Thirty-eight years into adoption—I’m still waiting for the “lucky” part of the “lucky adoptee” narrative to come into play. Many of us have been told how lucky we are to have been “chosen.” But I wasn’t chosen. I was like an opaque plastic egg with a surprise toy coming out of a vending machine: your money already invested, you’d get what you got. My parents were one of many standing at the Baltimore airport waiting to see which of the babies emerging from the plane would be handed to them by a dutiful social worker. Their only specification was that they wanted a girl, which worked out since that was not at all what my birth family wanted. 

I remember Mom telling the story of how she almost grabbed the wrong baby: a quiet, sleeping, peaceful bundle. “No, Sue, that one’s yours,” Grace, their social worker, said as she redirected her to the screaming, red-faced one. I know she meant the story to convey her excitement, but to me, I could’ve been anyone. They just wanted a baby.

I always wonder how long I screamed. Was I screaming because I had a wet diaper? Was I screaming from being hot and sweaty because they had layered me in three sets of clothes? Was I screaming from traveling on a plane and having my equilibrium messed with on a literal level while the rest of my life was being upheaved, erased, and replaced? Kwon Mee-hwa became Laura Sue Baumgardner within seconds of the exchange. 

I was told I got a “better life,” but after finding my birth family, I’m certain I had a different life. I can’t say it’s better. Being an adoptee often means attempting to undo what cannot be undone: searching but rarely finding, asking but not receiving, longing—because family’s an illusion, floating—because what’s home? It often feels as though it isn’t enough to just exist. In a world that values only what we’re able to produce, the miracle of life can feel like a curse.

An adoptee friend and I discussed how we’re struggling to divest from the adoptee and capitalistic need to prove our worth through achievements and productivity. Generally, our depression has never prevented us from meeting deadlines or taking care of our responsibilities—until recently. I reminded her, reminded myself, that the past few years have been more overwhelming than usual. We’re in a pandemic that many try to downplay or outright deny. There’s been an increase in racism both toward people who look like us and other communities of color. Adoption is being touted as a solution for abortion and rights are being stifled and flat-out rolled back. Why are we so confused about why we’re struggling more now than usual? As though being an adoptee isn’t hard enough on its own, we’re also fighting for our existence to be recognized as valid on myriad levels, not only in the world at large, but often within our own families. 

Every decision we make contributes to defining and shaping who we are. But, what about the decisions we didn’t get to make? The ones that were inflicted on us before we could understand what was happening? Those shape and define who we are, too, often leaving us feeling powerless because we didn’t have a choice. But that sense of powerlessness doesn’t have to be the end of the story. 

Adoptees are all too familiar with decisions made without our consent. Our lives started with choices that had everyone’s best interest in mind, except ours. Often, we found ourselves in homes and situations that continued the trend of inflicting experiences on us we’d never wish on our enemies. We assimilated, fought, and survived. Many times, at the expense of our already fractured identities. But, here we are, in this moment, together—finding magic in the power of community—learning that the start doesn’t have to be the end. We can write our being into existence in whatever ways infuse joy and peace and truth into lives rife with loss and heartache. We can find solace in words that resonate deep in our souls, showing us that we’re not alone. 

Over the last few years, big losses and immeasurable sacrifices derailed me quite a bit. But that’s ok. I learned invaluable lessons and am growing stronger, even when I feel beyond broken. I’m working on shedding self-doubt and creating solid ground for myself. It isn’t easy, but what worthwhile thing ever is? I will shake off everyone else’s expectations, obligations, and “shoulds” and find my own. 

I’m learning to allow myself to just be: not be good, not be successful, not be accomplished.

Just be. 

I want to find out who I am when I step off the hamster wheel of societal achievement and roam through self-exploration. I’m saying goodbye to giving my time to those who consistently inflict harm and embracing the community that validates and affirms my experiences—my very existence. I am worthy of the space I inhabit. I deserve to be seen and heard. I’m learning how to show up and speak. Though I often feel it, I’m not alone. There are people who will, and do, love me as I am while leaving space for me to grow. 

I don’t know how to quantify my journey. I’m not sure where I’m at or how much further there is to go, but I’m in it for the long haul. I know that each step has brought me closer to growing roots that have nothing to do with ancestry and everything to do with becoming more secure in the in-between space that I’ll always inhabit.

As Grace Lee Boggs said, “The only way to survive is by taking care of each other.” I’m learning just how essential community care is: It’s life-saving. We truly are just walking each other home. Perhaps, I’m luckier than I initially realized.