It dawned on me when upon looking upon the brightness of the spotlight, and all I could see was the darkness surrounding. When in the darkness, I could be anyone, blending in with the crowd. But in the light, I have no choice but to shine. 

As an adoptee, I could see myself in the spotlight on my adoption day, gotcha day, being admired by a group of strangers who I looked nothing like, who called themselves family. Of course I don’t remember that. I was probably horrified. Since then, the spotlight has seemed to elude me. I was never a sports star who knocked in the go-ahead run or caught the touchdown pass that sealed the game. I was never a high-achieving academic who received confidence through his studies. In my professional life, all I’ve ever had is one-on-one conversation. Although appreciated by my customers, I’ve never received accolades or recognition for any work that I’ve done. I’ve never had a big presentation that I nailed or been the hero in a dire situation. I’ve never even been a part of a team. I’ve always been in the shadows, and that was fine … until it wasn’t.

Being in the shadows also means being silenced, being the kid who was seen but not heard, the teen whose rebellious cries for attention fell on deaf ears, the adult who was living life for everyone else while numbing and drowning the pain with alcohol along the way. In my experience as an adoptee, it was okay not to shine; the spotlight was for confident, well-educated, dynamic people with lots of support who make a difference in society – people with large groups of friends and family, people who had great childhoods and were loved. Not the adopted, twice-rejected, high-school dropout who built a life based in hard work and fear. 

Maybe time in the spotlight is what people need to feel alive, to stand tall, and to build a sense of self-worth. Once, at 42 years old, I had a chance to shine, when I stood on stage to receive a college degree. Even this accomplishment came in the wake of being rejected a second time by my first mother and with some of the worst depression I could imagine. In my life, my kids are my first priority. I can see now that I was not a priority to any of my parents, adopted or biological.

History tells me to stay in the dark, to stay out of sight, to self-destruct, to stay silent. The problem is I’m tired of being silent. I’ve spent 50 years in the darkness, afraid to talk about my adoption because “they just won’t get it.” In this community, I can have a voice. It’s buried under decades of shame and loathing. But it’s there. If I can reach one person, I can have a voice. Some like to shine and some are happy in the shadows. But I do believe everyone has the ability to shine; it helps if someone is pointing the spotlight.