting interplay of alternative narratives is who they are.

Perhaps inevitably, my grandmother’s revelation is followed by a scene in the bathroom – maybe that evening, maybe days later – when my child self, having listened to my mother tell some apparently irrelevant story about how babies grow in tummies, insists in tears: ‘But I am still really your little girl, aren’t I?’ Searching around, as I will for years to come, for some kind of inalienability. This I do remember: the bathroom mirror, the cold light.

But of course, there is no inalienability anywhere in the adoption triangle. Adoption is precisely predicated upon alienability. Within it, everything – name, home, belonging, life chances – can be negotiated. Which means everything can also be negotiated away. Adoption goes deeper even than those inalienable – intrinsic – rights that we hold to be part of, and help us to define, the human individual: self-determination, life, liberty, the pursuit of happiness, and so on. Adoption says that not even the individual’s identity is intrinsic. Not even, to put it another way, their individuality itself.

‘Normal’ family life – kids growing up in birth families of whatever form – is scarily circumstantial

For the child, this total alienability means there’s nothing intrinsic to herself that guarantees her connection to anyone. What has been chosen can be unchosen. The existential lack of givenness with which adoptees live is why, for us, adoptive ‘parents’ who return ‘their’ kids to the system when the going gets tough are more than stories about abuse, they have a kind of abysmal horror. We don’t just read them with sympathy, they ‘take us apart’.

Still, some biological parents do abandon their kids, or are forced to hand them over to authorities of various kinds, or prevented by destitution or illness from being able to raise them. Some die. Their babies get kidnapped by regimes, ‘charities’, people smugglers. Viewed this way, ‘normal’ family life – kids growing up in birth families of whatever form: step-, half-, single-parent, gay, IVF, grandparental – is scarily circumstantial. Plus, even within bio families, no one reposes entirely within the bosom of inalienability. Divorces lead to custody battles; adult siblings drift apart; parents offer addict offspring tough love.

But we don’t really want to think about this. It’s already difficult enough working out who you are, paying the bills, and just generally hustling a living. Having something to count on through thick and thin – a touchstone of something absolute, perhaps, even within the most secular of lives – is as attractive as ever. The political rhetoric of ‘hardworking families’ – invoked by all major political parties around the world – reaches across the ideological spectrum. Though it’s the Right, of course, that crosses its fingers hardest against those it sees as lacking the social status of a nuclear family, with habitual targets including single mothers and the LGBTQ+ community.

A doptees lack that social status too. Which leads me to ask again why, that summer afternoon in our house on a suburban street in south-west England, my grandmother chose to poke at the story of my adoption. From family diaries I’ve inherited, I know how much she had been against the idea in the first place. Still, in those days before IVF, there was no other ‘solution’ to childlessness. Every week of my childhood we prayed in church for ‘the barren woman’, and as I got older and understood what this meant, I became embarrassed for my mum. But perhaps my grandmother, if not consciously, blamed my father instead. I began to notice how neither of my adoptive parents got on well with their in-laws. My father’s side thought my mother nervy and pretentious, while my mother’s family found my father, son of a country vicar, too down to earth. ‘The rectory kitchen had an earth floor ,’ my mother hissed once in explanation.

The author, age five, in the garden of her grandfather’s house

Where was I in this? Since I was problematic, I think each side identified me with the ‘other’. Until puberty, I was a daddy’s girl; certainly, at four or five, I was already bookish like him. Family memory has my (dyslexic) mother tearing a newspaper out of my hands when I’m two years old.

Perhaps my grandmother thought of the pair of us as a kind of trouble her daughter had got into. Or perhaps she was indulging in magical thinking. The lurking alienability of the closest human bonds is frightening, after all. And adoption, being founded upon this risk, reminds society about it at the same time as denying it, through pretending that its own remedial process is a problem-busting happy ending.

In truth, it can only ever be a happi er ending. Of course, every kid who escapes institutional care to grow up in a loving adoptive family has a happier ending – and middle, and almost-beginning – than would otherwise be the case. And even though it’s undoubtedly harder to love someone else’s biological child than your own – why else would stepmothers have such a wicked reputation in folk wisdom? – there are innumerable such families, such kids. But to say this is as good as family bonds that never fractured in the first place is to confuse the contingent with an absolute good. Like claiming that fantastic orthopaedic surgery after a major accident is as good as never having had the accident in the first place.

The social pressure to be grateful prevents the sheer effort of being an adoptee from being talked about

The new adoptive family, forming like a scar, is built on loss and breakage. It has to try and heal each corner of its triad: biological parents who have lost (or chosen to lose) their kids, adoptive parents who are often dealing with infertility and the loss of the dream of ‘kids of their own’, and an adoptee who will grow up without the restful privilege of a family that is ‘their own’.

Over the years, I’ve come to think that my grandmother was also poking me. My childish psyche, tentacled like a sea anemone, would shut if she hurt it enough. It did shut. And she was compelled to make it do so because I was a stranger in the family. The cuckoo in the nest , a phrase I got to know well. Both a stranger: and so anomalously strange that I would eventually pass more and better exams than any of her four biological grandchildren.

An official photo sent by the (then) prospective adopters back to the agency within three days of the child’s arrival. Note the shaved head

Still, I had to strive to do so and, as that striving suggests, in my experience living in adoption means living with anxiety. I believe the social pressure on us to be grateful prevents the sheer effort of being an adoptee from being talked about. There’s a lot of negative expectation, talk of bad blood , around what’s going to emerge from the default cuteness of being a child. Not that I was a cute kid. My adoptive mother’s strategy was to keep me always slightly undernourished and overstretched, continually slightly unwell, in order to underline her charity in taking on a child whose background could be assumed to be, at best, what she called ‘common’.

But many adoptees I’ve known are, or were, cute. They strove as hard to sparkle as I did to be good: obedient and hardworking, I was desperate to please. Every attempt to be loveable is an attempt to be seductive. I have a theory, based only on personal experience of what happened to several of my contemporaries, that adopted kids are extra vulnerable to grooming. Cases that made the national news, scandals known only to classmates: perhaps I was lucky to be kept plain and awkward. I can’t forget the ones who dropped out, who killed themselves.

