Hello Blogville friends! Welcome back, it is so nice to see you. This morning I am drinking a hibiscus tea as I write to you. My last blog of 2025! As an adopted person I feel it is important to continue to open up a dialogue about adoption topics (and sometimes other topics too) that impact on so many of us, so you will hear from me again in 2026! 

As you may have heard, within adoption, trauma and grief exists. Theirs, theirs, and yours. The birth parents’ grief, the adoptive parents’ grief, and the birth child’s grief. Plus, we all experience trauma as well. When life does not go as planned or expected, it is traumatic and we grieve what could, should, or might have been. Our lives are filled with ‘what if’s’. 

For those of you who grieve as birth parents:
If you were one of those birth parents who conceived ‘inconveniently’, remember the awful things people said to you, or about you? 
First they judged your sexual activity. Then they judged your choice to ‘bring shame to your family’ by walking around the community obviously pregnant. Conversely they judged you for going away to a home for unwed mothers, not even considering your grief at the loss of your support system. That was, for most birth mothers, traumatic. 

Later, they judged you for relinquishing your parental rights, while ironically, they would have also judged you for choosing to be a single parent. All through these judgmental times you were likely grieving your ‘reputation’. Interestingly, there appeared to be very little judgement toward the birth fathers. After all, ‘boys will be boys’ right? They were 50% a parent to that child but without the stretch marks, and likely little or no grief. 

You were unaware that one day your birth child would be judged for grieving the loss of you. They would feel grief when they understood what you went through to give them life. People expect anger from relinquished birth children toward their birth parent(s), not empathy, and they find your birth child’s grief confusing. 

For those of you who grieve that you  could not conceive:
Remember the awful things people said to you about your plan to adopt?Remember hearing them voice their pity behind your back, or even to your face, that you could not conceive a child of ‘your own’? They did not know how you may have grieved having to choose adoption as an option to raising children. 

Remember their horror stories about ‘failed adoptions’ and other ridiculous preconceived notions about ‘bad blood’. You did not know how much your family and your adopted child or children would be judged too. 

For those who fostered and then  adopted:
Society is divided about judging you; you are either heroes or gullible. Some people see your adoption of a child who happened to be placed with you as heroic. That you would adopt a child whose birth parents know who and where you are seems so brave to others. 

No one sees you grieving with the child while you offer them a permanency plan.

Others see you as being taken advantage of by the Child Protection staff. They worry that you haven’t thought this through and that the ‘real’ family might interfere, or worse, one day come back for the child. 

For those who fostered TO adopt: Maybe you too could not conceive and people’s pity turned to judgement at this decision. They thought that fostering meant that you were ‘trying out’ children before offering permanency. 

People were dumbfounded at the idea that the child’s ‘real’ family would know who and where you are; like adoption should be more like a game of hide and seek than teamwork.

I believe you grieved for the child and their birth family’s inability to safely reunite before offering permanency. I think you see yourself as a part of a child’s life team, offering permanency when their birth family members cannot. I do not think you see yourself as a replacement. 

Trauma and grief are a huge part of adoption because adoption always involves loss. How a family grows through adoption reminds me of a new little green leaf pushing through the spring layers of earth and the winter debris to reach nourishment. The odds of that little green shoot surviving are multiplied by the nutrients that surround it. 

Recognizing that trauma and grief are a part of the adoption process and learning how identity and talk about it as a family is very healing. I know you will find the words, just look inside your heart. 

Thank you so much for visiting with me today. I so enjoy your company and I hope you enjoy my stories. As always, feel free to comment here or send me an e-mail at [email protected]. Don’t  forget, follow me on Goodreads so you can be one of the first to get new blog post notifications. See you next time. 

Hello Blogville friends! Welcome back, it is so nice to see you. This morning I am drinking a ginger green tea as I write to you. As an adopted person I feel it is important to open up a dialogue about adoption topics (and sometimes other topics too) that impact on so many of us. 


I also hope that adoptive parents read my blogs so they can talk with their children about tough things and help them know that their feelings about having been adopted, and having been freed for adoption, are normal and that they can, and should, talk about them without feeling guilty. 


I have been thinking a lot lately about what my birth mother might have done differently that may have made my journey a little easier. I began to wonder what a difference it might have made if she had left me a letter. I wonder what she might have written in that letter to me.


What if she had left me a letter explaining why she was leaving me behind? Would that have helped me feel less worthless? Maybe if she explained why she felt that she had to give me up, or whether or not it was fully her decision, maybe I would have felt less like an inconvenience, or a mistake that had to be corrected? 


