Adopted

Adopted.
For 27 years, that word didn't mean a lot to me. It was more of a word of defense when people gave me weird looks or asked probing questions. I used that word to cut off a series of awkwardly posed questions from people trying to figure out my identity.
"So...are those your...parents?"
"Where are you from?"
"Are you Chinese?"
"Where did you grow up?"
"Do you speak Korean?"

"I'm adopted" made people go, "Ohhhhhhhh, ok," like they were relieved to solve whatever dissonance I was creating for them.

Another reason the word didn't mean a lot to me was that my adoptive parents are my parents. Adoption was something that happened a long time ago that was just a part of making my family become my family. It is the only form of family I know.

Every adoptee has a different perspective on their adoption. I am a little woo-woo about the whole thing and I believe everything happens for a reason. The universe takes care of itself, and we are a part of the universe. With an open heart and an open mind, we learn, love, and grow in the place we're meant to be surrounded by the people we're meant to be with.

My mother's father passed away when she was a teenager (similarly, my adoption paperwork says the same happened to my birth mother). My mom believes that her father sent me to her, which I like to imagine too.

I have no anger or resentment about being adopted. I grew up in a great small town in Upstate New York with two amazing parents who have been married 41 years, a close group of friends, and a great education.

However, I am now realizing that being adopted has had a very serious impact on my life, my identity, and my relationships with others that I only began to understand a year ago.

In less than 2 weeks, I am going back to Korea for the first time since being adopted at 4 months old.