So much innocent striving. It came from being a source of anxiety in our adoptive families. Would the taint show in some way? Would we be naughty, or dishonest, or – particularly for girls when I was growing up – promiscuous? The reverse too: what unexpected talents, skills, strengths might emerge from our profound unknown-ness as an unrelated child? As I grew through childhood, for example, I took to books like a duck to water. But I was also inevitably clumsier than the adults I lived with. This natural developmental stage became parsed as an attribute – poor coordination – into which I accordingly grew: children are very amenable. I suspect adoptive children take on particular family roles even more than other kids: the good one, the bad one, the brainy stupid sporty pretty blond dark funny one… The result in my case was to make all of us in that house feel I was like an unexploded bomb. The cut glass on the sideboard, the best china stacked within it, seemed to shudder as I passed, and I shuddered too. I was afraid that, even without touching, I would somehow knock or chip or crack something.

B eing an adoptee is performative. Some words for this are: being good enough, assimilating, fighting for acceptance, not being but being- as . For me it meant, among other things, never being allowed to go out of the house with teenaged friends. Adoption is arduous for everyone, even when it works. So I find the social media trend for videos of adopters and adoptees meeting for the first time incomprehensible. It’s not just that it’s voyeuristic: it’s that those posting and viewing them seem unable to see what’s there in plain sight.

Today, many domestic adoptions, in the UK at least, are open. The child they’re built around knows where she came from. The adoptive family may even stay in touch with her birth family during her childhood. But when I was a baby, most adoptions were not only retroactively ‘closed’ but conducted ‘blind’, with no choosing each other. Indeed, no meeting at all prior to the child being handed over for life. This was understood not to matter because the child was seen as completely interchangeable – apart, perhaps, from its sex. The baby as tabula rasa for the adopters to ‘make their own’. Will this idea return, as more accidental babies come up for adoption following the striking down of Roe v Wade in the United States, and a more general shift in the Global North away from prioritising women’s rights?

Whatever happens next, international adoption – where allowed – continues to be ‘blind’. And at the end of all the fees and paperwork, two or three unrelated people, small and big, meet each other. Videos that parade this meeting are usually labelled #happymoment: which I imagine is in the nature of a Users’ Guide, because they quite plainly are not. They make everything that’s difficult about adoption visible, starting with the control exercised by the adoption agency. A stunned, often weeping child is led, like the bride in a forced marriage, into the presence of strangers with whom the child must spend the rest of her life. The adoptive parents’ emotions are visible too: this is the apotheosis of years of longing. (If they’re disappointed, they certainly can’t show it now.) This small person must now sustain their big longing. The new parents generally offer some small cheap toy to draw her forward into the ambush of an embrace . (Don’t take treats from strangers, kids!) And the tackiness of these greeting gifts seems to sum up the contingency of adoption, its underlying Oh, this will do ethos.

It was less than a week before Christmas. If I wasn’t placed before the holiday, I was to be put into an institution

I wasn’t adopted as an ambulatory child, thank goodness, but after a few months of being passed between foster mothers. Nevertheless, I know quite a lot about my own #happymoment. (I almost prefer the crudeness of the alternative, #gotchaday – also, of course, used for pets and rescue animals – with its implied compulsion.) From my biological mother, whom I traced years ago, I know how an agency worker took me from her, carried me through a nearby door – and that my adoptive parents were right on the other side. She heard my adoptive mother laugh – a laugh I know intimately of course. I know too that in the long taxi journey across London to the agency in Fitzrovia, my bio mother apologised to me and had a little cry.

I know the bleached London brick of those windy Fitzrovia terraces.

I know from my adoptive dad’s diary that we nearly didn’t turn up. We arrived for the handover 50 minutes late, leaving my new parents just 10 minutes to interact with me at the agency before they took me away. Checks, balances?

I don’t know how much I was priced at, but I do know that my grandmother told my mother they could have paid more and got a younger baby. I know from my case file that it was less than a week before Christmas and that, if I wasn’t placed before the holiday, I was to be put into an institution. My file also tells me I was hard to place because I was a girl. And also because someone has noted on the file that my biological mother is plain and I resemble her.

I know from my adoptive mother that, less than an hour later, I was throwing up on her on the train, and so my dad asked people in the compartment to stop smoking. Since she was widowed, she’s kept returning to this story. It’s as if, like her own mother, she associates me with my father. In the same vein, it’s she who recently brought back my memory of the primal scene with her mother. I had remembered the terror of ‘But I am still really your little girl, aren’t I?’ but forgotten its cause. The search for reassurance was a screen memory; behind it was the abyss of disconnection.

T here are a hundred ways to tell a child she’s adopted: adoption is not culture specific. There have always been orphans and foundlings, and people wishing to take them into their families. Sources as varied as the 6th- to 5th-century BCE story of Moses, or the accounts of apprentice-adoptions of gifted child artists in Giorgio Vasari’s 16th-century Lives of the Artists , tell us this. Yet adoption is laden with cultural meanings, and not, usually, by adoptees themselves. How strange it is, for example, that even with our era’s embrace of essential identities – through identity politics, in gender transitioning – adoption remains an exception, held to define an individual regardless of their own experience and understanding of themselves.

Even the happiest of families cannot completely resolve the difficulty that adoption is necessarily about de-essentialisation, a destabilising of identity, which almost compels some kind of remedial stabilisation. Adoptee views and experiences of this central ‘knot’ vary hugely. For some, their adoptive identity and the life they lead with it is ‘real’ and the rest almost fabular. For others, nature trumps nurture. Still others feel that a range of inherited and learnt characteristics coexist within them. But whatever their personal take on identity, their legal standing will not flex with it. An adoptee may wish to acknowledge their birth identity, but legal processes such as citizenship accept only documentation, not DNA testing, as evidence of identity. Or they may wish to deny that part of their identity altogether, and fix themselves more fully in their adoptive family. Just as gender transitioning is understood to cancel out someone’s first-given identity, so the neither-nor of adoptive identity can feel like a lie that needs cancelling out. Yet this too is unachievable. There is no legal form that can further undo the residue of biological embodiment at the heart of the adoption experience. And no adoptee can transition to biological belonging: familial relatedness would require a total genetic rewrite.