What if she had left me a letter telling me about herself, what her dreams were, and how keeping me was simply not an option? Maybe I would have felt less disposable. Instead, I could have grown up knowing whether I was like her in any way. Knowing I was like her even the smallest way might have comforted me when I felt alone. Honestly, you really can miss someone you never even knew.


I wish she would have left information about her relationship with my birth father, or even just what he looked like and the kind of person he was. I always wondered if he loved her and was kind to her. It would have meant a lot to know if he knew about me, and if he cared. It would have been important to know if he had agreed that I was not worth keeping.


In her letter she could have offered her rationale for having to leave me behind, sparing me a lifetime of wondering what was so wrong with me that my own mother did not want me. You can see how that can leave an impact on a child, even as that child grows into an adult. Perhaps I may have found some peace in  knowing that it was her hopes for her own future that drove her decision instead of some act I had committed in utero.


Maybe even just  knowing how she felt being pregnant with me and what her labour and my delivery had been like would have brought me some peace. I know how much my children enjoyed hearing about the day they were born. I would like to have known that too. Did I cry when I was born? Did she hold me and look me in the eyes before they took away. Did she speak words of explanation that I may not have understood, but I surely would have stored on some cellular level. 


In her letter she could have told me if she would think of me on my birthday each year, and if she would miss me, even a little bit. Maybe I would not have been so sad on my birthday, wondering if she missed me and was thinking of me too. In her letter she could have told me what she named me when I was born and what, if anything, the name(s) meant to her. Then I would have known what name she used when she thought about me. I cannot imagine that she went through life without ever thinking about me. I hope I mattered more than that.


In her letter she could have told me if she planned to come and find me one day. Maybe I would not have been wondering if she was secretly in the audience when I was in a school play, or when I would perform on stage as a ventriloquist. I often wished she would have left a letter telling me if there were any ventriloquists in her family, besides me that is, because maybe I got that talent from her. Or she could have told me about other talents in her family. I might have had more confidence to try new things if I had known what some of my birth relatives were good at. 


In her letter she could have told me it was ok for me to be raised by other parents and to belong to another family, and that by choosing an adoption plan she actually wished this for me. Maybe I would not have felt disloyal for really loving the family that chose me. Somehow, I think it would have been easier if she had given her permission for me to love my adoptive family.


It hurts my heart when I think about how she never left word in a letter that I had a half-sister who was also signed away, left behind in our birth mother’s quest for happiness. I think it may have helped to know that there was someone just like me out in the world and that I was not alone. Maybe my sister and I could have found each other sooner.


In her letter she could have prepared me for the future. She could have told me not to look for her, that she planned to get married and raise a family one day when she was ready, and that I would not be welcome. She could have warned me that when she would be offered the chance to meet me one day, she would say no. I might have been better prepared, or at least have been somewhat prepared. I never expected her to say no, or that she was capable of abandoning me twice.


In her letter she could have told me that she did not plan to tell her future children about me, and that to one day meet and introduce me to them would somehow sully her reputation as their parent. In her letter she could have told me she was afraid of altering who she was and what her children might think of her. I wish she would have known that one day when I actually met them they would welcome me and her other birth daughter with open arms as their sisters, their mother’s other daughters. That might have brought her some peace.


I wonder if my parents had had a letter to share with me, if it would have helped them to answer my endless questions about my birth mother? Well, it could not have hurt, that is for sure. Finally, I wonder if knowing whether or not she cared about me and hoped that I would be loved and happy in another family would have helped make my existence feel less accidental, or knowing that she had held me in her arms, even once, would have made me feel, well, less disposable. I wish she would have left me a letter.


Thank you so much for visiting with me today. I so enjoy your company and I hope you enjoy or at least benefit in some way from my thoughts. As always, feel free to comment here or send me an e-mail at [email protected]. Also, you follow me on Goodreads to be one of the first to get new blog post notifications. See you next time. 

Hello my Blogville friends, thank you for coming back to visit.  Today I am seeking solace in a cup of peppermint  tea as I write. I want you to know that I blog as an adult adopted person so that others do not feel as alone as I have felt for most of my life. I always thought I was the only one who felt like I did at times in my life, abandoned and different from the ‘norm’, like an intruder. I now know there are other adopted persons who felt/feel the same.


For me, I often felt and sometimes still feel like an intruder. Like I was not, or am not, supposed to be here. There are days that I feel like I should apologize for simply existing. Therefore I understand when my friends make plans that don’t include me as I am not worthy of their friendship, and when they do include me I feel grateful, but often feel like an intruder. 


