My adoption story begins as most do: with a woman who finds herself pregnant but not ready to parent or able to bring a child into her family. My birth mother already had four children and made the noble choice to find an adoption attorney, who then connected her with a couple who couldn’t have biological children.
The year my adoption took place was 1967, a period when closed adoptions were the norm. I grew up not knowing anything about my birth mother or father — and was even made fun of by some classmates in elementary school for being adopted. Fortunately, my adoptive parents instilled a sense of confidence in me because I was an adopted child. The mixed-income/middle-class Anaheim neighborhood we moved to when I was in the sixth grade had a surprisingly high ratio of kids who were adopted, and we had a unique bond. Back then, psychotherapy wasn’t common in our circles, but my friend group was open and honest about sharing our feelings, and those of us who were adopted were known and appreciated for our adoption stories by the time we matured and reached high school.
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