Consciousness of adoption is surely the original impostor syndrome

However happy an adoption, birth identity remains. It is Thomas Hardy’s ‘Heredity’, ‘the family face’ that will ‘live on, /Projecting trait and trace/ … And leaping from place to place’ in the poem the British writer published in 1917. Or else it’s a question in medical histories. Or it’s something that rises to the surface, an old scar now, at such moments of family pressure as marriage or inheritance.

Whatever an adoptee’s beliefs, in other words, a duality, a kind of astigmatism of the self, remains part of their experience. Perhaps it helps to see this a little aslant. In the canonical French novelist George Sand’s memoir Histoire de ma Vie (1855), she addresses having been (mis-)informed that she was ‘really’ an earlier, older child than herself, who had been born to her parents before they married and was therefore omitted from the records:

It’s no more than two or three years that I’ve known positively who I am. I was indeed born [as registered]; I am truly – myself – in a word, which doesn’t stop pleasing me, for there’s something troubling about doubting one’s name, one’s age and one’s country … I could have died without knowing whether I had lived – in person – or in someone else’s place. [Author’s translation]

‘In someone else’s place’: consciousness of adoption is surely the original impostor syndrome. To which someone who hasn’t experienced it might respond: ‘But never mind what you’re called : core identity is being the one who experiences and does what you do.’ Well then: but what if this duality, this slippage between two stories about yourself, forms part of that experience? Your identity must then contain that plurality. Like the dragon eating its tail on a Romanesque capital, identity as awareness gives ceaselessly onto awareness of identity.

Adoption is a kind of forcing ground of these forms of identity experiment. I suspect that the more widely it is recognised as such, the more adoptees will find the cultural space to be respected simply as ordinary people who have lived through particular early circumstances. Circumstances that don’t trouble most people, but that throw up problems and fears – about who we are, how we love and where we are safe – in which we all share.

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I Am Grateful To Be Adopted—and Yet, Adoption Is Still Traumatic

If trauma changes the way we are wired, perhaps my wires got crossed at birth

Theodora Blanchfield is an Associate Marriage and Family Therapist and mental health writer using her experiences to help others. She holds a master's degree in clinical psychology from Antioch University and is a board member of Still I Run, a non-profit for runners raising mental health awareness. Theodora has been published on sites including Women's Health, Bustle, Healthline, and more and quoted in sites including the New York Times, Shape, and Marie Claire.

Yolanda Renteria, LPC, is a licensed therapist, somatic practitioner, national certified counselor, adjunct faculty professor, speaker specializing in the treatment of trauma and intergenerational trauma.

Verywell / Madelyn Goodnight

• It’s Not Black and White

Nurture Versus Nature

In the middle of a blizzard, my birthmother handed me over to my adoptive parents outside a hospital in suburban New Jersey, three days after I was born.

As I grew older, we moved into progressively larger houses, my Christmas presents were more costly, and the private university I attended expensive.

My parents remained married, and there was never any kind of neglect. (If anything, as a child of the helicopter-parenting generation and an Italian-American mother who didn’t work, I wanted less attention… but that’s another essay.)

My life was so peaceable growing up that being adopted was the only adversity I could think of to write my college essay about. This is fairly common for many adoptees—adoption isn’t cheap, so many adoptees go to families of privilege. 

I didn't suffer any major traumas within my adoptive family, or in general growing up. 

And yet, I have dealt with severe depression, and my psychiatrist monitors me for signs of bipolar because of genetic susceptibility combined with that attachment trauma. I’ve been in inpatient treatment for six weeks, I’ve attempted suicide twice (adoptees are four times as likely to attempt suicide as non-adoptees and deal with mental health issues at a higher rate than non-adoptees ). I receive monthly ketamine infusions for my treatment-resistant depression .

Adoption, it would seem, treated me well. Loving parents who cared for me the best they knew how, never wanting for love or anything material.

If you are having suicidal thoughts, contact the National Suicide Prevention Lifeline at 988 for support and assistance from a trained counselor. If you or a loved one are in immediate danger, call 911.

For more mental health resources, see our National Helpline Database .

It’s Not Black and White 

Adoption narratives, like many other things on social media, paint things much more black and white than they actually are for many people. Anti-adoption advocates paint adoption as akin to human trafficking; adoptive parents and adoptee advocates paint adoption like it’s a fairy tale with a happy-ever-after ending.

But what if it’s somewhere in between? 

Growing up hashtag blessed doesn’t erase the trauma of being removed from my birthmother almost immediately after birth. I didn’t understand this until I was older, but our body stores trauma . 

I’ve always thought the inner child stuff was a little woo-woo for me, but there is an infant Theodora inside of me who didn’t have words for the trauma of being given up immediately after entering this world. She has been fighting for her life to get her needs met and be heard—and trying to kill me when they couldn’t be met. 

She is responsible for the chaos that is my irritable bowel syndrome , the squeezing of my head with the chronic tension headaches I have. My head frequently aches under the pressure I feel to prove that I’m not abandonable. The premenstrual dysphoric disorder (PMDD) , as my reproductive system, my own womb, creates a violent storm through my severe mood swings and cramps. 

Anti-adoption advocates paint adoption as akin to human trafficking; adoptive parents and adoptee advocates paint adoption like it’s a fairy tale with its happy-ever-after ending. But what if it’s somewhere in between?

I startle easily, too, such as jumping when I receive a phone call, even one I am expecting. I always attributed this to my undying devotion for coffee, but I recently learned this is hypervigilance , something I only ever associated with PTSD from, well, anything but adoption. 

But if you’ve had that attachment severed at birth, isn’t it natural that you would always be on high alert, nervous of the next rejection?

My therapist says I go searching, and she’s right. I’ve been probing for the reasons why adoption affects me so much—when I know them biologically and intellectually, really—rather than looking at how it affects me. There’s not some big secret trauma I’m missing. There’s not one particular reason that validates my pain.