After all I intruded on my birth mother’s plans by existing in her womb. Unlike being an unwed mother today, in the 1950s it was a shameful predicament. By virtue of simply existing I was intruding on her reputation and her immediate life plans. By choosing an adoption plan for me, she ensured that I did not intrude on her future plans; which were apparently to find a man, marry him, and settle down to raise a family. She had plans to have, and raise, ‘legitimate’ children. I had intruded on those plans but it turns out I had simply delayed them. My birth mother met and married her husband within 2 years of my birth and she had her first legitimate daughter about a year after she married.


Being an intruder has plagued me most of my life. I always knew that I had been adopted and that my parents had always wanted me. I feel like the only time I did not feel like an intruder was with my parents and my grandmothers. I was just Eddy and Leona’s daughter. There was no special treatment, especially with my mother’s mother. I think I have mentioned before that my maternal cousin’s parents had separated and my grandmother felt so sorry for her that she made sure my cousin didn’t have to do dishes or other chores. Apparently having your parents separate was more of an anomaly than becoming a family member through adoption. That acceptance was worth more than gold. I would rather have done all the dishes than feel like an intruder in my grandmother’s eyes.


In hindsight, having been adopted may have been what stopped me from forming many friendships when I was growing up. Somewhere deep inside I was never sure if my birth mother might come for me, that maybe this whole adoption thing was a huge misunderstanding, and I might have to leave with her. I spent a lot of time feeling like an intruder in my own life while waiting for my birth mother to show up and claim me. It’s funny how my birth father never entered my mind in terms of coming to claim me. Society had led me to believe that he probably did not even know I existed. That speaks volumes about my adolescent view of birth fathers; as innocent victims of the adoption process.


School activities related to family such as genograms and family trees were challenging, as were biology classes related to genetics. I always felt like an intruder in those classes, like I did not belong because I did not have the information needed for our homework assignments. I was caught between needing information and not wanting to hurt my parents by asking them questions I knew they could not answer. I did the only thing I knew to do, I made stuff up. I would rather be found out as a liar than as an intruder with no genetic or biological family information.


As an adopted person I also felt that I might have to leave my family at any time. I lived in fear (and hope at times) that my birth parents would simply come and get me. I felt like I was an intruder in my own family, so you can imagine what my friendships were like. Sometimes, I still feel like an intruder when it comes to friendships. It is funny how I expect to be left behind but yet I am mortified when it happens. When I was a child, if I got invited to a sleepover or a birthday party I always felt that the child’s parents had made them invite me as I could not believe they truly wanted me to be there. If a friend invited just me for a sleepover it would always be a lot of fun but if there even just one more guest I felt like I was intruding on their fun. I always took it personally if I saw my friends with other friends; acknowledging my worthlessness.


I would love to say that I outgrew this but sadly, it still plagues me. I often feel that I am invited to things because people feel they have to ask me. Socializing with groups of friends I often feel that they really just want my husband there but, obviously, had to include me. I often still feel like an intruder.


As an intruder I always feel obliged to make people comfortable with their decision to include me so I always bring along my sense of humour. Even on my worst days people can count on me to lighten the mood or make them laugh. It is my desperate attempt to feel included, wanted, even liked. To feel less like an intruder, even for a few minutes. 


When I was young I can remember wondering why my parents kept me. This was especially strong when I was being consequenced for some childhood behaviour. Unlike birth children, I always felt like there was some kind of return policy and I can remember the panicked feeling when I was in trouble. It felt like maybe mom and dad realized that I was just an intruder and might send me back.


Apparently without adoption papers, friends do not have the same obligation as family and can simply walk away. I often feel that, as an intruder, my friendship privileges could be, and have at times, been revoked; it makes for a great deal of insecurity. 


However, as an adopted person, I have come to accept the threat of further loss in my life. I feel that, if my own birth parent(s) did not want me intruding in their lives, I really cannot expect more from family and friends can I? 


This is why I am so grateful for the people who choose to love me, the people who truly like spending time with me. They are the people who make me feel like I belong, and that I am not intruding. I love you more. ❤️


Thank you for visiting with me today. Your comments are most welcome here or by email at [email protected]

Hi everyone! Welcome back to Blogville, I’m so glad you can join me. I am sipping on a Honey Lemon tea as I write to you today. I am stepping away from the adoption theme today as the last few days, here in Northern Ontario, have been weather challenging to say the least. But we Northerners are a unique breed of people and when it comes to winter preparedness, we definitely have our priorities.


First, came the rain. We Northerners could not believe our eyes. Rain? In November? We were surfing the internet and texting each other to see if what we were seeing was correct. There were already a few centimetres of snow on the ground, and then rain, in November. What will we do if it changes to snow we asked each other. ‘Don’t worry, we’re Northerners!’, was the usual reply. Well, the snow came again, right on the heels of that rain. It was only 0 degrees yesterday we assured ourselves, not really cold enough to snow. . .right? Until we got dumped on, confirming that we were wrong.


