TW: Mention of various traumas

I was taken away from my birth mother within minutes of entering this world. She was a lesbian, a survivor of sexual violence and a heroin addict. These things were not unconnected. I was passed around my mum’s family until I was eventually placed for adoption.
When I was finally adopted at 7, I believed it was the start of something positive. Like many adoptees, I hoped this new chapter would bring stability and belonging, and at first, it did seem that way. There was a sense of relief that came with being chosen, the idea that I was finally going to have a family that wanted me. My adoptive parents provided a good home home, they made sure I had everything I needed, and from the outside, it probably looked like a success story.
As the years went on, that sense of hope faded, and things slowly began to shift. There always seemed to be a certain air around the family. They had other children who were also adopted and we all felt similar.
I wasn’t allowed to talk about my birth family. Any mention of them brought a sharpness to my adoptive parents’ tone, a reminder that they were the ones who had rescued me from a horrible situation, who had given me this life. I was “lucky” because my mum was an addict, no one knew who my dad was [allegedly], my grandparents were too old, my aunts and uncles had “enough on their plates”. I could have quite easily been “left in the system” because as it stood, “7 was pretty old for an adopted kid”.
No one had specifically said this to me but it an unspoken rule that I shouldn’t talk about where I came from. In the earlier years, I didn’t have much information about my birth family but I had a book with pictures of my mum that were clearly taken before she was an addict. I didn’t even know she was an addict until quite recently which made certain things make a lot more sense. I was the product of a crime committed against my mother and at some point after I was adopted, she took her own life.
I was expected to forget where I came from but I couldn’t. I felt sad for my mum, I wanted to know her and her story. I wanted to know my biological family. I felt like part of me was missing. When your adoptive family refuses to acknowledge that loss, refuses to let you explore your full identity, it makes you feel like you don’t really belong anywhere.
My difficulties really became most obvious when I began to understand my identity as a non-binary person. Growing up, I struggled with the labels and expectations people placed on me, but I couldn’t quite put it into words. I figured a lot of that was due to being adopted and feeling displaced but it went so much deeper than that. I spent a lot of time seeking answers that I couldn’t get from my family or, indeed, from school (thanks section 28!). I think my adoptive mum thought I was gay and when I finally come out as non-binary, it wasn’t met with the acceptance I had hoped for. My adoptive family didn’t understand, and more than that, they didn’t try to.
The rejection wasn’t immediate. It started subtly, with dismissive comments, regurgitation of tabloid talking points, awkward silences, and a refusal to use my pronouns, saying that I was “just like [my] mother. Over time, it became clear that they wouldn’t accept me as I was. They saw my non-binary identity as something I “picked up online”, something I should “grow out of,” a phase, rather than an integral part of who I am. It was as if my queerness was a personal affront to them—as though by embracing myself, I was rejecting them.
I wasn’t the only one of their children who was queer either. My older brother was gay and had married a woman “for convenience”. His words not mine. My parents would often use him as an example of thinking you’re one thing and then realising you’re wrong and “doing the right thing”.
Adoption is often painted as an act of rescue, of saving a child from a difficult situation and offering them a better life. And for a long time, I thought that was the narrative I had to live by. My adoptive parents had done something good, something noble, and in return, I was expected to be forever grateful. But that expectation of gratitude became suffocating, especially as I grew older and began to realise how much of myself I was being forced to hide in order to fit their idea of who I should be.
I don’t write this to discredit adoption or the families that open their homes to children in need. There are undoubtedly stories of love, care, and true belonging. But I think it’s important to acknowledge that adoption isn’t a one-size-fits-all experience. For many of us, it’s complicated. It’s full of pain that’s often hidden behind the expectation that we should be thankful.
I don’t owe anyone my identity. What I do deserve is to be seen, accepted, and loved for who I truly am, not just who others want me to be.
Photo by Daniel K Cheung on Unsplash