I’m a domestic adoptee, born and adopted in California in 1969. I found out at age ten, having asked in a frantic bid for reassurance if I was adopted, like the character I was watching on TV. Something unrestful swam just beneath the surface of conscious awareness. “Mom! I’m not adopted, am I?” And then she quietly came into the room.

What was the same after that? Inwardly, in that moment as the tears fell, I felt the disengagement and unraveling of stability in my young world. Like fingers which were suddenly not so tightly interlaced with those of the one who had been my primary caretaker. My grip had completely slackened. It never again tightened, not in the same way. My father’s kneeling tenderly to offer his own heartfelt embrace and reassurance did little to allay the waves of sobbing grief. They then softly said they had told me when I was younger, but of this I have no memory. Maybe my mind was not ready to process. All I know is if that were the case, it had never been brought up again, until my ten-year-old mind began racing that day…for some subliminal reason.

When I saw my older sisters later that day, something was done. It was over. I was half-in ever after. We were no longer in the same way. Effectively, my parents never really spoke of it again, besides a couple of emotional exchanges where I wanted to know more, but was tearfully and untruthfully told there was nothing more to tell.

But my story went on tacitly inside of me. And after many lost years, I finally started to find my people and my way.