Who Am I?

My name is Thea Robinson and by the time I was two I knew I was adopted. While many kids (understandably) wanted to talk about it and were confused I, on the other hand, knew what it was, processed it and did not want to talk about it. I knew my mom was my mom and there was nothing going to change that. My mom had always told me that I was grown in her heart and not her belly. I also knew that my brother was adopted although we never talked about it.

For the most part growing up was very basic and normal. I had divorced parents and played lots of sports. I grew up in northern Virginia in Fairfax County, a suburb right outside of Washington D.C., but took VERY frequent trips to New York and Boston. Summers were spent in camps and on vacations with my mom’s friend’s children.

I grew up with the mindset that I was chosen, and that God had a plan for me. In school, I don’t remember much about telling the other kids that I was adopted other than when we did icebreakers I always had a fun fact to share about myself. The only time I can recall that someone had a problem with me being adopted was in 3rd grade when I told a girl and she said, “I don’t like kids who are adopted. They always seem to talk about that and they are weird”. This was a complete shock to me and I just brushed off her comments without even telling my mom.

When middle school started I was very snoopy and home alone often, so I would dig in my mom closet and search her drawers. One time I did this and ended up finding my adoption papers. That was when I found out I was not an only child, I had an older biological sister. My mind was racing.  I waited for my mom to come home.  I was broken. I ruined my own image of how my adoption was and I felt that someone didn’t want me because I was me. I felt unchosen, unwanted, and unloved. After my mom came home, she and I went for a long walk and she kept on reminding me of all that I had now – parents who loved me and a family that cared for me.

Adoption had a new face for me. I pushed everything down, so I didn’t realize how I was processing everything. I felt my mom was hurting because I couldn’t stop talking about my adoption or my birth parents.  I thought that by talking about adoption it was close to saying that I didn’t love or appreciate her.

When I turned 18 I was gifted a letter from my biological father telling me all about him and how he wanted to get to know me. I was surprised. I thought that my birth family didn’t want anything to do with me after they gave me up. His letter was a pleasant feeling and at first, I didn’t know what to do.  But my mom seemed to be excited so I decided to send him pictures of myself now and growing up. I got more and more in touch with him and told him about my life and one day he gave me the contact information for my biological sister. I talked to her for a little bit but I realized I was doing this for them and not me. I wanted everyone else to be happy, but I wasn’t. I got very paranoid and everything that they wanted to know about me seemed like they wanted to get to know my medical history. I was scared, and I found out my birth father was sick assuming the worst I cut all communication with them.

A few years later after my grandmother passed, I realized that I needed to open up more to people and actually figure out who I was and what I wanted in life. That meant reconnecting with my birth family and being more open to them. Through this blog, I will share my stories and the stories of others on the real truth of how adoption doesn’t end the moment the baby is handed over.

“I wasn’t abandoned. I was chosen. I was special.” -Steve Jobs



Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s