I am adopted.
I never gave much thought to it growing up; it was just part of my identity. My brother, sister and I were all adopted through Catholic Charities in Louisville, Kentucky as infants in the late 1970s/early 1980s. One of my earliest memories was going to pick up my baby sister at the Catholic Charities office and seeing her throw up on the floor! I was only five at the time, but I remember bringing her home.
That was our “normal.” And to be honest, we were just like any other family. Looking back, I don’t think many of our friends ever even knew we were adopted. We rode our bikes around the neighborhood with everyone else, stayed outside until dark, swam at the neighborhood swim club in the summertime, and fought with each other just like normal siblings.
It was truly a wonderful childhood. I don’t think I understood until I sought out my birth family years later just how extraordinary it was, and even more so when I became an adoptive mother myself, how many things had to fall into place for the five of us to become a family.
When I was 22, I hired a private investigator to locate my birth mother. Back then, all adoptions were closed, meaning we had no way to access anything about ourselves. I imagine that those of you reading this who are not adopted have no idea what that feels like.
So, try this exercise: look in the mirror. Study your features. Try to guess what your biological parents look like, just by studying your own face. If you have never experienced this, it is nearly impossible to describe how it feels.
Another exercise: go to the doctor and fill out forms. When you get to the part that says: “family genetic history” with about twenty boxes to check, leave them all blank. Because—you have no idea.
I first met the woman who gave birth to me at the age of 22. It was the most surreal experience of my life. I had no idea who she was; she had no idea who I was. Yet, we looked alike, we sounded alike, we had similar personalities. That, however, was where the similarities ended.
She knew nothing of my childhood, or even what had happened to me after she gave birth. She said the nurse had held a sheet up as she was giving birth to her first child at the tender age of 16 so she wouldn’t know if I was a girl or a boy. Back then, the general consensus was that the mothers would “forget” I suppose; the less they knew, the better.
Then, a nurse brought me to her by mistake. She held me briefly. Then walked down the long hallway out of the hospital, back home, and back to high school. I spent six weeks at Our Lady’s Home for the Innocents. Then, I was adopted.
A few years ago, she and I took a photo together on my 48th birthday at my niece Gemma’s First Communion. I remember thinking, “This is amazing.” Forty-eight years prior, she only had a quick glance at me and thought she would never see me again. Then, there we were together on the altar at a First Communion with my daughter and my biological niece, who are the best of friends.
It has come full circle in many ways, and my life has been truly amazing. I had a wonderful childhood, filled with birthday parties, Christmas mornings right out of a Hallmark movie, and the luxury of knowing I was wanted. I have two college degrees, I am a mother of four amazing children who are also adopted, I have become a teacher and a writer and am thankful for so many things.
Has my life been free from pain, grief and suffering? Of course not. Is anyone’s? I’ve buried more family members than I care to admit.
But every moment of my life was planned by a loving God before my conception, including my adoption, and I have no doubt even down to the detail of writing these words. The older I get, the more I see just how God has connected all the dots in my life, weaving together the invisible threads between my adoptive and biological backgrounds—and it is truly amazing.
I inherited traits from my genetic family that have come to fruition within the setting of my adoptive family, which is a powerhouse of spiritual and intellectual gifts that I can barely explain. The resilience of most adoptees is a rare gift. There is nothing haphazard about adoption.
My grandmother, who we called Mimi, passed away recently and I found some pieces of my childhood among her things—items I had never seen before, that again reaffirmed that my life was very much “planned.”
First, a photo of my great-grandmother (Mimi’s mother), Mimi, my mom, and me as a six-week-old infant, the day they brought me home. Mimi was beaming. They had waited so long for me. My mind flashed back to a photo I had seen of my birth mom pregnant with me on her sixteenth birthday … just six months prior! How amazing. All of those women had loved me in so many ways.
Second, a newspaper clipping of a letter to the editor my mother had written in 1975, responding to a pro-abortion article submitted just a few weeks before. In her letter, my mother told of the joy she and my dad were experiencing as my parents, that no one was forcing anyone to raise an “unwanted” child; that the unborn child—every child—had the right to become someone’s “wanted” child. And indeed I was.
You see, God truly does have a plan for every life. John 15:16 tells us, “You did not choose me, but I chose you …”
Wherever you are on this journey toward adoption and whatever your role may be, just remember, nothing about it is chance. The Lord knows what He is about.
Kristi McCabe is a lifelong Catholic, Catechist, award-winning freelance writer, adoptee and adoptive mother of four. Along with her daughter Sydney, she has just published a fictional children’s book featuring adoptees. Her dream is to help adoptive families thrive and to see all children feel loved and wanted.
