I am adopted.

That means a lot of things to a lot of different people.

For some, it is a painful transition from loss, abandonment, rejection, or death.

For others, it is a beautiful alternative to being barren – a miraculous gift when they have been trying for years and years to have their own children.

For even others it is a rescue – transportation from one country to another – a diverse melting pot that melds families together and teaches them the glorious art of unity.

I am often asked if I’ve met my “real mom.”

And I understand the intention, the curiosity, the need to know behind that question.

My birth mom was 16. She fearlessly gave me up so I could have a life she couldn’t provide. I am proud of her for making the tough decision to give me away. I’m sure it was painful – or even if it wasn’t, I am thankful she made the ultimate decision that would determine my precious future.

My adopted mom chose me. She held out her arms and cuddled me close, the process of adoption just as much a “birthing” process as my birth mom experienced. The pain may have been different, but it was certainly painful for both of them.

My birth mom physically birthed me.

My adopted mom struggled to find me, the child who would hold her heart, the girl she would raise. She prayed for me, longed for me, loved me. She walked through the intense pain of understanding how to be a mother. She stood strong amidst fear and failure, recognizing that neither were going to be her destiny.

My adopted mom emotionally birthed me.

She walked the road less taken and gave birth to a radical love that is just as pure, just as genuine, just as wild.

I have never felt rejected, abandoned, discarded, or lost.

I have never felt angry, confused, depressed, or estranged.

Of course, I have wondered, discussed, explored – but she has always answered my burning questions.

I didn’t know any different.

Not from my parents.

I never felt any different

Not from my parents.

We were a family.

My brother, also adopted, and I.

Of course, I took advantage as a kid and convinced my brother I was Russian and liked to create my own language…

…but it was all in fun.

Fun because I never felt like I didn’t belong.

Not from my parents.

The beauty of my adoption was that I felt…

Chosen.

My mom and dad – they chose me.

Out of all the baby girls in the world, I was the one they wanted.

No matter the circumstances of my birth,

no matter the story surrounding my birth mom,

no matter the pain, the struggle, the search…

I belonged to them.

And the minute I was placed in their arms,

I was chosen.

My sense of belonging, my joy in the moment, my purpose for living –

– it doesn’t depend on how I was born, who physically birthed me, the story of my origin.

What matters is my choice. The choice is that I matter. And it mattered, the choice she made, they made, I make, you make.

I can embrace who I am, adopted, chosen. I can embrace the emotional birth of me – the beauty of my chosen-ness.

When I met the love of my life, I found out he was adopted, too.

He felt chosen. His parents, every night, told him the story of two parents who were looking for a child. Who wanted a child to love. And then they found him. It was a gift. They chose him, emotionally birthed him. Loved him.

As he grew, he realized the nightly bedtime story was about him.

He was chosen, too.

We were two chosen kids who chose to love, chose to get married.

We had the first “natural born” kid – and none of us knew what to do with the physical birthing. It was all new.

But when she was born, we chose her. She was placed in my arms and I chose her. I still choose her.

To this day, my husband and I, adopted, chosen, we still choose each other. We choose our daughter. We choose to love.

Although I was able to physically birth her, I also had to emotionally birth her. I struggled to know her, the child who would hold my heart, the girl I would raise. I prayed for her, longed for her, loved her. I walked through the intense pain of understanding how to be a mother. I held her close and cuddled her, standing strong in the midst of fear and failure, recognizing neither would be my destiny.

I am adopted.

That means a lot of things to a lot of different people.

For some, it is a painful transition from loss, abandonment, rejection, or death.

For others, it is a beautiful alternative to being barren – a miraculous gift when they have been trying for years and years to have their own children.

For even others it is a rescue – transportation from one country to another – a diverse melting pot that melds families together and teaches them the glorious art of unity.

I am often asked if I’ve met my “real mom.”

And I understand the intention, the curiosity, the need to know behind that question.

But they are one and the same.

My adopted mom IS my real mom.

There is no one more REAL than her.

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Are you adopted? I would love to hear your story and be able to pray with you. Are you adoptive parents? I would love to dialogue with you about your story! Please leave a comment below!

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