For four decades, the earliest pictures I had were at two years old. The images captured by a professional photographer in 1966 have always evoked in me emotions of sadness and bewilderment. I see a toddler wanting to know, “Can I call this new place home; these new people family? Only time will tell, because I don’t remember choosing this home or the one before this.”

At the age of 46, the agency that handled my adoption supplied me with a photograph taken in 1964, sitting on the lap of my foster mother. Upon seeing this picture for the first time, I was elated to have an earlier, and only, image of myself in foster care since four days old. At that time, I answered to the name of Bonnie, the name given to me at birth.

I don’t see an infant sad or bewildered, but rather thriving in an uncertain world. She feels good to know that her birth mom might not be too far away since these new lovely people continue to call her by her given name, but I don’t recall choosing these circumstances of being away from my mother for six months. In this photograph, I see myself as feeling resigned, yet hopeful.

Fast forward to the age of 12, when I told my mother that I wanted to know my birth mother. She asked, “Why do you want to do that?” Why wouldn’t I want to know my other mother? I love you, but I didn’t choose you, nor did you choose me. The adoption agency did the choosing of parents for me. Feelings of unworthiness were just below the surface, while underneath that was a caged curiosity. I dared not ask again until around my 18^th birthday, but again I received that unforgettable tone of disapproval from Mom, “Aren’t we family enough?” I never really thought about the value, importance, and my simply being worthy of knowing my original identity. I felt no choice at the time of finding more of my truth. I chose to focus on anything other than being an adoptee. Perhaps, I was in the fog.

My adoptive dad’s death was filled with grief beyond belief in February of 1991 though he wasn’t in his fifties like my friends’ fathers. He was 74 when he made his transition. Dad’s untimely death, in my mind, resulted in his first and only grandchild having no memory of him. At that time, mom was sixty-seven and doing well until she wasn’t. My son was 12 years old when cancer came knocking to claim her time left on earth before her 78^th birthday. Her only grandson has fond memories of playing Connect Four, finishing 1,500-piece jigsaw puzzles, and being allowed to swing apologetically from whatever chandelier could have been in her home if she had one. I never would have chosen the loss of the only mother I remember.

The year was 2010 when Illinois changed its adoption law and allowed adoptees the right to request the infamous OBC. I chose to request my original birth certificate in 2011 and had it in my hands by Jan 15, 2012 (Dr. MLK Jr.’s celebrated birthday). “Free at Last”. There, my birth mother’s beautiful signature appeared on that paper, and what a sight to behold, along with my name at the top: Bonnie Lynne Upshaw. When I think of that simple piece of paper unleashing my curiosity to find my maternal birth family, I smile. In that moment, like never before, I chose to search for them.

I learned quite quickly that my birth mom died on her 49^th birthday. Five years later, I chose to listen when others told me of my birth father’s passing in May of 1990. I pleasingly chose to accept my birth mother’s other child she got to raise, a son 22 months younger than me. News of my brother having children and grandchildren instantaneously made me an older sibling and, simultaneously, I became an aunt to my tribe.  

Years after my reunion with both sides of my family, I know my beginnings enough to satisfy who I really am. I’ve unpacked a lot of the not knowing my truth that my inner child relentlessly nudged me to investigate. My 12-year old self wanted me today to know that I am free to choose truth, to choose search and reunion, to choose seeking to be in relationship with biological family members, to choose writing my story, to choose sharing my words, to choose publishing them, to choose to being open, honest, and public in the adoption community. Most importantly, I am free to choose to be empowered by my adoption journey every step of the way.

I believe it is always a choice in how to view and own our story. I know that we adoptees are free to choose how, when, where, and why we create space for our voice. Above all else, whether we write and share or not, the freedom to do so exists for all adoptees.