Adoption is often painted as a story of rescue, of love, of new beginnings. It’s wrapped in a narrative that centers the adoptive family as selfless saviors—and the child as someone who should feel grateful. But when that gratitude doesn’t come easily, or when an adoptee begins to question, they may find there’s a price to pay. Much of that price depends on what kind of adoptive parent they pulled from the adoption lottery.
But not every adoption story follows that script. If you’ve been around my blog or social media pages, then you know that mine didn’t. If you’re new here, I hope you’ll take time to explore more of my posts—and the truths many of us are still learning how to speak.
This is my story—raw, painful, and still unfolding. And while it is deeply personal, I know I’m not alone. Not every adoptee experiences this kind of harm. But even one adoptee carrying this story is one too many.
They say adoption is love. They say it’s a beautiful story. But that was never my truth. I wasn’t chosen—I was needed. Needed to make them look good. Needed to make them feel righteous. Needed to be the reason for their praise, their sympathy, their benefits. I was the token child, the charity case, the one they paraded when it suited them. They even created a story about my first parents and family—one carefully crafted to cast themselves in a better light. They told it not only to me, but to others, filling it with just enough emotional detail and small lies to make it compelling. The goal was never to help me understand where I came from—it was to generate more compassion for them, not for me. I learned early that I was “good” when I stayed quiet, when I smiled on command, when I fed their hunger for attention. But I was never safe. Never truly cared for. Never loved beyond the performance. The moment I said no— the moment I stood up— I became disposable. Because it was never about me. It was always about them.
Now, as an adult, my pain is still their currency. The lies they weave about who I am, the story they continue to tell about me, still serves their image. It still gains them sympathy. It still centers them. They rob me of relationships I try to build. They twist the way others see me, strategically offering ultimatums and incentives to keep people away—to keep me isolated. And always, the story is told in a way that keeps me cast as the villain. The difficult one. The ungrateful one. The one who “burned the family to the ground.” The one who “poisoned minds” and “turned others against the family.” The one responsible for the “spiritual attack.” It doesn’t matter how calm, how distant, or how quiet I try to be—my very existence outside their control is framed as destruction. Even when I try to do good from a distance, even when I maintain no contact, my healing becomes their punishment. Because they didn’t get their way. Because I refused to play the role.
And the truth is, it’s sick. It’s twisted. And it continues to poison every corner of my life—no matter how much I try to stop it. My peace, my distance, my effort to heal— all of it becomes fuel for them to hurt me more. Because peace means they’ve lost control. And rather than face the shame, rather than take responsibility, rather than admit the harm they caused that led to estrangement, they lash out from the shadows. They rewrite the story. They would rather live in a lie than sit with what they did.
And that… is sickness. A sickness disguised as adoption. Sanitized by society. Sheltered under the illusion of family. Guided by religion and righteous faith, this sickness is often protected rather than challenged—wrapped in scripture, shielded by church communities, and weaponized to silence the very children it proposed to save. Not every adoptee suffers this kind of abuse, but I’m not the only one who has. And one adoptee enduring this kind of harm is already one too many.
The system says it’s about the child. But it protects the image of the adoptive parents. It silences the truth when that truth makes people uncomfortable. And it allows harm to continue—unchallenged, unaccounted for. The story doesn’t end, because my adoptive parents can’t change. Won’t change. And the system lets them stay exactly the same.
This is my story. But I know I’m not alone. To the adoptees who see themselves in these words: what happened to you was real. Your feelings are valid. Your boundaries are justified. You didn’t imagine it, exaggerate it, or ask for it. You are not alone in this. There is nothing wrong with you for recognizing the harm and choosing to step away from it.
To those listening—adoptive parents, professionals, allies—sit with the discomfort. Listen without defending. Because love without safety, without truth, without accountability—is not love at all.
Adoptee LIT 