Intellectually, I do know and believe that my birthmother made the right decision for both me and herself. She was in college and wanted to finish undergrad and go to grad school, and having a kid just wasn’t in her plans—plus I know she was struggling, too, with her mental health, with substance use, with her own trauma.

But I see myself literally curled up in the fetal position, isolating, all while clamoring for love, for touch, for attachment. It’s both never enough, and I freeze up, already anticipating it leaving.

I once did a walk-and-talk session with my therapist, and towards the end, I froze in panic, unable to take another step. I didn’t know why I was suddenly so anxious and she floated that maybe I was anxious because she was about to leave me. Indignant, I said, “Um, no, I’m OK with you leaving.” I mean, I’m an adult, and now a therapist myself! I know a therapy session ends after 50 minutes. I know I will see her next week.

My conscious was OK with her leaving. My unconscious was desperately hanging on to this woman with whom I have such a deep connection, like when my umbilical cord was severed, and with it, I became disconnected from my birthmother for life. 

Privilege doesn’t negate not knowing where you came from or erase that always-wondering what’s nurture and what’s nature —something you’ve probably never thought about if you’re not adopted. 

The women on my mom’s side of the family all have self-described “bad feet.” They are prone to bunions, to corns, to myriad ailments of the feet. I remember looking on, envious, in a way that I didn’t fit in there.

Or my heritage. Raised Italian and Irish, but biologically Swedish. I feel like a fraud when I say I’m Italian, with my blonde hair and green eyes; I feel like an impostor when I say I’m Swedish because I know so little about that heritage. (I know these are privileges, too. Not only am I the same race as my adoptive parents, but I look so much like them, weirdly, that people are incredulous when they find out I was adopted.)

My conscious was OK with her leaving. My unconscious was desperately hanging on to this woman with whom I have such a deep connection...

I’ve never felt as much a part of the fabric, rather than the seams, on the edges, as when I visited Stockholm, where I was conceived. Even though I was only there for 18 hours and had never been there before, I felt a part of it, rather than looking at it from the outside.

My parents once briefly thought about sending me to Catholic school, and I sat in on a half day of school there once. I understood what the classes were about, I looked like the other kids, I was able to converse with them…and yet I wasn’t actually a part of the class. I’ve spent much of my life feeling like that—that I was sitting there going through the motions but I wasn’t actually a part of anything.

I don’t fault my adoptive parents or family for anything they did, because we all do the best we can with what we know at the time, right? But with that said, I’m learning there can still be profound effects—without additional trauma—of some of the usual adoption narrative. 

Telling an adoptee that you “don’t think of them as adopted” is a knife that cuts both ways. It’s meant to be an olive branch, but it also discounts that it is my reality, that I was separated at birth from the woman with whom I share DNA who carried me for nine months. It invalidates the reality of the complexity of all those feelings bubbling up just below the surface, pushing them down until that soda bottle bursts, spilling out years of repressed emotions .

It wasn’t until I started regular therapy at the age of 30 that anyone genuinely and earnestly asked me what it was like to be adopted, beyond a voyeuristic way. It’s taken me years to put into words those primal feelings of rejection that live in my gut and show up in so many ways in fear of abandonment , in relationships both platonic and romantic.

In 2017, my adoptive mother died, and it destroyed me. My closest attachment and connection in the world, yanked away from me. She was my ambassador to our family. Sometimes that was her playing puppeteer, as I’d come to understand more after she died, but mostly, it was her helping me maintain the relationships with the rest of the family. 

Telling an adoptee that you 'don’t think of them as adopted' is a knife that cuts both ways. It’s meant to be an olive branch, but it also discounts that it is my reality, that I was separated at birth from the woman with whom I share DNA, who carried me for nine months.

When she died, it was like I was marooned just outside the family but couldn’t get back inside. Especially since losing her, I so deeply envy the women my age who are part of multigenerational biological families—their own mothers, their own daughters/children. I know their lives aren’t perfect, but I see those deep ties, whereas I feel alone.

It wasn’t until I started a graduate program in clinical psychology to become a therapist that I really felt validated in my feelings about adoption—and that I felt permission to feel things beyond being grateful for the life my adoptive parents gave me (which I also am!). Though my views are less extreme than the anti-adoption narratives, I appreciate seeing them to give me words for the feelings I’ve repressed for so long for fear that they might destroy me if I gave air to them. 

Eventually, I learned that I’d been leaving myself my entire life, the way my birth mother had left me so long ago. If I never showed my full true self or even stayed with it on my own, I’d never be abandoned again. 

Our bodies and brains yearn for homeostasis and the familiar. If abandonment is what you know, it becomes “comfortable,” and self-abandonment is something you can “control.” 

If trauma changes the way we are wired, then perhaps my wires got crossed at birth, or even pre-birth. Maybe my nurture did save me from my nature, from avoiding some of the things my birthparents had to deal with that surely would have destroyed me.

Or surely I’d still have issues of a different kind if I’d either been raised by my birthparents or birthed by my adoptive parents.

Either way, these adults made decisions—some that gave me the canvas, some that gave me the paintbrushes and paint. It’s up to me to take those tools from them and paint my own life.

Keyes MA, Malone SM, Sharma A, Iacono WG, McGue M.  Risk of suicide attempt in adopted and nonadopted offspring .  Pediatrics . 2013;132(4):639.

By Theodora Blanchfield, AMFT Theodora Blanchfield is an Associate Marriage and Family Therapist and mental health writer using her experiences to help others. She holds a master's degree in clinical psychology from Antioch University and is a board member of Still I Run, a non-profit for runners raising mental health awareness. Theodora has been published on sites including Women's Health, Bustle, Healthline, and more and quoted in sites including the New York Times, Shape, and Marie Claire.

What I Didn't Expect About the Adoption Process

Becoming a parent is a big decision, and making the decision to not parent is even larger. Rarely are adoptive parents aware that their efforts to become parents end up colluding with systems whose processes may perpetuate harm on the birth parents and the children they love. And there are few people, if any, to hold and care for those who realize they are unable to parent. I would come to learn all this through the adoption process .

