I always felt different. For starters, I didn’t look like anyone in my family. My hair and eye color were on the opposite end of the spectrum, and in family photos, I stuck out like a sore thumb. I felt like the odd one out. I first noticed this when looking at pictures, comparing myself to my cousins, who all closely resembled their parents. There was an undeniable connection between them—both in appearance and in the nurturing relationships they shared. But when I looked at my own parents, I saw no resemblance. I felt a difference I couldn’t quite explain.
I always knew I was adopted, so looking different had an obvious explanation. But what I could never put into words was why I felt different, too. For as long as I can remember, I’ve felt like I didn’t belong anywhere. Like I didn’t quite fit. I wasn’t part of anything, and somehow, I was less than—less deserving of attention, love, and kindness.
There isn’t much discussion about how adoption affects a person beyond the surface. People talk about the positive side: a child is taken from a difficult situation and placed in a home where they have a chance at a better life. And yes, that’s true. But adoption is much deeper than that. It leaves a lasting imprint—a sense of being different, of not fully belonging. At least, that’s how I’ve always felt.
Much later in life, I found my biological family. I learned that alcoholism runs rampant and that I was the product of an affair. I also realized that being adopted had been a blessing. I had to process both realities—the life I would have had and the challenges I did experience growing up. Neither was ideal, but I suppose adoption gave me opportunities I otherwise wouldn’t have had.
Fifty years later, I still carry the echoes of those early feelings. But time has given me perspective, and I’ve come to realize that belonging isn’t always about biology. It’s about connection, choice, and self-acceptance.
For much of my life, I wrestled with that deep-rooted sense of not fitting in. Even after meeting my biological family and learning where I came from, the questions didn’t stop. If anything, I had to process even more—the weight of generational struggles, the circumstances of my birth, and the reality of what could have been. In some ways, it was reassuring to have answers, but in other ways, it forced me to face painful truths.
What I’ve learned over the years is that adoption isn’t a single event—it’s a lifelong journey. The feelings of being different didn’t magically disappear just because I understood my origins. But I’ve also learned that I am more than the circumstances that brought me into this world. I am more than the pain of not fitting in.
I’ve built a life that is my own, shaped by both the struggles and the blessings of my journey. I’ve learned that family isn’t just about shared DNA; it’s about the people who show up for you, who love you, and who make space for you. And perhaps most importantly, I’ve learned to make space for myself.
Looking back, I see both the hardships and the opportunities that shaped me. I’ve had to unlearn the belief that I was “less than” and recognize that I was always deserving of love, kindness, and belonging—whether I realized it or not. It took me decades to understand that my worth was never in question.
If I could speak to my younger self, I would tell them this: You are enough. You always have been.
And to anyone who has ever felt like they don’t belong, I would say—your story is still unfolding. You may not see it now, but there is a place for you in this world. You belong, simply because you are.
Molly's Not-So-Secret Diary 