Story of AC

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.