For me, the very basic and foundational element of love is directly tied to deep and painful loss: loss of my origins and a connection to the woman and man that created me.

Being adopted means that while I gained a family of experience, I lost my family of origin. I lost my original mother — you know, the first human being I was connected to physically and emotionally. The one whose tenor and tone of voice I heard in utero and has been embedded into my vocal chords. The one whose smell could instantly calm me down and make me feel safe. The one who held me IN HER BODY for nine months. The one whose blood runs through my veins. The one who named me June Elizabeth. The one who was supposed to love me and never, ever leave.

That person, my original mother, Helen, left. She left the hospital without me, and when I was five days old I joined what is described in official documents as a “loving foster home.”

The loss of my original father is a bit more complicated and confusing. He remains a mystery and may not have a clue that I even exist. He is part of me and yet completely disconnected from me. It is because of his ancestry that I am a woman of color. The part of me that is directly related to him is a part of me that I love so deeply but have had to work independently to understand without him as my guide.

Thanks to the closed adoption era, much of what I am able to piece together about my birth and my first few months is found in my non-identifying information and medical records. I’d really like to imagine that there was a whole lot of love for baby me but with only transactional paperwork and no witness, not even one person that was there at the time to share the details of the moments and memories of what that love really looked like, it is hard to know for sure. What I do know for sure is that even the best possible love that might come to me after losing the love of Helen and my birth father simply would not be her or him, the two people who were supposed to love and keep me.

When it became certain that a pre-adoptive home was found for me, my birth mother made her final decision to relinquish me and I was placed with the Dinwoodies and ultimately, adopted into their family. To be clear, the love that I found with my family of experience (my adoptive family) is deep and full and rich and amazing. Let me also be clear that is not perfect but I know this love is real. I can see, hear, touch, taste, and smell this love — especially the love from my mom. She cooks and bakes with love. Her hugs are drenched with love, her voice (even when she is mad) has a steady tone of love, and her eyes sparkle with love. It is the shape and size of her heart and the confidence I have in her love for me that has helped to heal my broken parts and manage the original love that I lost.

Over the years, I settled in as a Dinwoodie and my name was officially changed from June to April. My father and mother created a little slice of heaven for my siblings and me and it was there on our small farm that I felt protected and loved. I watched my dad, the strongest man on the planet meticulously build our homes as well as perfect woodpiles and stonewalls. I learned the value of hard work and commitment to time with family. I played endlessly with my sister and brothers — creating memories and bonds for a lifetime. This was our center of the universe and it was filled with the very best kind of love we could all give.

Experiencing this love allowed me to believe in love, and for a while I believed in the adoption narrative that my birth mother loved me so much that she wanted a better life for me. While this made sense, it left me with a very difficult reality to navigate. If it is true that she loved me so much she left me, won’t everyone who loves me deeply ultimately leave? This idea as well as attempting to navigate my bi-racial, adopted identity has made for an interesting ride through life, especially related to love and romance.

When I finally connected with Helen as an adult, filled with hope of a meaningful and healing reunion, she rejected me. She made it clear that she was not up for a connection or to meet and that no one in the family knew about me. It was then I stopped believing in the “she loved me so much” narrative. I had to. On the one hand, it was oddly freeing because I now understood that love may not have been the ultimate motivation for her and perhaps fear and shame were the driving forces. On the other hand, I was utterly crushed. Something must be seriously wrong with me for her to reject me not once, but twice.

I have reflected on how the many intricate layers of my adoption experience have impacted my romantic relationships in How to Love a Transracially Adopted Person Part One and Part Two. Being so open and vulnerable about my relationship to love has been some of the hardest and most honest writing I have done thus far. It has also been amazing to look back at some of the beautiful love I have shared with wonderful men.

What I have come to realize is that my transracial adoption experience has created unique circumstances for me in terms of forming my identity and learning how to truly love myself. Even with the palpable love of my family of experience, not having access to my birth parents and basic information about who I am has made it difficult to know and love myself. Therefore, it became imperative that I make it my business to construct my identity and self love with what I do have access to. It means I recognize and honor the parts that I know and understand and that I manage and face the parts that I don’t. It means that it is critical that I cherish the parts of me that are easy to love and pour energy and effort into the parts that are much harder to love.

This past year while I did not find my perfect love in a partner, I have gotten a heck of a lot closer to finding the perfect love of myself. For me perfect love is really not perfect at all but rather messy and often complicated but oh so genuine and fulfilling. For the first time ever, I have focused on taking extra good care of myself. I am getting as much rest as possible, keeping my body strong with exercise, my spirit strong with meditation, keeping my heart and soul strong with the love of friends and family, and keeping my mind strong with the guidance of an amazing therapist. All of this commitment to myself allows me to keep bravely exploring the unknown parts of my identity and keeps me motivated to offer my testimony to help create community and shine a light on the realities of adoption.

Sometimes, when I think about how I navigate this transracial-adopted life, I am in awe of myself and there is an abundance of self-love. And other times, usually when I really like someone romantically, and I’ve shown up at my absolute best and then they “ghost”, there is that familiar feeling deep in my body that I am not good enough and “poof” just like that, they’ll be gone forever. It is then when I must shake it off, call in reinforcements from my tribe, and look JuneinApril square in the face and whisper, “Don’t worry, I love you and everything is going to be ok.”

I was inspired because, well, the love of a good man will do that to you. It took me a long time to start the piece, but once I did, the words flowed. I deconstructed different stages of my life and reflected on how being adopted and brown created very real challenges related to this center of gravity called love. What I wrote last year was a manifestation of what I was feeling at the time directly related to the relationship I had with my boyfriend. In that relationship, I felt safe, seen, understood, “normal”, and I felt loved. What began as creating space to reflect and write about how my transracial adoption experience has made an imprint on my heart would become an empowering turning point. As I think back now, I realize I wasn’t just writing a personal essay; I was also creating a roadmap of sorts for the man I loved. Feeling seen, understood, normal, safe and loved produced an opening, making it a bit easier to be vulnerable and to take some serious risks. At the same time, delving into this topic was also completely terrifying.

I was terrified because on a good day, writing about one of the most complicated and critical elements of my adoption experience and exposing myself as well my family/loved ones and can be downright scary. While I had absolutely thought about love and adoption a lot over the years, for so long, I did not have the language to articulate the raw emotions or the ability to calculate what it all meant. I was always told that my birth mother left me because she loved me and wanted something better for me. Even with the all-encompassing love of my family, over time, this idea of someone loving you so much they leave, became more and more strange to me. If the person who is supposed to love you from the beginning leaves you, won’t everyone ultimately do the same? Yes, even with the deep and foundational love from my family, in the back of my mind there is always a chance that they and others who love me intensely are leaving just like my birth mother did. Writing about love and adoption meant opening up about my most painful and hidden thoughts and feelings about my identity and my abandonment.

Why in the world would I want to open up about the complexities of this messy idea of love tied to adoption? Having thought I might have found the man I would spend the rest of my life with, I felt it was imperative to explore these thoughts and feelings. I also felt like opening up about love and adoption and sharing this part of my personal journey might also be validating to others with a shared experience.

I was introduced to my now ex boyfriend in May of 2016 by a trusted friend, and with that came a sense of comfort and ease from the beginning. As time passed, that sense of comfort grew into a love and sense of emotional safety. As I reflect back now, I can clearly see the elements that mattered most to me as our love grew and why it felt safe and imperative that I take some risks in opening up on this sacred topic of romantic love.

Being Seen…

As a Black man with a strong sense of his racial identity, I loved and honored him and I felt like he truly saw me and honored me. The love and respect was mutual and balanced. We had similar views of the world and as society around us became more and more tumultuous surrounding matters of race, class, and culture, our connectedness was an anchor. I was truly feeling the #blacklove!

Being Understood…

While he appreciated me as a Black/Bi-racial woman, he also recognized that I was coming into my full racial identity later in life. He never made me feel bad or odd about that reality. He listened patiently; offered his take, and always found a way to show me he was trying to understand where I was coming from without being a trans-racially adopted person himself.

Feeling “Normal”…

While I have had wonderful, loving, and long-term relationships, it had been a few years since I was in one and when people heard I was dating someone, we began getting invitations for “couple” things. I had gotten so used to showing up solo, I was surprised at how good it felt to have a date at a gala or be invited to a couple’s home for a dinner party with a date and actually having one. While I don’t like describing elements that society puts upon us as “normal”, it is all I can come up with when I think about how it felt to be part of a couple. I noticed relief in my family’s faces in knowing that I had a partner, and the approving sort of looks that would come as we walked down the street hand in hand.

Feeling Safe…

In today’s racial climate, there is urgency in creating physical and emotional safety for persons of color, especially, children of Black and Brown children adopted by White families. I found a sense of emotional and physical safety in this relationship that had been built on mutual love and respect. I felt that he truly had my back and that he would shield me from any danger, physical or emotional. In this safe place I took more risks when having conversations about race with loved ones because I had a person that felt like family and looked like me in my corner.

Feeling Loved…

I felt so much love even before we uttered the words. Once we said it, I was floating and yet so completely grounded to the earth. I felt loved and appreciated in every way. I remember sending the essay to my then boyfriend to read and asking if he was still up to the challenge…he wrote back “I’m in”. When I read his response, I truly felt he meant it and my heart soared. And with all of that love, I was also truly frightened.

The essay included a list of 10 things to serve as a written roadmap for “anyone who is brave and lucky enough to love me — a trans-racially adopted woman”. Making the list felt bold, necessary and scary. To recap, the list was as follows:

1. See me as the strong yet vulnerable adopted Black/Bi-racial woman that I am and understand that I am still realizing my full identity and that includes my racial identity.

2. Understand that I will always be working overtime to prove myself as a Black/bi-racial woman, and as an adopted person.

3. Know that once I love you in that deep familial way, you are stuck with me for life even if our romantic love ends.

4. Don’t ever leave!

5. Know that withholding vital information that impacts me from me on purpose is never an option.

6. Be unflappable and realize that the barricade surrounding my heart is penetrable.

7. Answer your phone.

8. Understand that my birthday and holidays are extremely tricky times and activate many complicated emotions.

9. Help me balance my extended family of adoption and help me create my very own family.

10. Keep loving me. It is a complex and amazing journey if you are up for it.

While all of these good things were happening, there were also, of course, challenging elements to our relationship. Our love grew in a pure and simple way, but certain practical elements were not addressed. Things like marriage and children were not proactively discussed. Maybe it was too soon? Maybe it was assumed these things would happen once the few rather typical relationship elements were addressed (I was a light sleeper and he snored a bit…)? Maybe, my stressfull job smack in the center of the adoption and foster care matrix became too emotionally draining and activating, and more and more he became an outlet for some of my frustration? Maybe, the idea of being loved in that way became too much for me, and stress and anxiety took over? Maybe the second rejection of my birth mother as an adult (she refused to meet me and create a relationship) had finally taken its toll? Maybe it all became just too damn much?

Note: #6 from the list…

“Be unflappable and realize that the barricade surrounding my heart is penetrable. Even when I am at my worst and pushing you away, it is my deep abandonment rearing up. Don’t fall for my tricks and be steadfast in your commitment to me.”

Sadly and slowly, the relationship became less and less viable, and we separated. Like most break-ups for me, it took a while. I never want to believe that I could be left again, and that my evil plan to protect my vulnerable heart has worked.

Here is the good news, I went back to therapy after many years and that it was transformational. As many people in the adoption community know, finding a professional that understands adoption is like gold. Here is some more good news, I still love my ex-boyfriend and always will. While any future together seems unlikely, deep down I know he loves me and I love him.

And the best news of all…I still believe in love! Time does heal. As I continue to be steadfast in addressing the toughest parts of my trans-racial adoption experience and steer into self-love, I know in my vulnerable, still beating heart, that there is a love for me.

As another February comes to a close, I am still working my way through what adoption and love mean to me and how I can continue to create space for the love I desire and deserve.

In a continued effort to try to understand and navigate through it all, this month for the February episode of “Born in June, Raised in April” podcast, I interviewed one of my very first loves who was there at the beginning of the search for my biological family. This episode goes deep, gets lighthearted and funny, and definitely tackles some necessary topics surrounding love and identity. Don’t miss it, click here to listen!

1. I am going to talk out loud about how my adoption experience has made an imprint on what romantic love means to me and how I experience it.
2. I am going to articulate exactly what I need when it comes to romantic love.

It’s February and as a transracially adopted person, the convergence of Black History Month and Valentine’s Day is powerful and punctuating all at once. As an adult, I have come to understand that any shot I have at truly deep, romantic love is wrapped up in my ability to understand my full identity and love my whole self.

As an adopted person, my ability to understand my full identity and love my whole self was complicated from my very beginning. Based on the limited information from and about my birth mother Helen, I was very much unplanned. The exact circumstances surrounding my conception and birth sadly left the planet when she did and many of the intimate details I will never know.

What I do know is that what many expectant mothers and parents usually have in terms of joy and anticipation surrounding their pregnancy was not likely the reality for my biological mother — she hid her pregnancy and she hid me. There was no sharing with close friends or family-like swapping stories with her sister-in-law who was also expecting my cousin at the same time my birth mother was expecting me. There was no baby shower with cupcakes, games and giggles. I know this to be true because no one living throughout the extended family ever knew about me.

Based on the hospital social workers’ intake evaluation notes in my birth records, I know my biological mother was not counting down the final days before my birth with great exhilaration. The notes read as follows:

“Patient entering 9th month of pregnancy — came from Rhode Island with no plans except wanted to place baby. She tried to deny pregnancy until now, and is currently immobilized by anxiety. I found a boarding home for her to stay at and made a clinic appointment for her. Will continue to see her throughout the pregnancy and help with planning.”

Four simple sentences, stating a complicated reality…

Every time I read these words I wondered whether Helen could also carry love for me on top of her stress and anxiety. Could those two things live together in her for me?

For as long as I can remember, the narrative I heard was that my birth mother loved me so much she wanted me to have a good life. Perhaps what she thought would be a better life than I would have had with her. For as long as I can remember, the narrative was that my adoptive family wanted me so much and loved me so much, they chose me. While I absolutely felt deeply loved by my family at the same time, I felt the deep pain of being left by my biological mother.

How could the first person that is supposed to love me leave me?

How could I be so wanted and lovable and yet so “leavable” and unlovable?

If my biological mother loved me so much and she left me, won’t everyone who loves me that much ultimately leave?

While I had all of these questions, for a long while, I actually believed the narrative that my birth mother loved me so much she wanted me to have a better life and I certainly felt deeply loved by my adoptive family and that I was special. But the two things seemed always to be at odds. Somewhere around middle school I began to believe the darts kids had thrown right to my heart:

“Your parents did not love you, they gave you up.”
“No one ever wanted you…you’re adopted.”
“You don’t even know who your real parents are.” (my all-time favorite)

This all stung and the questions kept coming. “Did I have ‘real’ parents other than the ones that I knew, the ones that I loved and loved me?” And, “If I did have ‘real’ parents who were they, where were they and would they ever come back to get me?” I saw “Little Orphan Annie” and wondered how much of her story was my story and fantasized about being adopted by Daddy Warbucks.

Even more complicated was the element of my race and being different from my family. When the “n” word would come my way, on top of feeling bad about being adopted, I began to feel bad about myself for being different and for being brown. I became pretty good at hiding all of this. I had lots of friends, I was popular and I did well in school.

Like most tweens, heading into middle school, things were getting intense, in my body, in my brain and with my hair. Along with my girlfriends, I was becoming “boy-crazy” but for me not seeing boys that looked like me made things confusing. It is not that I did not like some of the boys around me and find them attractive but it was different and I longed to be around boys that were brown like me.

My brain was moving a mile a minute about everything but so often about my adoption and my identity. I was starting to understand a bit more about adoption in general and my questions began to shift. “Did my biological parents love each other?” “Did they stay together and just leave me?” “Did I have other siblings?”

And then there was my hair. Having hair that was very different from many of my girlfriends and not really knowing how to take care of it was not just challenging — it was embarrassing. I really began to think I was not pretty and I certainly did not feel pretty. This impacted me more than I ever really care to admit or acknowledge.

Acknowledging all of this and bringing it up as a child and young person was not an option. First, would/could my family understand being adopted or brown because they were neither? And second, everyone was always saying how lucky I was for being adopted and somewhere deep down I never wanted to do anything to jeopardize staying with my family. Even with my family loving me intensely and never threatening to leave me or give me back, I still often felt that just as easily as I got there, I could just as easily be sent back. And if the first family did not want to keep me, it was only a matter of time before this one would feel the same so I better not do anything to rock the boat.

Acknowledging all of these very intense feelings and realities now as an adult is liberating and healthy but always feels like an indictment on my parents and family. And even today, there are times when I think they may not be there when I get home. This makes perfect sense and no sense at all. Perfect sense because I feel I was hard-wired to think everyone who loves me leaves and no sense because my family is ALWAYS there when I get home and as challenging as things can be, I really do know they will truly always be there and always love me.

As I moved through high school I think of the proms and dances that were certainly fun but also filled with stress about how I looked and who I would go with. Then something magical happened — LA Beach Club — an under 21 club in Misquamicut Beach that drew in a diverse crowd from Connecticut, Rhode Island and Massachusetts. It was heaven for me and hell for my parents who really did not like me going there. It was a place where I felt happy, free and comfortable in my skin. I met young men that were brown like me and had my first real boyfriends. Boyfriends that I felt truly saw me and in seeing me they liked me and grew to love me. These first true romantic loves were transformational and for my family as well who embraced anyone I have ever chose to welcome into my life (until they hurt me and then it was game-over for them even if it was not for me).

College was a hot mess when it came to boys and I will spare myself and everyone the details. But what is important to note is that — not unlike many college experiences — I was pushing boundaries, trying to figure out who I was as a young woman, aching to be accepted and completely boy-crazy. The mix of independence, a complex forming of my identity and alcohol made it the best, most challenging part of my life up to then.

During college, I began dating someone who had been adopted — he was also brown and I immediately and I mean immediately loved him and then I immediately and I mean immediately thought he’d leave me. To this day, he is someone I treasure having had met and gratefully we are still in touch. Unfortunately, in college I also learned about and experienced physical intimacy without love and it would take me a long time after college to rectify that finding that out was ok but ultimately it was essential for me to have both.

Throughout my twenties and into my thirties, love and intimacy came to me in all shapes, sizes, races, ethnicities and varieties. Safe love with my hometown boyfriend that I loved deeply and purely, and while it ended with a painful breakup, I know he loved me just I as did him. Exciting love with a slick New Yorker that truly made me feel as though I was beautiful, sexy and somebody. Profound loves with a guru, another adopted person and a single father. In all of the break-ups, we both played a role and some of them we could both chalk up to bad timing, but for me I’d push and pull so hard (sometimes at the same time) they would have to leave me. Very rarely did I ever really leave and a true separation would take months and sometimes years to get past. In between, I would always get used to being single and sometimes there was easy love. Flings with men I might never date and usually did not but I always learned something about myself. They were not easy lessons but necessary ones.

During this time, I was also searching for the missing pieces of who I was and looking for my biological family. Just when I was getting better with relationships, I found my birth mother and very swiftly she rejected me for a second time. If it had not been for the deep love and safety of my family, I am not sure how I would have made it through and done so without it leaving a big a mark on me and my future relationships. Being rejected twice was almost too much to take, and at the same time, the love I had always been given filled me up and settled my spirit.

My identity as an adopted person and my racial identity were always impacting my relationships in big and small ways. There was pushing and pulling and the testing to see whether or not my mate would really stay. There was the jumping into relationships full force without thinking, there was the deep-seated fear of being rejected and there was the jealousy. Then there were the “I don’t need anyone” very angry and independent times where I swore I would never let anyone love me ever again. All pretty standard human conditions when it comes to love but made more difficult by being adopted.

My racial identity usually made it imperative to date men of color. I was drawn to them and it almost always felt like home when I was with them. When I did not date men of color, I had to be even more hyper-vigilant than usual and that was exhausting for them and for me.

All of this brings me to today and what I have learned (and am still learning) about being authentically loved and loving authentically. Here is my very self-serving list of advice for anyone who is brave and lucky enough to love me — a transracially adopted woman.

See me as the strong yet vulnerable adopted woman of color that I am and understand that I am still realizing my full identity and that includes my racial identity. Realize that really seeing me means that you must also see and know yourself. Whether you are a person of color or not, know that I am still plugging into my racial identity and it can get messy and complicated especially these days. If you are a person of color that was raised by people of color, help me learn what you know more organically. If you are not a person of color, understand your privilege and what it means to be in the world with and without me by your side.

Understand that I will always be working overtime to prove myself as a woman, as a person of color and as an adopted person. Most days, it is all three at once and it is exhausting. Please also try to help me take breaks somehow even if I deny that I need one.

Know that once I love you in that deep familial way, you are stuck with me for life even if our romantic love ends. Also know that anyone I have loved in a healthy way occupies a place in my heart for life. While you will be the center, I will continue to care for those I have deeply loved and rarely do I amputate people.

Don’t ever leave! It is devastating, deep and totally impractical. I have always hated goodbyes. Even when I know I am going to see the person I love again very soon, my body hurts when it is time for either one of us to leave. In these moments, my behavior can range from being totally cool and cavalier to being clinging and impossible. I do love my own company and cherish “me time” but it is the symbolism of someone leaving me and the pit in my stomach that leaves me wondering if he is really coming back and that never really goes away.

Know that withholding vital information that impacts me from me on purpose is never an option. Being left out of the loop and denied so many basic elements of my identity makes it difficult to manage any situation where I am being left out of vital conversations that pertain to me. And if you think you are protecting me, please rethink this and understand the mark that has been made on me based on being denied information and access to things that so many non-adopted people can easily have and is their right to have.

Be unflappable and realize that the barricade surrounding my heart and I is penetrable. Even when I am at my worst and pushing you away, it is my deep abandonment rearing up. Don’t fall for my tricks and be steadfast in your commitment to me.