Hubby and I decided to venture out for a late breakfast before heading to the store for some grocery shopping and I swear that what I’m about to share with you is true. The first challenge was clearing off the car, freeing it from the ice and snow;. The next challenge was getting the doors to open given the ice covered state of the door handles. We were grateful that the days of needing to use a key in the door handle were behind us but trying to clear the ice enough to push the unlock button proved just as challenging. 


We ran (as fast as people in their 60s can run) into the restaurant through the pouring rain. We shook our coats off in the foyer and were seated in a window booth. As we enjoyed our poached eggs and toast we watched the rain slowly stop and the sky open up to release. . .you guessed it, SNOW! The restaurant owner was walking from table to table asking people to be really careful out in the parking lot as it was icing over (and it is sloped). We could hear people congratulating themselves for thinking to bring or wear their clamp-ons (essentially boot grippers for snow and ice) as my husband and I looked down at our summer shoes. 


Realizing we were about to star in our own ‘Ice Capades’ clown performance we left the restaurant and made our way to our vehicle in the parking lot. We are pretty sure those clamp-on owners were actually smiling as they watched our performance. Cartoon versions of ourselves weaved, bobbed, and waddled across the sheets of ice toward our vehicle, holding hands (as we were in this together)! I was laughing hysterically at our performance on the unexpected icy surface. Incredibly, we actually made it without hitting the ice covered surface with anything but our shoes! I could almost hear the applause of the restaurant patrons who witnessed our performance as we got into our vehicle. 


There was a part of us that knew the clamp-on owners in the restaurant who weren’t watching our Ice Capade performance were instead on their phones searching the Ministry of Transportation’s website to find out what the earliest possible date is that they are allowed to put chains on their vehicle tires. I bet if you look at the date and looked up the top website searches on that date you would find MTO and the weather channel tied for first place. I’m pretty sure that calls for winter tire sales and/or installation appointments increased a hundred percent that day. Note that those same winter tires that had been on sale in May and October were either back to regular price or even a higher price effective that first snowfall day. 


Speaking of shopping, all those winter shovels, scoops, salt/sand mixes that shoppers walked past (in denial) for the last few months were now hot commodities. Within hours of the first snowflake hitting the dirt those items were flying off the shelves and landing in shopping carts right beside toques, mittens, and scarves. Looking for snow related items would be like searching for hen’s teeth within hours of the first snowfall. People would then drop their purchases in their entranceways while they ran out to sweep snow off of their barbecues, kiddie pools, and large pool covers. An unexpected snowfall draws Northerners out to protect their summer outdoor toys like a drip of honey on the sidewalk draws out ants. 


Northerners have their priorities though. First, does the driver’s side window open? This is a priority. This window is the portal to an overwhelmingly popular activity known as the Drive Thru! Imagine not being able to order your hot beverage, or hot meal, while remaining in the comfort of your snow-cleared vehicle because you forgot to ensure that the window would open. The worst part? You are already in the queue with cars ahead of, and behind you. Is this the day you will have to wait in line, ignore the repeated sound of “may I take your order” as you sheepishly drive past the order box and then wave sadly to the staff member looking quizzically at you literally ‘driving through’ and leaving without making a purchase?  Or, if you are quick, maybe you can jump out with a credit card that you can shove down between the vehicle chassis and the window glass until you hear the distinctive ‘pop’ when the ice releases the glass so you can drive ahead and place your order. Another approach I have seen is opening the back window and having the back seat passenger make the order, pay, and take in the order, all from a back window. I have also seen vehicles drive a little forward, past the restaurant window, and then open the driver’s door just enough to pay for and grab the order. We are a creative bunch who live in Northern Ontario. Visitors are always welcome!


Thank you for stopping by Blogville today my friends. As always, I love to hear from you with your comments about today’s blog. If you prefer a more private communication, please feel free to email me at [email protected] ‘See’ you next time, take care of each other.

Welcome back to Blogville friends, will you join me in a green tea as you read today’s blog post? I’m so glad you are here. 


Let’s start with a question for adoptive parents. When you notice your child examining your face, do you assume that they are examining your face and imagining what their birth parent’s face might look like? 


I suggest that you not assume they are looking at the differences between your face and theirs. They may actually be looking for the similarities. Remember, even children of a different culture than yours typically have two ears and two eyes, a nose, a mouth, a forehead, cheeks, and a chin, just like you do. These features may look very different or very much the same as yours. Instead of assuming, I suggest asking your child to identify what is the same between the two of you, and what is different. 


