Story of AC

I see a lot of posts asking, “Should I look for my birth parents?” so I wanted to share the side you don’t hear as much: the side of someone who hasn’t gone searching. Not because I never wondered. But because of what I was told, and who I was trying to protect. Growing Up With Other People’s Stories My view of my biological family didn’t start with my own memories. It started with what I heard. I had a biological brother who carried his own hurts and opinions about our famil

When people hear “adoption,” they often default to one of two extremes: the heartwarming rescue story or the tragic trauma story. Neither extreme fully fits my reality. My adoptive family did give me stability, love, and opportunities, and I am grateful for that. But adoption also started with loss: the loss of my first family, my first name or story, and a piece of my identity I had to fight hard to understand later. Both of these truths exist together. I can appreciate the

I don’t remember the exact moment I understood I was adopted. It wasn’t one big conversation or a single turning point. It was something that settled in over time. But what always stood out to me wasn’t just that I was adopted—it was that my story and my brother’s story started in the same place and then went in two different directions. We share the same blood. The same beginning. But we didn’t grow up in the same home. He was adopted by my foster parents, and I wasn’t. The

I was adopted in 1984. I’m 45 now, and I’ve had a lifetime to sit with what that really means. The story most people imagine about adoption is simple: a child needed a home, a family stepped in, and everything worked out. I understand why people like that version. It’s neat. It’s comforting. It’s just not the full picture. For me, adoption didn’t start with joy—it started with loss. I was too young to remember it, but that doesn’t mean it didn’t shape me. People often assume

I am not supposed to be here. According to the plans made for me before I was born, my life was meant to end in an abortion clinic. I was never meant to take a first breath, never meant to laugh, cry, or hear the name of Jesus. Yet here I am—alive, forgiven, and convinced from both Scripture and my own story that abortion is not “healthcare” or just a “choice.” It is the intentional killing of a human being made in the image of God. When I say abortion is murder, I am not tal

Family is not always something you’re born into. Sometimes, it’s something you’re given, something you grow into, and something you choose. As someone who is adopted, I’ve spent a lot of time thinking about what “family” really means. Growing up, I was aware that my story didn’t look like everyone else’s. There were questions, assumptions, and moments where people tried to define my experience using biology alone. But the truth is, love has never followed a strict definition.