The years are like floating dandelion seed stars; they float on the air and disappear without even noticing their absence. I’ve made a decision this year and that decision is to write a book on adoption and my story. There are so many stories out there and each so valuable in their own unique way of weaving and unfolding their adoption experiences.

I want to share my process of healing and use words that are spiritual and not heard enough in our regular experience of the world. I don’t want to edit my healing process and yet I don’t want my story to be about the trauma of it all…but about the joy of it, the challenge of it, the overcoming in it, the growth from it, the learning of myself through it. It feels big in that the story has such wiggly edges and it seems hard to move it into one format.



In my writing group where I have begun to share my writing I am full of feeling when I read my writing. Others in the group don’t always understand. I am trying to give them context of the triad experiences and information about reunion etc. They are slow at learning and that is all right. My heart just gets vulnerable in the process when they read what I write and say, “This is what women experience in general.” And I know they don’t understand.

I ask myself if my book is for the layman or is it for “us”? I want to speak to other adoptees who know my language…who know the journey…who know the inner world of this experience. Sometime my writing group member’s words feel as if they were throwing stones at me without even realizing it.

Maybe writing a book will help me see that they aren’t throwing stones…but that they just don’t understand. It doesn’t matter if they understand…what matters is that I understand the journey and the pearls that came along the way…and that I speak to those who are like me and who live inside the same warp and weave in the texture of their lives.