There are many loving adoptive families.
There are many adopted children who grow up grateful for the lives they have been given.
I was born Native American — Cree/Cheyenne — and adopted through a closed adoption in San Francisco, in what might be described as an unlikely meeting of histories. The adoption took place in a hotel lobby over coffee, in an arrangement that was as informal as it was life-altering. My adoptive mother was the great-granddaughter of Otto von Bismarck. By the age of four, I had been brought to the UK.
From my first days, I lived between worlds — Indigenous roots and European aristocracy — and I have spent much of my life making sense of that crossing.
Adoption is not just an event.
It is an unfolding.
When I was six years old, I found out I was adopted in a way that would probably make modern therapists wince. I was watching an old black and white Western film, the kind where Native Americans were portrayed as the villains. I was enthusiastically “shooting” at the television screen when my adoptive mother gently told me I shouldn’t shoot them — because I was one of them.
That was how identity arrived.
There wasn’t a dramatic fallout. No tears. No big conversation. Just a sentence that quietly rearranged something inside me.
Children often absorb life-changing information silently. We don’t always know what to ask next. We don’t yet have the language. And sometimes we sense that asking too much might unsettle the very people we depend on.
From the outside, I had a good life. Education. Travel. Opportunity. I loved my adoptive father deeply and felt safe with him. My relationship with my adoptive mother was more complex, though I only came to understand that much later in adulthood.
As a child, I simply felt that sometimes connection was there — and sometimes it wasn’t. Children personalise that. We assume distance is about us.
So we adapt.
Many adoptees become very good at reading the emotional weather in a room. We learn not to cause trouble. We become perceptive, independent, sometimes even charmingly self-contained. These are not flaws. They are intelligent adaptations.
But alongside that adaptation, there can be something quieter — a feeling that part of the story is missing.
Even in loving homes, many adopted children carry, at some point, a small and tender question:
Why wasn’t I kept?
It is not an accusation. It is not ingratitude. It is an attempt to make sense of beginnings.
If that question is not given space, children will often answer it themselves. And children, especially young ones, have a habit of blaming themselves.
Later in life, when I eventually met my birth mother and heard directly about the circumstances surrounding my adoption, something inside me settled. Her decision had been shaped by youth, fear, lack of support and confidence, and a genuine desire that I have opportunity. It was not rejection of me, it was done out of love.
That understanding did not erase complexity. But it removed a story I had quietly carried for years.
Growing up Native American in a largely white British environment added another layer. I looked different. I wondered about my roots. I read books about my tribe in private. Not because I loved my adoptive family less — but because identity seeks continuity.
Belonging is not a limited resource. It expands when allowed.
When I later travelled to the Northern Cheyenne reservation and met members of my biological family, I did not feel that one identity replaced another. Instead, something integrated. I could be both. The pieces were no longer competing.
Over time, through personal development, professional work, and becoming a father myself, I have come to see adoption less as a singular event and more as a lifelong integration process.
There was separation. Yes.
But there has also been growth, empathy, resilience, and a deep capacity to hold complexity.
Most adoptive parents I meet care profoundly. What makes the difference is not perfection. It is openness. A willingness to listen without defensiveness. A readiness to say, “You can tell me what you’re feeling. I won’t fall apart.”
Adopted children do not need flawless narratives.
They need safe spaces where their whole story is welcome — the gratitude, the curiosity, the grief, the pride, the confusion, the integration.
This week, I will be speaking at a webinar hosted by We Are Family an adoption support charity in London about this very topic — the inner experience of growing up adopted, and how understanding that inner world can support children as they grow.
If you are an adoptive parent, thank you for caring enough to keep learning.
If you are adopted, your questions are valid.
And if you are somewhere in between, know this:
Your story is not fragmented.
It is unfolding.
Frequently Asked Questions About Growing Up Adopted
Do adopted children feel grateful and sad at the same time?
Yes. Many adopted children and adults experience gratitude for their adoptive families while also feeling curiosity or grief about their origins. These emotions can coexist.
Is it normal for adopted children to wonder why they were placed for adoption?
Yes. This is a common developmental question and does not mean the child feels rejected by their adoptive family.
Does exploring birth culture weaken adoptive bonds?
No. Supporting cultural identity typically strengthens emotional security and belonging.
Until we meet again…
Walk in Peace; Walk in Beauty.
– Spirit Bear Coaching
If this reflection resonated and you would like to quietly support the continuation of this work — and help create more reflective spaces for adoptive families — you’re warmly welcome to do so here: