The What-Ifs of Being Adopted

“Play the Stitch song, mama!” my daughter exclaimed with a smile, hugging her Stitch stuffy on the car ride home from dropping her brother off at school.

The soundtrack began with an upbeat tune about only wanting to be surfing in the ocean, and I was immediately transported to the warm comfort of sitting on my board with my feet dangling in the water and the heart-pumping joy of seeing the waves coming. My subconscious kicked in. 

It’s weird knowing you were born in the wrong place and culture. 

But then I remembered I was born in the right place – the Big Island, Hawaii – but in the wrong set of circumstances, or rather the wrong set of circumstances for my idealized version of what my life could have been.

I’ve reflected a lot over the last few days in conversations with friends regarding adoption and the accompanying feelings of longing. I wonder if those of you who grew up in what could be considered “normal,” stable families with two loving, present parents have experienced this sense of longing for something different: a fictionalized, romanticized version of your life. Maybe you had a rich friend with all the coolest toys and wondered what it would be like to be them. For me, the what-ifs and whys have always hummed in the background of my life.

What if my biological mother would have been mentally healthy and we had stayed in Hawaii? I could have learned to surf as a kid. I would have lived in my happy place, going to the beach and living in literal and figurative warmth.

Why didn’t any of my biological family rescue me from the claws of the foster system? I see them now on social media, and my cousins look happy, healthy, and well-adjusted. I’m just sure if they had saved me, I would have formed secure attachments as a young child; I would have been someone who made friends easily and felt comfortable in groups. 

My dad. If only he’d have known about me, we would have had a great connection. He would have protected me from neglect and abuse. He would have swept me up into his arms after a day on the waves together and I would have felt safe.

But these scenarios are all fiction. 

As a child of adoption, or even for someone who doesn’t know who their father is, it’s normal to wonder and long for who the person could have been, but ponderings are not based in truth.  The truth is a mixed-up, messy thing. The truth is, the biological parent probably wasn’t equipped to raise their child, for whatever reason, despite how much love they wanted to give. The extended family members may have wanted to help but were prevented from doing so, and even if they had, there still would have been what-ifs. Whether or not the father knew about the child is inconsequential since he didn’t end up in the child’s life.

For every positive daydream, there’s an equally craptastic version of what could have happened and an infinite number of other possible outcomes. All we have is the present and the opportunity for gratitude. 

My gratitude stems from the self-work I’ve done to overcome my traumas and provide a loving home for my kids. My twelve-year-old son and I were discussing the cold plunge and how it builds mental fortitude, and I jokingly said, “You don’t have the displeasure of living in the foster system, so you can go in the cold plunge to face adversity.”  Of course, no one’s life is without adversity, and he will develop his own set of what-ifs regarding his parents' divorce, his height, and countless other ways his life could be better, but I hope he always feels content in knowing he’s loved.

I try to protect my kids from suffering, but suffering is part of the human experience, so I’m thankful they view me as a place of comfort during painful experiences. I’m grateful for the love I received from my adoptive parents who were there to rescue me from foster care. They provided love and safety, even though I wore the scars of fear. I feel abundantly blessed with how my life turned out, and the only way I could get to the here and now was through the muck. 

I still cry for the three-year-old version of myself who desperately wanted to feel safe and loved, yet I am so grateful for her. That little girl is a constant reminder to pursue the best version of myself, especially as a parent, to let my children feel seen and heard, and to own my shortcomings. If any of the idealized versions of my early childhood had come to life, I may have missed out on knowing her, and that would have been a shame, because she gave me the greatest gift – empathy.