Adoptee Perspective
I have always loved listening to my mom retell my adoption story. I held onto her words as if they were the last ones I might ever hear. Little did she know, I was taking in each syllable, each deep breath, each pause; carefully analyzing them, using them to create the colors of my life. The way my parents spoke about my adoption became my inner voice. Their descriptions of my birth family and my birth culture shaped the way I came to see myself.
I long to feel whole, and for the world around me to feel whole and seen. But adoptees often begin life with missing pieces. Missing information that fosters self-assurance and autonomy. This year, we are centering voices that matter; amplifying the voices around us that push for change and visibility. But we must not forget the voice within. The one that comforts or crushes. The one that demands respect or quietly abandons boundaries.
My personal adoptee voice carries an ache with an unexplainable longing. Take a moment and think about the voices that have shaped the way you see yourself.
This longing is not something to fix, but it is something to understand. For many adoptees, our inner voice is not shaped in isolation but shaped by other people’s words, narratives, and perceptions. The stories we are told become the framework through which we understand our identity, our worth, and our place in the world. When information is missing or oversimplified, the inner voice often fills in the gaps. Sometimes with curiosity, sometimes with imagination, and sometimes with self-blame. This is why the language we use in adoption matters. It is not just storytelling; it is identity-building.
So what does it look like to speak into an adoptee’s inner voice with care? It looks like choosing words that honor both the beauty and the complexity of adoption, rather than simplifying it for comfort. It requires a willingness to sit in the hard places, to acknowledge what is known and what is not, and to resist the urge to fill in the gaps with assumptions.
Speaking with care also means listening while creating space for adoptees to question, feel, and express without fear of correction or dismissal. The goal is not to control the narrative but to support the development of a voice that feels grounded and whole.
Words have always held weight in my life. The stories I was told about where I came from, and who I came from, became the colors I used to make sense of myself. They filled in spaces I could not yet name, shaping how I saw my identity before I ever had the language to question it. Now, I understand that the voice within me is still being formed, and still learning how to hold truth.
Three Ways to Speak Into an Adoptee’s Inner Voice with Care
- Choose honesty over comfort
Speak truth in ways that are age-appropriate, but not avoidant. Even when it feels easier to simplify or soften the story, honesty builds a foundation of trust and self-understanding. - Honor both presence and absence
Adoption holds both beauty and loss; make space for both. The words we use should reflect the fullness of the story and not just the parts that feel easier to hold. - Listen without correction
Create room for adoptees to express their thoughts and feelings without rushing to fix, explain, or reframe. Sometimes the most powerful way to shape a healthy inner voice is to let it be heard.
Birth Mom Perspective
For many years, shame shaped my voice.
Or maybe more accurately, it silenced it.
After placing my child for adoption, I carried a quiet belief that my story was something to keep tucked away. Not because anyone explicitly told me to hide, but because shame has a way of convincing you that your experiences are too messy, too complicated, or too painful to share out loud. I thought staying silent was the safest option. I thought it was how I would move forward.
But silence didn’t move me forward.
It kept me stuck.
When you’re living in shame, you second-guess your thoughts. You hold back your opinions. You wonder whether your voice matters or whether it might make others uncomfortable. For a long time, I lived in that space. I showed up in my life, but I wasn’t fully showing up as myself.
What I didn’t realize then was that my voice was still there. It was just waiting for permission to be heard.
That permission didn’t come all at once. It came slowly, and unexpectedly, through other women.
I began to see birth mothers sharing their stories honestly, vulnerably, and without apology. They spoke about grief and love existing at the same time. They talked about the complexity of adoption, the ways it shaped them, and the ways they continued to grow. Their courage challenged something in me. It made me wonder what might happen if I stopped hiding too.
Taking that first step to share my story publicly felt like a leap of faith. I was nervous. I worried about how people would respond. I worried about saying the wrong thing. But I also felt a quiet pull to be authentic and to honor the ways adoption had shaped who I am.
And when I finally spoke, something shifted.
It felt like a weight had been lifted.
Like I could finally take a full breath.
Sharing my story didn’t erase the hard parts of my journey, but it changed my relationship with them. Instead of carrying shame, I began to carry ownership. Instead of feeling stuck, I began to feel movement. I started to grow in confidence. I started to trust my voice. In many ways, I felt like I was maturing and evolving, not because my story changed, but because my relationship to it did.
Today, I see my voice as one of the most important tools I have. Not because it’s perfect or polished, but because it’s honest.
My story taught me resilience, empathy, and courage. It has shown me that our stories, especially the ones we once felt ashamed of, can become our greatest tool.
Our stories can be sources of connection and healing when we allow them to be heard.
And perhaps most importantly, I’ve learned this:
Our voices grow stronger when we use them.
I shared my story because other women shared theirs first. Their courage made space for mine. And now, I share in the hope that someone else might see themselves in my story and feel a little less alone and a little more ready to trust their own voice too.
Healing and growth often begin when we allow ourselves to be seen and heard. When you’re ready, we invite you to reach out and explore the support, connection, and encouragement available to you.