If a child has dark skin and you are very pale-skinned, they are going to notice. Talk with them about the differences in your skin. After all, their brown eyes and your blue eyes are different for a reason, their hair may also differ from yours, along with their body type, height and weight. These differences exist because they have been adopted. Talk about that. 


Your child will recognize and identify your face simply because it is the face of their parent; the parent who tucks them in, reads them books, tells them “no”, and takes care of them. Is that not the most important recognition? Sure, they may wonder why their face is different from yours (if it is), but parenting is not about looking the same as each other, it is more about being recognized and identified as their parent. 


Children may look more like their birth parents, especially in the case of cross cultural adoptions, but when they look at your face, they know. They can see who you are, and more importantly, who you are to them. Even children who maintain contact with their birth family members know who their parenting parents are. Most children at one time or another fling angry words at their adoptive parents when they never, or rarely, do this with their birth parents. This usually happens simply because they know they can risk sharing their frustrations and feelings with you, and that, no matter what, you will still be there for them. 


I remember first as a child, and then later as a youth, always being physically compared to someone in my adoptive family. Mom would say that I was tall like my dad, or like her mother. My dad would simply say I was tall for my age, then, without thinking it through, would sometimes say I looked like a ‘hockey stick with hair on it’. Yeah, go ahead and cringe, I know I did. 


My dad tried to navigate uncomfortable things with humour. My mom, I think, was just trying to make me feel like I belonged. I think she truly believed that if I thought I looked like someone in my adoptive family, I would not try to shake my birth family tree for resemblances. After all, I wouldn’t have to if I felt like I really belonged, really ‘matched’ my adoptive family.


How I remember it is just having a strong sense of wonder. I would wonder if I looked more like my birth mother or my birth father. I wondered if I passed them on the street, whether or not I would recognize them. I would look with interest at people in my school who looked even the slightest bit like me and wonder. Did their mother have a baby before them with another man? Did their father make someone else pregnant before he met their mother? Could they be a half-sibling to me, or maybe even a full sibling? This wondering had nothing to do with loving my adoptive parents and everything to do with simple curiosity. 


So many adopted persons today are spared that wondering. They may have actual pictures of their birth parents and other birth relatives in a life book that was gifted to them in the adoption process. They may have contact with birth relatives with whom they can compare their likenesses and differences. I think that it would have been pretty neat if that could have happened for me. Who I looked like may have helped me see into my future. 


When you are young the following questions can matter a great deal:
Will I be tall, or slender? Should I consider athletics? Will I get bad acne in adolescence? What changes can I expect in my body as I grow into an adult? These are just some of the  many things I was left wondering about because I had been adopted. 


That being said, I never had to wonder about the faces of my adoptive parents. I knew the shape of their faces by heart because I saw them every day as they parented me and helped me navigate through life. I knew the colour of their eyes, how they darkened when I misbehaved, and how they lit up with pride at my accomplishments. I knew that my dad was tall, and strong enough to carry me on his shoulders and that the world looked very far down when he did. I knew that my mother’s arms fit around me just right and that her sleeve always seemed to have a tissue there for when my heart was breaking. I knew that I was fair-haired while both of them were dark-haired but my mother often jokingly warned that their hair would get lighter as it turned grey from worrying about me. ‘No one knows a woman’s true hair colour anyway’ my dad would say. 


I would know their hands anywhere; I ran from them when I had misbehaved and I ran to them when I needed help. My dad’s hand and fingers often gripped a pencil tighter and tighter as he tried to get me to understand math, an ongoing exercise in futility. My mother’s hands were always busy creating sweaters, hats, and scarves; or her fingers deftly running the Singer sewing machine to create pants long enough for me so I didn’t look like I was ‘expecting a flood’. 


When I looked at my parents, all I saw was love. It never mattered to them that I was born to other people, I was theirs. It was their responsibility to turn me into a productive and kind human being. They took on that responsibility through paperwork, not labour and delivery, but they took that commitment very seriously. 


As an adult, through changes to adoption disclosure laws, I got to know the faces of my birth parents. I got to know the faces of my birth half-siblings. This information did fill in some lifelong gaps for me. My birth father was a very tall man, with blue eyes. My own face is reflected in the photographs of my birth mother, uncannily so in fact. But when you talk to me about my mom or my dad it is not my birth parents’ faces I see, it is the faces of the two people who shaped me to be who I am today, my adoptive parents’ daughter.


Thanks for reading! As ever, I would love for you to share your comments. If you prefer a less public forum to do so please feel free to email me at [email protected]. See you next time.