I am a parent to two children: a 16-year-old son who was adopted at 5 months, and a 9-year-old, conceived via the support of donor sperm . When I began the adoption process with my oldest, I understood that people often place their children for a variety of reasons. But I was angry and saddened at how common it is for birth parents to be coerced to do so by family, social workers, attorneys, and friends. Some were never given a choice at all, some were never presented with the necessary resources to believe they could parent.

As the adoptive parent, I was challenged to reflect on my role in the system and within the adoption triad . I had to consider how to reconcile with the reality that I am a person in the scenario benefiting from the process.

My son may have material benefits, but they will never make up for the awareness of decisions made about his life before he ever had words of his own. Material goods do not make up for not having a picture of the woman who birthed you or the siblings you may never meet, nor do they make up for the gap in medical information that can be helpful if one is living with a variety of mysterious illnesses.

I had to learn to sit with the experience of having joy through another's sorrow.

As an adoptive parent, I had to learn to sit with the experience of having joy through another's sorrow. I had to learn to parent a grief that was unknown to me. I had to sit with the reality that, despite the problematic systemic conditions that led to the placement of my child for adoption, he needed someone to parent him when the system, along with his parents, determined that biological family could not.

As a social worker, I strived to support a placement that would have been open . I wanted the parents to be able to make an informed decision before landing on the decision to place their child. But that is not the story I hold, and it is not the story my child understands. Instead we discuss a story that is unique to us. (The remainder of the story is for my child to tell.)

I was surprised when we received the paperwork from the adoption agency that, as an adoptive parent, you can denote the conditions or circumstances that you can or cannot manage in terms of health conditions, family histories, and any prenatal substance exposures. I was surprised at the way choice was presented here when so much about the process can't be easily predicted or controlled. Despite the illusion of choice that emerges, adoption, like other forms of family making, requires a capacity to embrace the unknown and accept the likelihood of some disappointments in the process.

What also surprised me was the discomfort of the urgency I experienced when waiting for a child placement. I hadn't gone into the process feeling particularly anxious or urgent, but once the papers were signed, and the photo book constructed, I was surprised at the emotionality tied up in the process of waiting for a call. You enter a period of constantly dreaming of what may be, or trying to avoid dreams altogether, and get to the business of living your best life until you have a child who is anchored to you.

You are awaiting a call that someone is unable to do what you can because, in many cases, you have access to certain resources they do not. You have to contend with the profound privilege that resides in being in a position to be able to adopt . I understand that there is a reason why adoption exists, and as an adoptive parent, I have to sit with the fact that many of the reasons are due to systemic barriers around parenting.

As someone who is Black, lesbian, and raised with class fluctuations, for the first time in my life, I was in the position of privilege. I had to make decisions about which type of child placement was most appropriate for me and my spouse at the time.

As we were contacted here and there about potential placements, I was most surprised to learn that certain children have different fees attached to the processing of their paperwork and documentation because they are more "popular children," i.e. mixed race or white. (I recommend Elizabeth Raleigh's " Selling Transracial Adoption " for further reading.) This reality was wholly unexpected. I expected that white children or biracial children were placed into adoptive homes more easily because, as a dark skinned person, I know how colorism works. I was also aware there was a disproportionate number of babies who were Black. But the various hierarchies of race some adoption agencies used was deeply disturbing and I pondered how this was at all OK.

When I initiated the process for adoption, I was enthusiastic. Since I was young, I had planned on adopting. After placement occurred, however, and as my child continues to mature, my enthusiasm is blunted by a very clear understanding that adoption for many is not always a process of consent — whether the lack of consent is due to coercion or due to systemic conditions that make parenting impossible.

I have had to sit with the reality that the happiness and joy I experience with my son is because someone else did not feel like they had a choice. But as I hold space for these complexities of circumstances, I'm able to support a space for my child to live into his own story of who he is and where he's come from.

Lisa L. Moore , LICSW, PhD, has been a social work educator and practitioner for over 25 years. Her clinical practice has been focused on working with individuals, couples, and families who are often queer and BIPOC.

• Personal Essay

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Justice Requires the Full Story

Adoption is both a personal experience and a system

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Adoptees Disrupting Adoption Narratives  is a series of as-told-to pieces written and curated by Prism’s editor-at-large, Tina Vasquez, featuring five adoptees— Tiffany HyeonBrooks ,  Mezekerta Tesfay ,  Nicole Eigbrett , Rachael Murphey , and Rev. T Sheri Dickerson—and one personal narrative essay by Kimberly Rooney 高小荣. They share in their own words what being an adoptee means to them and how current narratives around adoption are inextricably linked to family separations, settler colonialism, and white supremacy. They also delve into how adoptee-led discussions are necessary for the sexual and reproductive health, rights, and justice movements. You can find the series in its entirety  here .

As a young person new to reproductive justice, Mezekerta Tesfay said that she still has a lot to learn, but one thing is certain: the movement has given her a new framework for better understanding her experiences as an adoptee. 

In 2021, while studying sociology and political science at Beloit College in Wisconsin, the 21-year-old was chosen for a Collective Rising internship that places undergraduate students in paid summer internships at reproductive rights/justice organizations. Tesfay landed at Texas’ Jane’s Due Process , which, before Roe v. Wade was overturned, focused on helping young people navigate parental consent laws to access abortion care confidentially. Initially, Tesfay focused on creating social media content for Jane’s Due Process, but soon she was helping with the organization’s hotline and helping teens through the judicial bypass process. Tesfay calls this work her “powerful introduction” to reproductive rights.

There has been no looking back. In the months since, Tesfay has shifted her full focus to reproductive justice, taking it upon herself to read pivotal texts about the movement starting with this list compiled by the feminist advocacy organization Black Women Radicals. What really resonated with her about reproductive justice was the holistic focus on the right to have a child or not have a child and the right to raise any child you have in a safe and healthy environment. 

Her past year in reproductive justice spaces has led to critical moments of realization about her lived experiences as an adoptee. Tesfay said that one day she’d like to carve out a bigger space for adoptees in the reproductive justice movement, but for now, she’s focused on learning. 

