During my adolescence, I did not give much thought to my adoption, how I became a part of my family, or whether I’d be interested in trying to find my birth family someday. My adoptive family was my entire world, or at least the lens through which I viewed the world, until I formed my own opinions as a young adult. I was always aware of my adoption, but tiptoed into knowing anything about it. I knew my limits and as soon as I felt like I was getting too close to information I wasn’t ready to hear, I’d pull back. One summer, when I was about 10 years old, I felt ready to seek out information when an opportunity arose.

My mom and I were preparing to attend the annual Brazilian adoptee get together and potluck. This was a treasured event in all our lives, when the children who were adopted from the same children’s home, and their adoptive parents, came together to celebrate our community.

That particular year, my mom found out that a woman, Carol, was flying across the country and would be in attendance. Carol at one point knew my birth mother and helped orchestrate the details of my being brought to the children’s home after I was born. My mom, with my permission, immediately took Carol’s presence at this event as an opportunity to learn anything we could about my birth mother. She sought out the help of a family friend, Steve, and asked if he would translate our questions from English to Portuguese for her.

At the time, we had no idea just how difficult it would be to find out any information about my birth mother. Most likely anyone from the children’s home hoped that I wouldn’t express curiosity and search someday. Carol was sworn to secrecy, to the utmost and supreme degree, to never reveal my birth mother’s identity and claim she knew nothing if ever asked.

So, to find her at a picnic in a park in the middle of the summer and ask our friend to step in and pepper her with questions, expecting her to divulge anything at all, was naïve and an entirely wrong approach. But sometimes desperate times call for desperate measures.

We arrived at the potluck, greeted several other adoptees and their parents, keeping an eye out for Carol. Once we spotted her, we found Steve and reminded him of our mission that day. He and my mom worked together to approach Carol.

I remember watching from behind a nearby tree, holding a piece of paper with a list of questions my mom and I had created. As he translated them, I noticed Carol’s body language becoming increasingly tense and wondered what she was thinking. Was she helping or hurting us? My mom stood just a few feet away, ready to clarify any questions and explain why we were seeking this information.

Eventually, the group broke away from each other and my mom slowly walked over to where I was hiding behind the tree. As soon as she approached, I started asking questions.

“So, what did she say? Does she know anything? What happened?”

My mom paused for what seemed like an eternity, looked down at the ground, then back up at me.

“Well, Steve thinks that … he thinks that you should probably walk away from here for a little while. We’ve upset her and it’s best that you don’t meet her right now. She won’t tell us anything.”

I hardly remember any details after that, likely blocking it from my memory as a mechanism of protection. But the impact of that moment shaped the idea of what rejection could look like as a young adoptee. It did not have to be someone telling me to my face that I needed to leave, or that a record did not exist, or that I did not have the right to know who I was.

It was that something so precious, even a sliver of information about my birth mother, belonged to someone else, who was choosing not to disclose it. I lost a piece of control that day and it took me years to take it back. I felt embarrassed as a young adoptee thinking we could ask these questions and find a straight, legitimate answer. The world of adoption became complex, heartbreaking, and confusing all at the same time. Who was I to be asking for details about my own story? What were my rights to finding information about myself and my DNA? Or was I just too young to know that day?

It was not the right time. I was not ready, Carol was not ready, my mom and I were out of our element, grasping at whatever clues would show themselves. Many years later, when times and circumstances had dramatically changed, Carol and a few others formed a group that eventually led my mom and I to my birth mother’s doorstep in Brazil and witnessed our reunion.