Tag: Self Love

Unraveling the emotional depths of my adoption narrative

Unraveling the emotional depths of my adoption narrative

by Maelyn Murray ♥ 0 Leave a Comment

I don’t think I’ve ever said the sentences “I’m adopted” and “no family history” as much as I have since having a child.

Going to the doctors or even play dates seemingly always leads to a mention of it.

There tends to be 1000 medical forms that need anything and everything about your past or someone will mention a trait their child inherited and ask if something similar runs in your family.

These instances are innocent and seemingly simple- but it follows with a quick trip down “ouch” lane for a split second.

As a kid, the “A” word aka “Adopted” was seen as a sad thing. For me, it was simply my normal.  

But all too often, a pity response of “oh, well at least you were adopted!” or “you’re lucky your family found you” or, sometimes worse like “I’m sorry” were the responses. 

I never understood the “I’m sorry” sentiment. It was what I’d known, it wasn’t sad.  It was just how my life unfolded. 

As I grew older, I started redefining it – picking and choosing how I’d connect with it. I loved pandas – did reports on a few different types, I dressed in Chinese dresses, I leaned into the beauty side and squeezed myself into the accepted stereotypes.

I did everything to associate myself with where I was adopted from, except the very question of “why?”. 

Why was I adopted? What happened? What were my birth parents like? Do I have siblings? Does someone else look like me?

I shielded myself from the very real answers that could be “they couldn’t afford me”, “I was an accident”, or worse “ they just didn’t want me.”

I grew to accept that I may never know. Not for real. Not the answers I wanted. The ones that only my bio parents knew. 

And guess what? It’s worked out fine. 

Now as an adult, I actually wear it as a badge of honor.

I’m living in a world built on stacked generations and the luxury of knowing every bit of history.

Yet, I’ve created mine on my own.

I’ve created a new bloodline – I’ve started a story, something only my child can keep writing long after I’m gone.

I’ve created armor against the criticism, the pity, and the fetishes.

I’ve built a life without a history report and a whole lot of future pages to fill.

If you’re ever feeling lost, without information you once thought was crucial to living your life to the fullest- it’s possible you’ve already got the answer, but you haven’t hit the milestone yet. 

You will hit it. 

You’ll chuckle and think “that was it? That’s all I needed to figure out to settle this dialogue I’ve lived with for years?”

And then- you’ll just keep writing your story and living your big beautiful life.

Being adopted is strong, resilient, and it’s not shameful one bit.

You were meant to be where you are. Just look around at the people you love and the people who love you.

Your self created circle is gold.

Remember to take moments to love it, and keep building it for years to come.

P.S.

If you’re ever looking to dive into a book that will lift you up and inspire you – check out the newest book I was lucky enough to be a co-author in: I’m So Glad You Left Me.

Immerse yourself into 88 stories of courage, self-love and personal growth from 88 women around the world.

Here’s where you can grab your digital copy of the book (hard copies will be available soon!) :

US: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0DJ9RLMJN

Where are you REALLY from?

Where are you REALLY from?

by Maelyn Murray ♥ 0 Leave a Comment

Okay, I’m going to answer that question right off the bat. I am adopted from China, and I honestly know very little about my original home town. I’ve seen pictures, heard stories, and even watched documentaries, but I’ve never experienced it. It’s been on my bucket list for a while. 

I don’t even remember when I found out I was adopted, it might have been self explanatory. In my early days, I remember being different, different hair color, eye color, and skin color. In many ways my family worked hard to make the differences an excuse to celebrate my uniqueness in our daily lives. For one of my birthdays my family spray painted their blonde hair black for my birthday (it sounds like it was in bad taste,but I loved it). 

My parents tried to keep me involved with cultural groups, like dance and language classes, but I was never into it. Not because I wasn’t interested, but because I immediately fell into a category. Chinese girl, adopted into a caucasion family (my dance class was filled with identical situations). It felt more like a label than my race difference, and with time the classes slowly disappeared from my life. 

Growing up, I remember people asking where I was from, speaking to me in chinese, or thinking I didn’t even belong with my family group. It stung, and often took me back for a second, but I got used to it and learned to live with the constant replies of “I am from China”, “I’m sorry, I don’t speak chinese” (in my very american accent), and “I am with them”.

As I got older, friends were sometimes the worst. I often forgot my different looks, in my house it was never mentioned, but in school – I was asked the same questions that strangers asked me. The most popular though, was “where are you from?” or “WHAT are you?”

Friends would ask – do you ever want to be white? And I remember thinking about my response – it was often a short no (but in secret, sometimes it was… yes). My friends mostly consisted of non – asian individuals, so I was never the friend who was called the twin or the sibling. These little instances really hurt, but I learned to mask it and eventually learned to own my differences. This was definitely not over night, and took a lot of self love. No one can really make you happy about you, except you. 

Once I got to my teens the stereotype shifted into something more adult. There were times where the shift was thrown in my face, while other times it was less recognizable. Once my father took me to a restaurant after one of my choir concerts, and the hostess seated us in a private room. It wasn’t until we asked to be moved to the main dining room that it dawned on me – they thought I was only with him for the night. 

In high school and college I no longer knew if people liked me for me or if it was an “asian thing”. Sometimes it became self explanatory, a phrase like “I’ve never been with an asian girl” would eventually be verbalized or “can you speak with an accent?” and it would set off my radar.

As an adult – I still deal with these insecurities. The difference now is that I know where to spot them, and how to digest them, and eventually grow past them. Like all things, it ebbs and flows – with time, with news, and with who I meet.