Judging from the responses to the meme I posted about hair on Instagram and Twitter, it looks like hair is a thing between adopted girls (and some boys, of course) and their mothers.

Erase, erase, we must erase. Erase her name, erase her heritage. Blank slate. Hurry hurry, she doesn’t matter—we matter.

When my mom was dying, I had some talking of my own to do. I had carried deep, deep shame since I was 22 for stealing from her in a premeditated and unloving way. I had betrayed her trust in me and then I had run away.

I am wondering how many adopted people believe they were relinquished by the mother because they, the baby that was given up, was ugly.

Your son has a mind that spins because he was separated from his mother at an age that would be deemed too early for a puppy or a kitten to be taken from their mother. Your son is trying not to drown and he doesn’t even know it. He just knows he can’t focus.

I am often reminded by my family and friends when I try to explain my grief from losing you that their life would have been impacted or my sons would not have been born if you had chosen to keep me.

I relaxed my shoulder once by mistake.

In subtle and not so subtle ways, I have been trained to look outside myself for what I want.

2020 was a big anticipation mine field. We (the bubble in which I live) went, almost overnight, from a (privileged) society that said I hope my food arrives hot to I hope I don’t die.

I can’t write about adoption. I’m so glad that there are so many of you who do. I can only write about isolation and loneliness and how I’ve tried to maintain a tight grasp on hope despite these feelings. I won’t tell you it’s not hard. It’s hard. Some days it’s really hard.

If your brain is constantly telling you that you are about to die, guess what? You create situations, consciously or not, to prove this true.

To feel compelled to write your story and to feel you have permission to tell it are two very different things.