My Journey as a Mexican-American Adoptee

When I was adopted as an infant, the people around me probably didn’t think much of it. What was there to think about? I gained a mother, a father, an older sister, grandparents, aunts, uncles, cousins, and a plethora of other people in my life who loved me instantly. From their perspective, this was a time to celebrate! And while they’re not wrong, they’re not exactly right, either. The reality is that while I gained a lot the day I was adopted, I also lost a lot. Adoption is complex, and there is immense grief and loss in adoption that a lot of people don’t realize or acknowledge — disenfranchised grief. Sure, I gained my family, friends, U.S. citizenship, and experiences that I wouldn’t have if I hadn’t been adopted; however, I also lost my biological family, medical history, native Spanish language, and Mexican culture.

My parents were proud that I was adopted from Mexico. They bought me books about Mexico, gave me a Mexican flag, and signed me up for Spanish immersion preschool. My parents also talked to me about my adoption from a very young age. I have a vivid memory from when I was around four years old, where my mom explained to me that I was born in another woman’s tummy.

Cue: four-year-old brain exploding.

What did that mean? How was that possible? Didn’t all babies come from their mommy’s tummy? And if I didn’t come from my mommy’s tummy then who was this person I called ‘Mommy’? And where was my mommy that had me in her tummy? I had so many questions that my little mind couldn’t verbalize or process.

I also remember being very young and wondering if every woman I passed who even slightly resembled me was my biological mother.

She has dark, curly hair, too, I thought. Could that be her on the other aisle at Target?

I don’t think I was able to comprehend the distance from North Carolina to Mexico at that age.

For a while, I thought it was cool that I was adopted. There were so many fun scenarios to dream up, like my biological mother being a queen in a faraway land, and I was the long-lost princess (yes, I actually told my childhood best friend this). But just a couple years later, I felt less inquisitive about this piece of myself and more ashamed of it. All of my family and friends were white, but I wasn’t. All of my friends looked like their parents, but I didn’t. It seemed like everywhere I looked there was a constant reminder that I didn’t fit in like everybody else. Even something as simple as going to the doctor’s office felt like a punch in the gut.

“Do you have a family history of — ”

Let me stop you right there. I’m adopted. I have no clue.

The scenarios about my origin that I used to daydream about weren’t so fun anymore. I started to view my adoption as a bad thing — and by extension, myself. I saw myself as inherently bad, defective, unwanted, and rejected. If my own biological mother didn’t want to keep me, then I must be bad, right? What could I have done that was so awful to make her give me away? Why didn’t she love me?

No one told me this, yet somehow this is the message I internalized about myself and my adoption. So, what did I do with those emerging feelings of abandonment and rejection? I used the best self-defense mechanism I had in my toolbox: repression. I buried those feelings deep down and threw away the key. It wasn’t until I got a concussion in my junior year of high school that my emotions about my adoption came back.

Suddenly, I was no longer blind to my feelings about adoption or how I viewed myself, and I began to fall into depression. Back then, it seemed as if these feelings came out of nowhere. I was emotionally exhausted and overwhelmed by all of it. I spent many nights crying myself to sleep, as I was finally grieving all that I had lost from my adoption. I felt alone, hurt, betrayed, angry, depressed, and empty.

Opening up to my parents about my struggle with adoption was really tough. I didn’t want them to think I didn’t love them, because that was simply not true. It was a hard conversation to have but a very important one. My parents were adamant about getting me into therapy, and I was adamant that I could Google “how to fix depression” and solve it myself. As it turns out, my parents were wiser than me. I’ll forever be thankful that they loved me enough to get me into therapy, because there is no way I’d be here today without their unfailing love, support, and encouragement.

Therapy wasn’t a quick fix like I had hoped. I figured I would see a therapist for five or ten sessions, and then I would be back to my normal self. Oh, how I was wrong! Slowly, I started to see some progress. As I began to work through my feelings about my adoption, the desire to know my biological mother was still there even after all those years of blocking it out. It took a long time for me to understand that I could love my parents and want to know my biological mother; it didn’t have to be an either/or situation.

When I told my parents I wanted to find my biological mother, they gave me a sad smile. My adoption was closed (as was the norm back in the 90s), meaning there was no communication or identifying information exchanged between my biological mother and my parents. I asked to see all my adoption papers anyway, and I found a letter that my biological mother had written to me at the time of my adoption.

At the bottom of the letter was her name.

I had a lead!

I thought the only way to heal myself was to find her and get answers regarding my adoption. But all hopes of finding her quickly vanished. I scoured the internet for months and enlisted the help of friends who spoke Spanish, but nothing turned up. I decided to make peace with never finding her or the answers I so desperately wanted. I stopped searching, and I finally put it all behind me.

Fast forward about six years, and a family member of mine had a baby, which made me think about my adoption again. Without any forethought whatsoever, I did a quick search for my biological mother.

I found her instantly.

When I found my biological mother, I was beyond shocked. I hadn’t prepared for this at all! I was so scared she would tell me that she hated me; after all, this was the story I had been telling myself since I was child. After almost 24 years of never knowing a single thing about my biological mother — not even what she looked like — I finally had every answer I could ever want. But I wasn’t happy. I was grieving all over again.

I genuinely thought I had worked through everything in therapy the first time, but I quickly realized there was more to uncover, and I needed to go back to therapy. This time around, I have been able to break down even more walls surrounding my adoption but not without tears, of course. Since I never knew anything about my adoption, I had to fill in the missing pieces of the story myself. After communicating with my biological mother and hearing the story of what really happened, I realized that none of what I had been telling myself for 20+ years was true. At first, I didn’t allow myself to believe her when she told me she loved me; I was still trying to protect my inner child that felt abandoned and rejected. Finding my biological mother has allowed me to gain the accurate story of my adoption, but it doesn’t end there.

For the longest time, I thought finding my biological mother would complete me, but that power only comes from within myself. It isn’t my biological mother’s responsibility to heal me, nor is it possible for her to do that. I’ve finally realized that I have to be the one to love and accept myself.

After 24 years, I’ve finally started the journey back to my younger self, and while it’s difficult, I know I’m strong enough for it. I’m still working on finding my identity as a Mexican-American adoptee, and that’s okay. The important part is that I’m actively learning how to love and accept myself for who I am.

In the wise words Elton John, I’m gonna love me again.