Answer your phone. When you don’t pick up, I immediately get anxious. I think you might be gone for good, not love me anymore or be on to the next person. This is true even in the sturdiest relationships. And please don’t ever send me straight to voicemail — again, very impractical but it can feel like a dagger.

Understand that my birthday and holidays are extremely tricky times and trigger many complicated emotions. I want a birthday party. I don’t want a birthday party. I am happy to celebrate my day. I am too sad thinking about the day I was born and my birth mother that did not keep me and all that I do not now about my birth father. This goes for Mother’s Day, Father’s Day and so many of the celebratory days throughout the year that for an adopted person bring about layers of joy, sadness and confusion.

Help me balance my extended family of adoption and help me create my very own family to extend it even further. It has never truly felt safe for me to create my own family — whatever form that takes. While I have always wanted to be a mother, deep down I always felt that I had one family and that is all I deserved. How dare I want more and to actually be so bold to create my own? And what kind of mother would I be? With or without children, I ache to build a family of my own that can further connect me to my extended family of adoption.

Keep loving me. It is a complex and amazing journey if you are up for it.

When the one that was supposed to love you first and best does not keep you, it is difficult to imagine she loved you. It is hard to imagine you are lovable. Then the Dinwoodie family adopts you and you are loved so deeply and it feels so good, you never want to do anything to jeopardize it. You go ahead and do things to jeopardize it anyway and they still love you. You push your mother away and she still loves you. You think that your “real” mother would love you more and you may even say that out loud to your mother and she still loves and she never EVER leaves you.

All you need is love? Love is all you need?

So often in adoption, we hear that love will be enough and that all of the other tough stuff that comes with adoption will melt away if you simply love your adopted child. While love is indeed the most important ingredient for all of us in life, really loving a transracially adopted person means you need to really see and know all of them. To do this, you need to help give them the tools to know their full identity and this means you need to know yourself.

Really loving a transracially adopted person means being fiercely dedicated to understanding all you can about what it feels like to lose your first family to gain a new one and understanding that loss of the family of origin can mean a loss of connection to his or her race and culture and that needs to be rebuilt.

Really loving a transracially adopted person starts with knowing who you are and how you perceive adoption, family and differences of race, class and culture. Really loving a transracially adopted person means that you have the opportunity to be understood and loved in a way that you have never been before.

Tune into the latest episode, “How to Love a Transracially Adopted Person,” of April’s “Born in June Raised in April” podcast on iTunes.

This year as I think about the many Januaries that have come before this one, I can’t help but remember the January in early 2000 when I officially began a sweet and small mentoring program called AdoptMent — adopted adults or adults that spent time in foster care mentoring to young people currently in foster care.

During the many months prior to this program taking shape, I was in a search and reunion swirl. I had located my biological mother. I had spoken to her once on the phone, sent her a letter, a photo album and an article I had written. She sent me a very brief letter in response wondering what I wanted from her.

Dear April,

This is very hard for me to do. I don’t write letters at all to anyone. I am grateful that you had a good home. It is what I wanted for you and I was in a very bad place in my life in Newport. My life here is quiet and peaceful. What I don’t know is what you want from me.

Peace,
Helen

I wrote her back. Here is just part of that letter.

“The truth is for my entire life, I have wondered about you — what you might be like, your interests, how you looked and countless other questions. I have wondered how I came to be in the world and the circumstances surrounding my birth. Who my biological father might be and what he might look like. Everyone always asks me what nationality I am or where I am from. I am not afraid to know what happened nor will I ever pass judgment. I am so curious and naturally interested in my history…”

In January 2004, an oversized envelope arrived and it was from her. I could not help but be excited. Did it include photos and more information about my family of origin? I carefully and nervously opened the envelope. The contents looked familiar. Was it everything that I had sent her? She was sending it back? I rifled through everything — the photo album, the letters and the article. Everything I had sent was all there. And there was also a note on a half-ripped piece of paper that read exactly this…

“I don’t know who your sperm donor was. I was raped. My family has no genetic problems and they never knew anything about you. Hearing from you has made me very depressed.”

Now the tone I had heard in her voice when we spoke that one time made perfect sense — the balance of happiness, trepidation and deep pain. I kept staring at the piece of paper thinking, none of this could be real. I kept looking at the contents over and over again — somehow thinking that they’d magically morph into photos of her and a different letter — one that included information about my biological father and how we’d all meet and build a relationship. It did not happen. My fantasy fairytale had been officially ripped to shreds and my heart was officially broken.

I could not even cry at first, I was so stunned. I remember waiting to tell my mother. I needed to show her but I was petrified. I needed her to hold me and tell me everything was going to be alright and I needed her to protect me from all of this pain in some way. I was asking for a lot but it was what I needed. She did hold me but I knew she was hurt and furious with Helen. I can remember my mother saying how she always held Helen close to her heart because she loved me so much but now that she had hurt me like this it was so hard and almost impossible for her to do that. While I never want to see my mom angry — when her protective mother bear instincts reared right up — I realized that was exactly what I needed.

I was distraught, confused and angry. I was in a fog. To this day, the pain reverberates throughout my entire body when I read those words.

When I share this with people as part of my journey, so often my first instinct is to say “I am sure that is not true…” or “Do you really think she was raped?” or “So often back in the day, women lied about being raped to protect themselves and their decision…” I never saw it in any of these ways, ever. My first reaction was, if this is true, it is awful, and if it is not, that may be even worse.

The ONLY way I could look at it was believe it was true. Believing otherwise was simply just not an option. It was painful to think of such a terrible thing happening to my biological mother and realizing that is how I was created but it was even more painful to think that it could be a fabrication.