A few weeks after attending SisterSong’s Let’s Talk About Sex conference in August and connecting with other adoptees at a session about the intersections of reproductive justice, adoption, and survivorship, Tesfay spoke to Prism about turning a critical lens on her adoption and doing away with popular narratives that harm adoptees. Here she is, in her own words:  

I’m a Tigrayan-American who was raised in central Iowa. I was adopted by a homoracial couple of two Black parents. My mother’s an African American from Detroit, and my father’s a Tigrayan from Adwa, Tigray, a tribe located in northern Ethiopia. Because I have two Black parents, I have the privilege of not being seen as an adoptee. I don’t have to deal with invasive questions and treatment that transracial adoptees get. When I choose to reveal that I am adopted, most people respond with shock and tell me how they never would have guessed it because I look so much like my parents. I’ve always felt like my adoption was a best-case scenario, and I still do. But it was only very recently that I began to connect reproductive justice to my experience as an adoptee and look more critically at my story. 

When I was 9 years old, my mom told me I was adopted. She encouraged me to ask questions, but—to be frank—I didn’t care. After this conversation, I was more concerned with asking her if she would get me a cookie and hot chocolate. (She did.) Around the age of 16, I became more interested in my adoption, and I started asking my parents questions about my backstory. Unfortunately, they didn’t have a lot of answers.

There’s no paperwork for my adoption. I don’t know who my birth family is. I wasn’t born in a hospital. I don’t know my real birth date. So there’s no real place for me to start digging. I don’t even know where I was born; I just know the town where I was adopted. I am a girl who is never going to know who my birth mother was. I absolutely feel like a blank slate. I don’t have some of the basic information other adoptees have. At the same time, I didn’t experience the kinds of issues that transracial adoptees experience. I’ve had a deep connection to my culture because my dad is from the area where I was adopted and because I have a Black mother teaching me how to navigate the world as a Black woman. 

It’s a really bad idea to continue perpetuating this narrative that parents who adopt are always wonderful, amazing people who can do no wrong. They’re just human beings, and they have flaws.

My parents tried to address my questions. I remember asking my mom how much she thought I weighed when she found me or if I was malnourished. I asked my dad where he thought I was geographically from based on how I looked. My parents told me that when my baby teeth came in, they were yellow, which a doctor said was a sign that my birth mother was overdosing on medication while I was in the womb. In my first few months of life, I was severely underweight and had illnesses that were common for a child whose mother didn’t have prenatal care. It was clear my birth mother didn’t have the privilege of a healthy pregnancy. 

My dad studied birth control rates and maternal mortality rates for his master’s and Ph.D. Based on the kind of research he did, he thought my birth mother was a poor, very young woman without the ability to take care of a child on her own and with no real community to lean on. As a teenager, I remember thinking about how difficult that would be. As I learned about reproductive justice and began to work with young women who might have been in the same position my birth mother was, I began to wonder how her life would have been different if she had access to abortion or had more choices about whether or not she became pregnant with me. Would she have turned to these options, and would they have been better for her? How young was she? Was I a product of rape? As these kinds of questions came up for me, I really started to make the connection between adoption and reproductive justice. I am grateful to be here, but I wish that my birth mother had a choice to either have a healthy pregnancy or terminate an unhealthy one. My parents are pro-choice and support me in this thinking. I am lucky about that.

I feel like I’m just now starting to look at my adoption with a critical lens. My parents are professors, and they have always encouraged me to ask the difficult questions—even if it means questioning them. I’m also lucky that I grew up in a family where I could freely debate with my parents. I can question their decisions, and they know it’s not a question of whether or not I love them. I am not sure if many adoptees have the same experience. 

There’s a lot of myths about adoption that I want to complicate. I’d like to challenge the narrative that people who adopt are heroes or are inherently good people. That creates this dynamic where adoptive parents can’t be questioned, and it’s treated as a given that their intentions are always good. No one is perfect, and I think it’s a really bad idea to continue perpetuating this narrative that parents who adopt are always wonderful, amazing people who can do no wrong. They’re just human beings, and they have flaws. Am I glad there are people willing to raise children that aren’t their own? Yes. But do they deserve extra praise? Absolutely not. 

Another narrative I want to complicate is that adopted children cannot have mixed or complex feelings about being adopted. That’s not a healthy expectation. I want adoptive parents to know that if your child questions your intentions for adopting them or questions what their life might have been like if they stayed with their birth parents, that doesn’t make you less of their parent. It doesn’t mean they don’t love you. If you become defensive, it’s hurtful. You have to hold that space for them and allow them to process any complicated feelings they have. Make sure your child can trust you with their honest feelings. It will strengthen your bond.

Adoption as a system and adoption as a personal experience need to be separated. One adoptee’s positive experience does not negate the flaws of the adoption system. Adoption is complicated, and any effort to make it seem entirely good or bad should be questioned.

Also, not all adoptions are a positive experience. This narrative is pushed constantly on social media, where you can find dozens of videos showing adopted kids crying while opening their first Christmas present or getting their first birthday cake. These vulnerable moments should not be used as clickbait for millions of people to consume. Their tears of both joy and pain represent years of neglect. What’s the intention behind posting that online? I think it’s fucked up. There are many adoptees who are abused and harmed by their adopted families and experience trauma from being moved to entirely new geographic locations. Adoption as a system and adoption as a personal experience need to be separated. One adoptee’s positive experience does not negate the flaws of the adoption system. Adoption is complicated, and any effort to make it seem entirely good or bad should be questioned. 

Talking about adoption as a reproductive issue is more important now more than ever as anti-abortion activists have highjacked the narrative on adoption. If learning watered down Black history at my Iowa high school taught me anything, it was that when someone else controls your narrative, you will never get honesty. It’s time for adoptees to openly talk about our experiences and shape the public narrative on adoption. We aren’t a monolith, so it won’t be consistent, but it will be real. I want to make it clear that I think adoption has never [been] and will never be an alternative to anything, especially abortion. And adoption cannot be used to rationalize forcing pregnant people to give birth.

I thank Collective Power for Reproductive Justice and Jane’s Due Process for introducing me to the movement. I thank Tiffany HyeonBrooks for helping me come to the realization that we absolutely need more nuanced conversations about adoption. I thank my parents Kesho and Tesfay for being the best parents I could ever dream of and handling me with such care. And I thank my Tigrayan and American family for nursing me back to health physically and emotionally. 

