The Gift Of Being Other: 30 Years of Belonging.

Today marks 30 years since I was officially adopted.

I'm writing about adoption to honor and celebrate that anniversary. Adoption isn't simple, and neither has every part of my story been easy. But adoption has shaped the way I understand family, identity, and belonging.

Adoption has always been somewhat controversial in our society.

As much as we like to say it isn't in the feel-good stories. It kind of is.

You may see in a movies or TV shows where an awkward kid is teased by his older brother that he was adopted.

There may be another kid that finds out that they were adopted and their whole world falls apart. They wonder why their parents or family members never told them and suddenly they have a terrible identity crisis.

Maybe there's a kid that grows up into an adult and knows that they were adopted but then goes to find their "real family" and be reintegrated with them.

Either way, the foundations of what this kid thought defined him, identity and belonging are in question now.

Growing up, as an adopted kid. I never quite understood that.

Oftentimes I would think, "Hey, this family found you and decided to not only give you a new home but their last name too!"

My family told me the circumstances around my own adoption. And when I met my birth family and saw those circumstances, I was very glad I was adopted.

Throwing out everything to go be with my "real family" made no sense. It would have been a major downgrade.

For me as a "transracial adoptee". I had a lot of people wonder why I, a black kid, was with a white mom and family, with the exception of two mixed race uncles.

Adoption is basically my family's story. I wasn't the only one. So growing up in that environment it was normal to me.

So was growing up in diversity. I had it at home, in my preschool and of course around me.

As I grew older, I began to understand it more. It can be hard being an adopted kid.

Especially a black adopted kid in a "mostly" white family. I got tired of the questions. I got tired of having to watch the way I dressed or behaved so I wasn't profiled.

I got tired of trying to understand Black history and culture and how I fit into it, or if I even could.

I was tired of being told by other blacks that I needed to look, act, speak and think a certain way or I wasn't "black enough".

I was tired of hearing insults about my "white" mom or other "white" members in my family.

None of these things were things I could control. I could only control how I responded to them and viewed them.

A perspective change.

I used to see my adoption as a misunderstood blessing. Now I see it as not only a blessing, but an opportunity and I daresay a responsibility.

The behavior adjustments, my speech, my insights, my outlook, my upbringing, my approach to things—all of these became rooted in my personal morals. The things that made me not fit neatly into racial expectations eventually became perspectives I learned to value.

Over time, people have said things like "You're different (in a good way)" or "You've changed my perspective on X" or "We need more people like you".

Adoption alone, puts you in the "other" category, yes. But it's up to you to decide what to do with it.

My circumstances challenged me to develop a character rooted in my own values rather than external expectations.

I want to be clear: I don't owe anyone a performance. No adoptee does. We don't exist to make other people comfortable with our stories or to serve as living proof that adoption "works." We don't have to be grateful on command or turn our pain into inspiration for someone else's benefit. The pressure to be a success story, to justify our adoptive families' choices, to prove we're "worth it"—that's a burden no child should carry.

But here's what I've learned: the perspective adoption gave me is mine to use however I choose. And I've chosen to let it become something that helps others.

Living between categories taught me to question assumptions—my own and everyone else's. When you don't fit neatly into the boxes people expect, you start to see how arbitrary those boxes really are. You notice the ways people limit themselves and each other based on categories that were never as solid as they seemed. That awareness, that ability to see beyond the expected, is something I can offer. Not because I have to, but because I want to.

My experience has given me empathy for people who feel like outsiders, who don't quite belong anywhere, who are navigating identities that don't come with clear instructions. I understand what it's like to be questioned, to have your authenticity challenged, to feel like you're constantly translating yourself for different audiences. And when I meet someone else struggling with that, I can offer them something real: the knowledge that they're not alone, and that the discomfort of being "other" doesn't have to define them.

That's the responsibility I mentioned, not an obligation imposed from outside, but a choice I make from within. I can use what adoption taught me to bless others. Not by pretending it was easy, not by erasing the hard parts, but by showing that the perspective it gave me has value.

Adoption didn't just give me a family. It gave me a vantage point. And from where I stand, I sometimes notice connections and possibilities that might otherwise be missed. I can be a bridge, a translator, a reminder that the categories we use to sort ourselves are never the whole story. That's not a burden. That's a gift. And it's one I'm choosing to share.

Here's to 30 years of being a Blackwood and bridge-building!