While this search and reunion swirl was going on, I visited a support group in New York and for the first time, I had a community of adopted people, birth parents and adoptive parents around me. It was incredible that there were so many of us, experiencing such similar emotions surrounding adoption. I did not stay with this group very long but made lifelong friends with two of the people I met. The realization that I was not alone was a transformation and a new beginning.

To this day, my dear friend Debra is someone I count on every day and someone who truly uniquely and understands me because she too is adopted. While we did not have the same exact experience, she gets me in ways that people who have not experienced adoption most often can’t. This relationship is like gold. I often imagine what it would have been like to have known Debra when I was growing up and have found that depth of authentic understanding earlier in life.

What I did have early on in life was the unconditional love of my family and a center of gravity, which gave me character and rock solid core. Being a Dinwoodie meant in times of adversity you got to work. So, I took all of the energy I had, the new friends I had found on my journey, and the passion I had for mentoring and created a specialized mentoring program where adopted adults or adults who spent time in foster care mentor young people in foster care. My thought was this: if I had all that I had with my family, the means to get support and help, take some time off and take care of myself and the rejection of my birth mother was still gut-wrenching… what were young people in foster care experiencing? And wouldn’t a space for a shared connection be useful for everyone — the young people primarily — but also the adults? In 2004, AdoptMent was born.

I had made connections with Mentoring USA through my marketing job at Kenneth Cole and incubated the program launching the first site at Harlem Dowling West Side Center for Children and Family Services. From the minute I entered a foster care agency as an adult, I was forever changed yet again. I met some of the people who would further transform my life and play a vital role in my passion for working to reform adoption and foster care. I met committed professionals like Barry Chaffkin and Doris Laurenceau who would become my friends and co-founders of the original Changing the World One Child at a Time (now Fostering Change for Children). I met adopted people who committed as mentors to youth in foster care and I have met and been honored to create relationships with some of the most amazing young people I have ever known — young people with fractured families and young people who are trying to find their way through this experience of foster care and adoption. While the mentees and mentors did not all share the same narrative, we shared the same deep feelings about family, challenges with our identity and desire to work through those challenges.

I had NO idea how meaningful this program would be, the perspective it would give me, and how much it would inspire me to keep moving forward. Ultimately, AdoptMent was a new beginning for me; a way to channel my pain into something that I hoped would be valuable to the mentees and mentors. It did not take long before I felt it — a moment when while walking down the street, one of the mentees said to me, “You know, sometimes when I see someone walking down the street and they kind of look like me, I think, that could be my dad…” She stopped me in my tracks. I turned and said, “You know what, me too…” We paused. “You do?” she said. And just like that, there was a connection and an understanding that went beyond our exact experiences.

There have been countless magical moments and just as many not so magical moments of deep frustration and anger surrounding situations that these young people face that are unimaginable. All of this has fueled my work and energy to help bring about needed changes in foster care and adoption because it all needs to get better and children, teens, young adults and their families need help across the board. Out of an incredible pain came a great passion and so much connection and joy for working with mentees and mentors alike.

In January, we celebrated National Mentoring Month, and while the pain of being rejected by my birth mother may never truly go away, creating AdoptMent gave me a new beginning. Now, after over 10 years, there will be another new beginning. Later this year, AdoptMent will become independent and no longer under a program of Fostering Change for Children.

As I reflect on another January and the many changes and challenges in our world today, I can’t help but be even more fiercely committed to both my personal and professional exploration of adoption, identity and family, to honor my very full, rich and real life experience, and do all I can to heal myself and to help heal others.

November became National Adoption Month under the Clinton Administration more than two decades ago, expanding from the initial week-long celebration it was previously. The idea was to highlight the need to find families for children waiting in foster care for adoption — a laudable goal given the 100,000-plus children waiting to be adopted from foster care, with older youth comprising the largest numbers. It has expanded to encompass more of the voices of the community highlighting the diverse experiences and realities. As a non-profit professional running a research, advocacy and education institute focused on adoption, this month means an extremely busy schedule and increased level of intake and output. As an adopted person, it means even more self-reflection and more to explore and understand as I listen to members of the community sharing their experiences about how adoption has impacted their lives.

A few months ago after a powerful connection and conversation with a kindred spirit, I decided to take another step in my adoption search journey and test my DNA. This decision came after many years of considering it but never really feeling like it was the “right” time.

Over a year ago, I purchased my first DNA kit at a conference, took it home and there it sat. I would make one excuse or another every time I thought about swabbing my cheek and sending my DNA off to be analyzed. I thought about whether I should do more than one type or brand and if I did more than one, which one should I do first? What would each one reveal? I had done some basic research, and in that process, it began to settle in that this was going to be a very meaningful endeavor. While I already felt connected to the biological family on my birth mother’s side, DNA testing would make it official. And after years of being asked “where are you from?” — I would finally know more about my biological father’s side, curly hair and brown skin.

For as long as I can remember, perfect strangers would come up to me and ask me where I was from. As a young adult, I began to understand what this was all about — my mixed race was interesting to them and what they were really asking me was — what are you? And what makes you brown? The conversation got more interesting when I would reveal that I was adopted and really had no idea. The person asking — almost always a person of color — would lean in, take a closer look and say something like…

“Huh, you don’t know? I think you look Dominican.”
or
“You could be Ethiopian.”
or
“Cape Verdean, you must part Cape Verdean.”
or
“Caribbean, probably Jamaican, that is what I think anyway.”

These exchanges were fascinating and I have often felt such a good feeling that the people I was in conversation with — who were most often connected ancestrally to the part of the world they thought I could be from — seemed to very much want me to be Dominican, Ethiopian or Cape Verdean like them. After the exchange, I would walk away wondering… could I be related to them, even distantly?

