Waking up one day to discover that the people I’ve always called mom and dad aren’t my biological parents—seeing adoption papers in my hands that I had no idea even existed—would shake me to my core. It’d feel like everything I thought I knew about my life was a lie, like the ground beneath my feet suddenly gave way. I’d stare at those papers, reading and rereading them, trying to process how this could possibly be real. “Is this some kind of mistake? How could this be true?” I’d ask myself over and over.
Image is mine
These are the people who loved me, took care of me when I was sick, cheered me on in my lowest moments, and celebrated all my wins. They were my world. And now, suddenly, I’d have to confront the fact that they aren’t the ones who brought me into this world.
Confusion, hurt, anger—all of that would come flooding in. I’d probably feel betrayed. Why didn’t they tell me? Were they keeping this from me out of fear that I wouldn’t love them anymore? Or maybe they thought I’d have a simpler, less complicated life if I never knew. All these questions would start spinning around in my head, and I wouldn’t have answers right away. The only thing I’d know for sure is that I would need to talk to them, to understand why they kept this from me.
And then, there’s this other layer of questions that would start to surface: Who are my biological parents? Where are they now? Why did they give me up? Do I have siblings out there? Have they ever thought about me? The curiosity would be overwhelming, but there would also be a sense of fear about what I might find if I went looking.
At the same time, I’d feel torn about the parents who raised me. Yes, they kept this secret from me, but they’ve been my real parents in every way that counts. I’d still love them, but I wouldn’t know how to reconcile that love with the confusion and maybe even resentment that would come with learning the truth.
The next step would be confronting them. I’d have to hear their side of the story. I can picture myself sitting down with them, adoption papers in hand, asking them why they never told me. I know it would be an emotional conversation, full of difficult truths. Maybe they had their reasons—maybe they thought it was the best thing for me. I’d want to understand, but I’m not sure if understanding would make me feel better or make things worse.
And then, I’d face the question of what to do next. Do I try to find my biological parents? Do I even want to? What if they’re not who I imagined them to be? What would meeting them do to my relationship with the parents who raised me?
In the end, I know that I’d have to take things one step at a time, allowing myself to feel everything without forcing myself to have all the answers right away. It would be an emotional journey, and I’d have to figure out what family truly means to me. Through all the confusion, I hope I’d find peace in knowing that the people who raised me did so out of love—even if there were things they kept hidden.