I was adopted when I was eleven months old from Almaty, Kazakhstan. Almaty, formerly the capital, is Kazakhstan’s most populated city. Kazakhstan is the home of apple trees and sweet coffee. It is the home of unpredictable weather (much like Ohio) and ski resorts. It is the home of wild horses and fermented horse milk (the country’s national drink). It is the home of 1.7 million individuals and it is, more than likely, the home of my biological father and mother.
Growing up, I was always aware that I was adopted. Perhaps it was the striking differences in complexions between my adopted parents (white) and I (asian) that gave it away, but it was a knowledge that I have possessed for as long as I can remember. It was a part of me that was consistently acknowledged…and it was a part of me that I did not know.
In school, family history projects made me anxious and I felt like a fraud for posing as (what felt like) the biological child of my adopted parents. I liked learning about the family history of my adopted parents’ but I longed for my own. I never liked going to doctors appointments. I used to think that it was because needles made me queasy, but, in all honesty, I think that I despised them because of the lack of medical backgrounds in my biological family line. I didn’t like to constantly put “unknown” on medical papers. It made me feel incomplete…like there was something missing in me.
I was around the age of twelve when I genuinely began to understand what adoption meant. From the ages of twelve to fifteen, maybe even sixteen, I went through times where I “distanced” myself from my history and times where I ate it up. At that time in my life (early teens), adoption brought negative emotions to the surface. Adoption meant heartache and it contained countless questions that would never get answered; it meant confusion and tears. It meant inadequacy and disappointment. In recent years, however, I have learned that adoption ultimately means love. It is, essentially, restoration. I believe that adoption is an anecdote for situations filled with brokenness and pain. It is, beauty that arises from ashes.
The truth of the matter is that I may never get my questions answered. I may never know why I was given up for adoption or why my birth mother chose to carry me for nine months and then let me go. I may never know if I have biological siblings, if they have been given up for adoption too, or if they know about me. I may never know if my birth mother regrets giving me up, or if she thinks about me as much as I think about her. I have finally come to a place in my life where I accept this. My worth, the very essence of who I am, does not rest on this. It rests solely on Christ and on the story of redemption that He has so graciously given me. Perhaps on day, when I am called home to Heaven and surrounded in His glory, my answers will come. Perhaps, one day, I will come face to face with my mother and she will give me the answers herself. Even if the answers do not come, my hope still remains in Christ because time has not healed me, Christ has. He’s made my heart softer and has given me peace. I am, first and foremost, His daughter before I am anyone else’s.
Throughout my adoption journey, I have truly come to realize what family is. There comes a time in life where you choose who your family is. You choose to make the conscious choice to love them, to live with them, to laugh with them. I have chosen my adopted family in the same way that they have chosen me. I love them as they love me. Our family is whole and beautiful and we are one. I will never be able to repay my parents for what they have done. I will never be able to express my gratitude. Words, it seems, are not enough. If not for them, I would not know people like Emily Reutener and Rhyan Pater who are so full of love and kindness. I would not know teachers like Mrs. Perry and Mr. Miller who are so full of encouragement and wisdom and who push me to become a better version of myself. I would not know, or have experienced, every little moment that has made my life oh so beautiful. No, words are not enough. For them, I would lasso the sun.
My story is not perfect and, chances are, it will never be. It is not immaculate or white as snow. It contains blemishes. It has flaws and heartache, but it is these spots of imperfection that make it complete. I’ve thought a lot about the what-ifs. What if my birth mother had not given me up for adoption. What if my adopted parents did not adopt me. What if, what if, what if. I don’t like what-ifs. They make you doubt. They make you insecure. If it was done again, if my story was restarted with a blank slate, I wouldn’t want it to be any different. I wouldn’t change a thing. I’d welcome the heartache, the doubts, the fears….I’d welcome it all because from them I have learned to cry. I have learned to scream, to laugh, to feel, and – most importantly – I have learned to love. My story has made me who I am and it has shaped me to be the sentimental and strong-willed woman that I am today. I am grateful for what I have experienced for, through it, I have come to Christ.
UPDATE
Wow! The Lord has been so faithful in his provision for my missions trip. I currently have $2,010 raised! We’re almost halfway there! Thank you to everyone who has helped support me so far! I am so grateful! I can‘t wait to see what God continues to do!