I thought about exploring my DNA with family or close friends or maybe one of the young people I mentor. I had a feeling it was going to be powerful and my instinct was to share it with someone I was close to. I was also scared — just not sure of what. I decided to do it alone guided by an amazing professional — Amanda Reno from DNA Finding U. One conversation with Amanda and I felt confident that it was time and that I would have the support I needed to make sense of the process and navigate the online platforms.

Knowing that I wanted to both learn of my genetics and connect to individuals who shared my DNA, Amanda recommended I do more than one test. I already had the FamilyTree DNA kit so I purchased 23andMe and AncestryDNA. As I clicked the “confirm your order” button, there were flashes of thoughts and feelings about the investment I was making in myself.

I felt grateful that I had the means to spend the money (the kits are not cheap), excited at the prospects of what I would discover, frustrated and even angry that I had to buy a kit to tell me about me — why my skin is brown and who I am biologically connected to — and as always, part of me felt a pang of guilt for actually wanting to know and with that pang of guilt a rush of emotion for my adoptive family. That all too familiar sense of sadness that I was not biologically connected to them and just as familiar, the awe of loving them fiercely without it.

When the kits arrived I was giddy. I opened each one carefully, set all of the contents on my counter, registered on all of the sites and I was ready. The instructions said I should spit in the tubes first thing in the morning without having brushed or had any liquid. Being a creature of habit, the next couple of days I totally flaked, forgot and began guzzling water as soon as my eyes opened. Finally, I remembered and early one morning I spit in the tubes and swabbed my cheeks. The directions could not have been more straightforward and simple but I kept thinking I was messing it up! Nerves.

I packed everything up just as they called for and I dropped the kits in the mail. All the way to the mailbox I smiled and when I dropped them in the big blue box, I cried a little.

Then I waited, and waited and waited what seemed like forever but I was really about seven weeks. Each kit stated that it would be between six and eight weeks for results. There was a rush of emotions as I navigated through the sites staring at the screen and results of my DNA.

All of the results came in within about a week of one another and they ALL delivered roughly the same information. I am approximately 60% European, including Irish, English and European West which includes Germany, France, Switzerland and about 40% African with the highest concentration being Ivory Coast then Ghana and a bit from Congo and traced connections to Benin/Togo. I underestimated how amazing it would be to know all of this. And I am still processing what it all means.

23andMe gave me rich information about my health traits and if I am a carrier of certain genetic diseases, as well as possible physical characteristics and even whether I am more likely to taste bitter flavors or sweet flavors. It is amazing to think about the advances today and that this information can contribute to proactive health awareness individually and as a collective society. AncestryDNA focuses mostly on connections to those with your same DNA and does a great job with history and different factors that contribute to where people are from in the world.

You can spend hours on these sites. I am still sorting out FamilyTree DNA but grateful that all of these tools exist for the world and for the adoption community — especially for those of us adopted in the very closed adoption era. We now have the power to explore our identity in ways we may never have dreamed. I love knowing more about all of my DNA but I’d be lying if I said I was not more curious about the brown parts, and I know when people ask me where I am from, they too, are more curious about this part of me.

I think everyone would benefit from exploring their identity through DNA and I hope that more and more people will have the opportunity to do so — especially young people in foster care and individuals and families experiencing adoption. It is powerful.

It is no mistake that all of this was happening around my birthday — it made the moments that much more powerful. I finally had more pieces and parts of my identity.

Today, it is more important than ever that we work on ourselves, know ourselves and be good to ourselves so we can be good to others but also so we can be strong. The healthier our identities are, the better equipped we will all be in our relationships and in the world. While not the same exercise for everyone, we all have ways to explore who we are and where we fit in the world. Only when we are truly settled in this way can we shoulder the heavy lift that came upon all of us earlier this month.

As I prepare for another Thanksgiving holiday knowing that there will be no shortage of amazing food and precious time with family, I can’t help but be reflective of how rich my life truly is. I have a feeling that when I look around the Thanksgiving table this year, I will feel more settled in myself, more confident in my identity as an adopted person and a person of color.

I am still finding my words as it relates to the state of our country — from the monstrous elements that hang over us like a thick smoke to the tiny bits that are coming into view daily as I ride the 2/3 train and everything in between. In the meantime, I am going to keep working on me, making sure I know who I am, hold myself accountable and do my best to understand others so I can do all I possibly can to make adoption better, make families stronger, and hopefully in some small way make a positive impact.

I certainly celebrate my life on this planet and the fact that I was born and I am happy about this. I also celebrate my adopted life and my family — my parents who chose adoption as a way to expand their family and when they did so expanded my family with my brothers and sister, aunts, uncles, nieces, nephews, cousins and extended family members and friends who are like family. For me, all of this is to be celebrated.

At the same time, the reality of adoption means that while I gained an amazing family of experience, I lost my family of origin. I have learned that authentically celebrating who I am and the day I was born means honoring all of me (parts known and unknown) — doing this can be emotional and enlightening all at once. Being born to one family but raised by another can be difficult to balance. This becomes especially poignant around my birthday when thinking about my origins and what happened before I was adopted.

