Ten years ago, I stood in the cold March drizzle in Columbus, Ohio, surrounded by strangers who felt more like family. I had never been around so many adopted people. In their sea of faces, I recognized something deeper than familiarity—a shared wound. Each of us intimately understood the profound loneliness of losing our biological families at birth, an experience impossible for the nonadopted to fully grasp. That morning, we arrived alone to bear witness to an historic moment together.

We marched toward the Ohio Department of Vital Statistics, chanting rhythmically into the gray sky: “What do we want? Open records! When do we want them? Now!” Our words represented the collective, lifelong search for identity, truth, and voice. We lined up around three city blocks, each with a small, golden slip of paper marking our turn to reclaim the first chapter of our lives. I was number 15 and bonded instantly with numbers 14 and 16 through the invisible threads of shared hope. That building was a fortress withholding original birth records from more than 400,000 adoptees. When the law changed, it finally became a doorway we could walk through like any other citizen.

As we crossed the threshold into the vital statistics office, we were greeted not by the cruelty of bureaucracy, but the warmth and compassion of Betsie Norris, founder of Adoption Network Cleveland. She stood at the entrance, hugging each adoptee. Staff members were patient and kind as they guided us through the process. After 25 years of relentless advocacy, the experience of gaining the right to our identity was unfolding before our eyes. 

Receiving my original birth certificate felt like a rebirth. It wasn’t just a document; it was a missing piece of myself finally restored. My journey led to discovering both biological parents alive and openhearted, eager to welcome me into their lives. Overnight, I gained three sisters, a brother, four nieces, four nephews, three aunties, four cousins, and extended family. For the first 45 years of my life, I hadn’t known a single biological relative. Suddenly, I had a whole constellation mirroring my genetics.

The integration of my adoptive and biological families was profoundly messy and beautifully human. The collision of nature and nurture was not gentle—it still isn’t. I still struggle to feel that I fully belong in any of my families—adoptive, biological, or marital. But choosing to maintain connections across every part of my story has made me whole in ways I never imagined possible.

Growing up, I often felt a distinct aloneness, carrying an invisible ache and an insatiable search. Only later did I realize that this feeling of being “alone together” was etched into my blood, echoing stories of displacement and survival from my maternal ancestors. My grandfather first fled the Russian occupation in Estonia after watching his village burn to the ground. He lost all of his possessions, his first wife, and nearly his life when his ship to freedom was torpedoed. Five years later, my grandparents, mother, and aunt fled Nazi Germany, boarding a displaced persons’ ship in 1950 to seek refuge in America. Crossing the Atlantic, they undoubtedly felt profoundly alone, yet together with others facing the same uncertainty and fear.

The first photo I found after opening my original birth certificate was the passenger manifest registering my family as aliens. It was a surreal moment, realizing my lineage was so closely tied to World War II. My mother has shared with me her terrifying experience of going to school not knowing any English. My family was alone together, clinging to the hope of a better future while mourning all that had been stolen and lost.

Research into epigenetics reveals that family separations, war, and trauma can alter genes, passing emotional scars and heightened stress responses through generations. These invisible legacies shape lives long after the original event, silently influencing our identity, health, and relationships. My great-aunt endured deportation to Siberia under Stalin, and my cousin Alfred resisted Soviet oppression by living underground as a Forest Brother for more than seven years. He was shot, poisoned, captured, and sentenced to 25 years hard labor in a Russian gulag. Once he got out, he spent the rest of his life advocating for the restoration of his citizenship, educating the world on what we must never forget, and writing books and part of the Estonian constitution once they finally gained their independence in 1991. These profound disruptions rippled through my family roots and left their imprint on me.

I was born during the closed-records era, a time when adoptees were routinely severed from their identities and stripped of their birthright. We were identity amputees—our lineage buried under secrecy and shame. My records were sealed for 45 years. When I finally opened the envelope and read my original birth certificate, I wept tears of joy for finally having what had been denied to me for so long. Under first name, the document read “Female” and in box 20, described my status as “illegitimate.” Is that what they have been hiding all these years? I figured if the Ohio state government could alter my birth certificate, so could I; I took a red pen and claimed myself as legitimate in box 20.

That act was more than symbolic—it was reclamation. The truth is, adoption is filled with both/and paradoxical truths. It saved my life and shattered my origin story. It brought love and caused lifelong grief. I am no longer trying to resolve those contradictions—I live in them. And I have learned that healing requires the courage to hold opposing truths.

Over the past decade, I have not only reconnected with my birth family, but also reparented myself. I’ve worked through complex trauma, practiced emotional regulation, and embraced the somatic truths my body had always known but forgot through decades of disembodiment. I’ve peeled back the layers to restore the biological advantages that were withheld from me without my consent—the privilege of knowing who I am, where I come from, and why I feel what I feel.

I now face the reality that I am entering a season of letting go. My birth father is approaching the end of his life and I am preparing to navigate the inevitability of saying goodbye to the parents I fought so long to know. Despite the painful finality that comes with endings, something powerful is rising within me.

This summer I will journey to Estonia to attend the Song and Dance Festival—a profound gathering symbolizing cultural resilience and collective survival. The theme of this once-every-five-years gathering is kinship. I will walk the land my ancestors fled, breathe the air they once protected, and meet more long lost relatives. I will also be traveling to Germany, where my grandparents and aunt returned just 20 years after arriving in America all those years ago. I look forward to being with my aunt and cousins and their children who I have not seen since the global pandemic shuttered the world five years ago.

Most importantly, I am working to reclaim my citizenship in Estonia and Germany. Current laws in both countries now provide a pathway for descendants of displaced persons to restore what was unjustly taken. Estonia recognizes the descendants of those who fled due to the many years of Soviet and Nazi occupations. Germany offers restitution for descendants of those whose citizenship was revoked through gender discrimination or war persecution, which was the case for my grandmother. 

Reclaiming my place in these nations is not a formality—it is a spiritual act of anchoring myself to ancestral soil and restoring what history tried to erase. I am trying to return what should never have been taken just from my ancestors and me.

My journey to Ohio gave me back my name and identity. This pilgrimage to Europe gives me back my place in history at a time when we are witnessing history repeat itself. 

Ten years ago, standing outside that office building, I first encountered the profound paradox of being alone together. That feeling remains, though transformed. I now recognize that being “alone together” is not weakness—it represents fierce belonging to a lineage of survivors, dreamers, and freedom fighters.

For the first 45 years of life, I feared being alone. Over the past ten, I have embraced it. I’ve learned that we cannot fully connect with others unless we are connected to ourselves. We live our lives forward, but we understand them backwards.

As I look ahead, I will carry these ancestral stories forward, honoring their resilience, embracing inevitable goodbyes, and continuously reclaiming what was lost—not only for myself, but for those who came before and those who will follow. 

I now know clearly where I come from: I am adoptee, a product of nature and nurture, a granddaughter of Estonia, a daughter of Germany, and a survivor of inhumane acts of war that continue to destroy peace and decimate families. This summer, I am going home and reclaiming my freedom, alone together.