Within my quiet, safe life as a Ukrainian adoptee, I am confronted with the issue of identity, once a vague concern, now amplified against the ongoing war.

I imagine my birthplace as a land where sunflowers and wheat sway under the endless blue sky. Yet, I’ve never known the warmth of that sun on my face or witnessed the dance of wheat sprouting from the earth. It’s as though I am two distinct identities—one that was severed before the other began—standing at the intersection of two worlds.

There exists a profound cacophony—a dissonant symphony of unanswered questions all centered around the enigma of my adoption story. It is as if the universe itself conspired to place me on this planet autonomously, where the echoes of the past reverberate with isolation in a language I can’t understand. I exist as merely a witness, a guest in a house that should be my own. It’s not a grand tragedy; rather, it’s a subtle yet pervasive ache that has settled deep within my psyche.

There is a yearning—a primal, unyielding pull that stirs my very essence toward delving into my Ukrainian roots. It is a silent call from an unknown source speaking in a chorus of curiosity and longing, guiding me through the maze of identity. Delicately, I explore the divide between the culture in my blood and the culture that nurtured me, like a nomad seeking a space that exists somewhere between the two. In their eyes, I am a symbol of unity, threads connecting the two. Still, the threads are too weak, and I am left feeling like a mere observer of my own identity—a counterfeit within my own skin.

Naturally I search for the elusive harmony that I believe will come only with understanding my own genesis.

Navigating the complexities of my emotions, anticipation envelops me as I sit in front of a glowing screen; the long nights blur into mornings as I sift through fragments of information. Each false lead heightens my urgency while heaping on endless layers of doubt. And as the cacophony grows, it reaches a crescendo of curiosity and peaks with an anxiety-provoking pitch.

Yet, amidst the chaos, there is a strange kind of beauty—a raw, unfiltered authenticity in the pursuit of truth. With every revelation, the cacophony begins to transform. The discordant notes start to find their place, merging into a melody of self-discovery and an acceptance of the impossibility of knowing.

Who could I have become?

Who could you have become?

Who could we have become?