I want to end this by saying that I am happy I was adopted, but I do not speak for all adoptees. My family and my story are unique to me. To the general public, I encourage you to look critically at your ideas about adoption, especially if they are overwhelmingly positive. Current adoptive parents, I encourage you to hold space for your adoptive child’s honest feelings about your decision. Future adoptive parents, I encourage you to think deeply about why you want to adopt and process whether it’s tied up in toxic positive narratives about adoption—especially if you are going to entirely remove that child from their home country and culture. To my fellow adoptees, I wish you peace, whatever that looks like for you.

Tina Vásquez

Tina Vásquez is the features editor at Prism. She covers gender justice, workers' rights, and immigration. Follow her on Twitter @TheTinaVasquez. More by Tina Vásquez

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• How to Write a Reflective Essay: A Step-By-Step Guide
• Learn English
• James Prior
• No Comments
• Updated November 7, 2024

Learn how to write a reflective essay with our easy guide. Follow step-by-step instructions to craft an impactful reflection on your personal experiences.

Reflective essays allow you to dive deep into your thoughts, emotions, and experiences. They help you explore how personal events have shaped you, whether in a classroom, a workplace, or in life. This guide will walk you through every stage of writing a reflective essay, showing you how to organize your ideas, craft a strong narrative, and present your insights effectively.

Table of Contents

What is a Reflective Essay?

A reflective essay is a personal type of writing that focuses on your thoughts and reactions to a specific experience or event. It’s often a personal response rather than an objective recounting of facts, as seen in academic essays. Reflective essays are commonly used in academic settings for subjects like psychology, literature, nursing, and even education. However, they’re also valuable for self-reflection and personal development, helping you analyze experiences that shape your identity.

In a reflective essay, you narrate an experience and then explore its significance, impact, and meaning. This isn’t about providing only external details; it’s about looking within. Reflective essays encourage critical thinking and help you understand how your experiences influence your beliefs, values, and attitudes.

How to Write a Reflective Essay

Here’s a step-by-step guide to help you craft a thoughtful and well-structured reflective essay. Follow these points to organize your experiences and insights, guiding readers through your journey of personal growth and discovery.

Choose a Topic

Selecting the right topic is crucial for a meaningful reflective essay. You should choose an experience or event that impacted you emotionally, intellectually, or spiritually. Reflective essays require introspection, so your topic should provide ample material for self-examination.

Examples of Reflective Essay Topics:

• A memorable event, like a family gathering or significant achievement.
• A challenging experience, such as overcoming failure or dealing with a loss.
• A learning experience, perhaps a class project or workshop.
• An impactful conversation or advice that changed your perspective.

Tip : Pick a topic that sparks strong feelings or has lasting meaning for you. Avoid topics that feel too superficial, as deeper emotions and thoughts make for a richer essay.

Reflect on the Experience

Reflection is the core of this process. Before you begin writing, take time to think deeply about your chosen experience. To understand it fully, ask yourself the following questions:

• How did I feel during and after the event?
• What new insights did I gain from this experience?
• How did it change my beliefs or attitudes?

Reflective essays require honesty, so it’s essential to look beyond the surface. Think critically and examine how the experience shaped you. Reflecting helps you gather the insights you’ll need to write a meaningful essay.

Outline Your Essay Structure

While reflective essays are personal, they still need a clear structure. Using an organized format ensures your essay remains coherent and readable. Here’s a basic outline to get you started:

• Introduction : Introduce the topic and provide context. Mention the significance of the experience briefly.
• Body : Describe the experience in detail, analyze its impact, and explore your reflections.
• Conclusion : Summarize your insights and explain how the experience has changed you. Emphasize personal growth.

Tip : Writing a brief outline can help you stay on track and avoid straying from your main points. A structured approach gives your essay clarity and keeps the reader engaged.

Consider Your Language

Once you’ve established the outline of your reflective essay, it’s important to remember to use the right sort of language before you start writing. You should:

Use a Reflective Tone and Personal Language

Reflective essays are personal, so use a conversational tone. Writing in the first person helps make the experience feel relatable. Avoid overly formal or academic language; instead, write as though you’re sharing with a close friend.

Example : “At first, I felt nervous, unsure of how to handle the animals. But as the days passed, my confidence grew.”

This conversational tone makes the essay feel more intimate and relatable.

Use Descriptive Language

Descriptive language helps your reader visualize your experience. Reflective essays benefit from vivid descriptions that pull readers into the story. Describe sounds, colors, and emotions to make your writing come alive.

Example : “The dog’s brown eyes sparkled with excitement, and his joyful bark filled the room.”

Adding descriptive details like this will make your narrative engaging and immersive.

Include Specific Examples

Specific examples add authenticity to your writing. Instead of vague statements, focus on concrete moments that highlight your emotions or insights. This detail creates a more vivid and impactful story.

Example : “When I first walked into the shelter, a little dog wagged his tail and looked up at me. In that moment, I realized how much I wanted to help.”

Balance Description and Reflection

Reflective essays require a balance between describing events and analyzing them. While it’s essential to set the scene and narrate what happened, don’t let the description overshadow your reflections. Spend equal time explaining what you learned or how you grew.

Stay Honest and Open

Authenticity is key in reflective writing. Embrace vulnerability and share your thoughts sincerely. If an experience was difficult, discuss that honestly rather than glossing over it. Readers connect best with genuine reflections.

Example : “It wasn’t easy facing my fears that day, but doing so taught me courage.”

Write the Introduction

In the introduction, set the stage for the reader by providing essential background on the experience. Introduce the event or topic you’ll discuss and briefly mention why it’s significant to you. The idea is to hook the reader and make them want to read on. The following structure works well:

Start with a Hook : Begin with an engaging sentence to grab the reader’s attention. This could be a memorable moment, a strong feeling, or a question that reflects the main idea of your essay.

Introduce the Experience : Briefly introduce the experience or topic you’ll be reflecting on. Provide just enough context to orient the reader without giving away too much detail.