Over time, exploring my identity has become something I value greatly. It comes with challenges, complexities and countless rewards and doing it takes courage. As a child on the surface, I knew exactly who I was. I was April Dinwoodie — daughter of Tom and Sandi, sister to Tad, Jim and Dawn, and friend to Becky and Lori. I loved gymnastics, being a Girl Scout, going to the beach, goofing off with my brothers and singing into hairbrushes with my sister. When pressed (usually by strangers who wanted to know who I really was and where I came from because I was brown and my family was white), I would tell them that Elizabeth Montgomery from “Bewitched” and Harry Belafonte, were my parents but they were too busy in showbiz to raise me so I ended up with the Dinwoodies. It made perfect sense to me. The two of them — one being white and the other black — could have totally created me and my brown skin (which I loved) and fuzzy hair (which I did not). This explanation usually garnered a chuckle or a bewildered expression from the nosy person asking what I always felt was an inappropriate question. I wondered why I had to explain my existence to strangers.

As a child, I was surrounded by love on my birthday. As I was celebrated, I also wondered if the woman who gave birth to me was celebrating me too.

As a teenager, I knew who I was. I was April Dinwoodie — still daughter of Tom and Sandi, still sister to Tad, Jim and Dawn, now aunt to Malena, Thomas, Albert and Mackenzie and with more friends than I could count. My love of gymnastics became a love for cheerleading and with that came a love of football. I started to wonder if my fantasy of the perfect showbiz couple being my biological parents could actually be true. Having seen a bit of the country outside of our small town, I wondered if people I passed by that resembled me were my relatives. I wondered if they would recognize me and if I would know them for sure when I saw them. Would we both just keep on walking? I began to understand that my brown skin (which I still loved) and fuzzy hair (which I still did not) made me a person of mixed race or biracial or mulatto. I was also being a typical teenager, rejecting authority, questioning every rule and pushing parental buttons any way I could. It was certainly normal teenage behavior but there was extra and I was sure my “real” parents would totally understand me. I think back on this now and I cringe.

As a teenager, I was surrounded by love on my birthday. As I celebrated, I also wondered if my biological mother would let me stay out late and do what I wanted without restriction. I knew who I was but did I really?

As a young adult, I knew who I was. I was April Dinwoodie — still daughter of Tom and Sandi, still sister to Tad, Jim and Dawn, aunt to Malena, Thomas, Albert, Mackenzie and now Michon, Kyle and Cooper and with college friends. My love of gymnastics turned into a college job teaching gymnastics. My world expanded in ways I could not have imagined. Being away from home was exciting and excruciating. I put on a game face but leaving home was one of the hardest things I ever did. I knew I was going to college and wanted to go but I remember asking myself who would leave their home and family on purpose? And as ridiculous as it sounds, I always wondered if they’d be there when I came back. I still very much loved my brown skin and was beginning to like my hair. I was becoming keenly aware of my identity as a person of color, and with that, becoming keenly aware of what that meant in my family and in the world. Around this time, I also started going to the doctor on my own. And each year for my regular physical I was asked the same questions about my family medical history and every time I would have to tell them I was adopted and not allowed to know it.

As a young adult, I was surrounded by love on my birthday. As I celebrated, I also wondered how crazy it would be if I already came in contact with a member of my biological family and had no clue. I knew who I was but did I really?

As an adult, I knew who I was. I was April Dinwoodie — still daughter of Tom and Sandi, still sister to Tad, Jim and Dawn, aunt to Malena, Thomas, Albert, Mackenzie, Michon, Kyle and Cooper and with grown-up, professional friends. I was serious. I was working. I knew I wanted to be successful. I was beginning to think I needed to find answers about the parts of me I did not know. I asked some questions and my mom and dad gave me information and all the paperwork they had and their blessing. And with that, I set the wheels of my search in motion. It was 2001. I requested and received my non-identifying information. I realized my name at birth was June Elizabeth. I realized my biological mother was not likely Elizabeth Montgomery. I had half-siblings, grandparents, uncles, and with that likely aunts and cousins. I had a biological father. I wanted to know more. I wanted to see them. I wanted to know them.

As an adult, I was surrounded by love on my birthday. As I celebrated, I also wondered if the wheels I set in motion would turn up anything more than non-identifying information. I wondered if the non-identifying information was really the truth. I began to wonder if I’d ever really know the truth. I knew who I was and I was on a path to knowing even more.

My search did turn up more. I figured out where I was born and wrote a very benign request to the records department. It was a long shot.

I was not supposed to receive my records but I did. The envelope arrived full of facts. I combed through all of it. For the first time as an adult, I knew the time I was born and how much I weighed. I knew my biological grandmother’s name and the names of my half-siblings. I knew my birth mother’s age and her blood type. I got hints to her health history. I knew when she arrived at the hospital to give birth to me and when she was discharged without me. I left three days later and was placed in temporary foster care. This information was incredible to process. It was a lot — especially the part about her leaving and me staying.

My search has gone on for many, many years. With each layer that I uncover, I learn more and more about my adoption, my identity and my families. I have learned that I could never have the courage to search without the unconditional love of my family. I have learned that searching for answers and connections to my birth family does not mean I do not love my adoptive family or that I want to replace them. My adoption experience does not have to be either/or. It can be both and I believe there are never too many people to love or to love me. I have also learned that I give myself a gift every time I am brave enough to open another door — no matter what I find. For me, knowing is better than not knowing.

This year as I celebrate another year upon the planet, I honor the fact that my life began when I was born to Helen and my life was made beautiful and rich when I was adopted by Tom and Sandi. I marvel at unique opportunities to explore the pieces and parts (known and unknown) that make me who I am. I accept the amazing parts, the painful parts and the unbelievable parts — all of the parts. I love my brown skin and embrace the significance of what it means to be a person of color and I am happy to say, I absolutely love my curly hair. I was born. I am adopted. I honor these realities with love, respect and without regret or shame. Happy Birthday to me!

Click here to learn more about April Dinwoodie’s adoption journey and experience in her “Born In June Raised In April” audio podcast on iTunes.