I was adopted. From the very beginning, I had two birth certificates. One was for the state, showing my real parents’ names, and one was for the world, with the names of the parents who raised me. For the first five weeks of my life, I was in short-term care while everything got sorted out. When I was finally placed with my new family, the agency had one last concern, two bright red birthmarks on my knees. My parents laughed and said yes, they were there. Those marks distressed away, but the story stuck around.
Courtesy of Allison Giffin
Adoption stories are often full of sensations, sometimes heartwarming, sometimes painful. Mine is somewhere in the middle. It’s not just a story about being adopted, it’s about growing up feeling different, not rather knowing where I fit, and quietly carrying that with me for years.
Courtesy of Allison Giffin
My parents couldn’t have children at first, so they adopted me. Three years later, they had my sister. I don’t remember life without her.” One thing I remember clearly is the day my parents went their separate ways. It was messy, emotional, and hard to understand. My dad was hardly ever there, and when he got married again, his new wife made it clear we weren’t welcome. My sister got the worst of it because she looked like our mom. I kept silent. I’ve always kept things inside. My mom once said I wasn’t very cuddly. Maybe it was just my nature or maybe it came from those early weeks in foster care.
Courtesy of Allison Giffin
As the years went by, the questions just kept building inside me. Who were my birth parents? Why did they give me up? I never really resembled anyone in my family, and it always made me wonder why. They were all tall, blond, blue-eyed. I wasn’t. My mom and sister were outgoing. I was the opposite. I always felt different. And while my parents loved me and told me my story from the start, that feeling of not fully belonging never left.
Courtesy of Allison Giffin
During my teenage years, I struggled. I pushed my mom away, missed school, and got into a bad relationship. But she never gave up on me. Even when I wanted to find my birth parents out of anger, she calmly said no. She knew I wasn’t ready.
Courtesy of Allison Giffin
Eventually, I pulled myself together, went to college, and built a life. I even mended my relationship with my dad before he passed. When I had my own kids, something changed. Looking at my daughters, seeing my face in theirs, was controlling. For the first time, I had people who shared my DNA. I wanted to know more.
Courtesy of Allison Giffin
I took a DNA test. Then another. What began as simple curiosity slowly grew into a search for something more meaningful. I found family names, pictures, and pieces of my biological background. And now, I’m standing at a crossroads. Do I reach out and threat rejection? Or do I leave it alone?
Courtesy of Allison Giffin
This part of my story is still unwritten. But I share it for anyone who’s felt like me—different, searching, unconfident. You’re not alone. Your feelings are valid. You have every right to know your story, no matter what it looks similar.