Present the Thesis Statement : Conclude your introduction with a thesis statement for your reflective essay . This statement should encapsulate the main insight or lesson you gained from the experience. Unlike a typical thesis statement, a reflective thesis is personal and sets up the reflection to come.

For example:

• “Through my experience volunteering, I discovered the transformative power of empathy and how small acts of kindness can make a lasting impact.”
• “My journey through unexpected failure taught me resilience and helped me realize that growth often stems from adversity.”

Remember to keep the introduction short; it should give the reader a glimpse of what’s to come without going into too much detail.

Full Introduction Example : “Last summer, I volunteered at a local animal shelter. I thought it would be an easy way to help, but the experience deeply impacted me, changing my perspective on responsibility and empathy.”

This introduction sets up the reader with a clear expectation of the essay’s topic and why it matters to the writer. It engages the reader while leaving space for more details in the body paragraphs. Here you can expand on specific events, reactions, and reflections.

Describe the Experience in the Body

The body of your essay is where you’ll describe the experience in detail and reflect on its significance. Using sensory language can help create vivid imagery and immerse the reader in your experience. Describe sights, sounds, smells, and emotions to paint a clear picture.

Elements to Include in the Body :

• Chronological Description : Explain the experience step-by-step so the reader understands the sequence of events.
• Personal Feelings : Discuss your emotions at different points in the experience.
• Key Insights : Share the lessons you learned and reflect on their impact.

Example : “When I arrived at the shelter, I expected a light workload. However, within minutes, I was helping feed over a dozen animals. The task was challenging, but I felt an unexpected surge of responsibility, realizing that these animals depended on me.”

Here, sensory details and emotional responses make the narrative more engaging.

Connect with Personal Growth and Insights

Reflective essays aim to show growth. After describing the event, examine how it shaped your perspective or values. Think about how the experience influenced your behavior or attitudes. Consider questions such as:

• Did this experience shift your outlook on life?
• How did it help you develop as a person?
• Are there new values or beliefs you now hold?

Discussing these aspects will show the reader your growth. Link your reflections to real changes in your thoughts or actions, showing how this event contributed to your development.

Craft a Strong Conclusion

The conclusion should summarize your key insights. Reflect on the long-term significance of the experience and how it will influence you in the future. This section should leave the reader with a sense of closure.

Questions to Consider in the Conclusion :

• How did the experience change you?
• What new understanding did it bring?
• How will this insight affect your future choices?

Example Conclusion : “My time at the shelter taught me that empathy and responsibility go hand-in-hand. Today, I feel more equipped to make a difference in my community, and I look forward to volunteering again soon.”

This conclusion emphasizes the long-term impact, rounding off the essay with a forward-looking statement.

End with a Call to Action or Thought-Provoking Idea

A reflective essay should leave the reader with a lasting impression. Consider ending with a thought-provoking question or a statement of purpose for future growth. This reinforces your theme and gives the reader something meaningful to ponder.

Reflect on the Future

To emphasize personal growth, think about how the experience will affect your future. Mentioning how you plan to use these lessons reinforces the significance of the event and underscores your development.

Edit and Refine Your Essay

Once you finish your draft, set it aside for a day before revising. Reviewing it with fresh eyes helps you spot areas for improvement. Focus on clarity, coherence, and flow, ensuring that each paragraph transitions smoothly to the next.

Editing Tips :

• Read Aloud : This can help you identify awkward phrasing or unclear sections.
• Grammar and Spelling Check : Proofread carefully for grammatical errors.
• Ask for Feedback : Get a second opinion to spot overlooked issues.

Reflective Essay vs Narrative Essay

When it comes to personal writing, reflective and narrative essays are often confused, but they serve different purposes. While both can center on personal experiences, each type of essay has a unique focus and structure.

A reflective essay emphasizes introspection, where you analyze the impact of an experience and what it taught you, while a narrative essay centers on storytelling, focusing on recounting an event with rich detail.

Reflective and narrative essays may seem similar because both involve storytelling, but they have distinct purposes and structures.

Understanding these differences can help you choose the right approach to effectively convey your message.

Here’s a breakdown of the differences:

• Reflective Essay : The primary aim is self-examination. You analyze how an experience affected you, what you learned, or how it shaped your views. Reflection and introspection are the main focuses.
• Narrative Essay : This type of essay mainly focuses on storytelling. The goal is to narrate a personal or fictional experience in a compelling, often descriptive way, without necessarily delving into personal insights or lessons.

2. Structure

• Reflective Essay : While it includes a narrative element, it’s organized around your insights. After narrating an experience, you’ll explore its impact on your thoughts, beliefs, or behavior, usually using a clear introduction, body, and conclusion.
• Narrative Essay : It follows a straightforward story arc (beginning, middle, end) without needing extensive analysis. While some narrative essays may have a lesson, the main emphasis is on the plot and character development.

3. Tone and Perspective

• Reflective Essay : The tone is introspective and often more formal, though it remains personal. Writing is in the first person, as you focus on your thoughts and feelings about the experience.
• Narrative Essay : The tone is more flexible and can range from formal to conversational. The essay may use first or third person, depending on whether it’s a personal story or a fictional narrative.

4. Focus on Analysis

• Reflective Essay : The emphasis is on analyzing the experience. Reflection is key, so you spend time examining the “why” and “how” of your reaction to the events.
• Narrative Essay : The focus is on describing what happened. While you might touch on emotions or lessons, detailed analysis is generally not required.

Example Topics

• Reflective Essay Topic : “What volunteering taught me about empathy and resilience.”
• Narrative Essay Topic : “The time I got lost in a foreign country.”

In short, a reflective essay emphasizes personal growth and insights gained from an experience, while a narrative essay prioritizes telling a vivid story without necessarily requiring deep introspection.

Writing a reflective essay can be challenging, but it’s a powerful exercise in self-discovery. By carefully selecting your topic, using vivid language, and connecting your experiences with personal insights, you can create a compelling narrative that resonates.

Reflecting honestly, structuring your essay well, and balancing description with introspection will help you craft an engaging and meaningful essay that truly reflects your personal growth.

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