This reflection follows my conversation wtih Sara Tan. If you haven’t listened yet, I invite you to start here. This last week I spoke with Sara Tan. Sara and I went to school together at Concordia College in Moorhead, MN. It was a small, private college with less than 4,000 students. We didn’t spend a lot of time together outside of our music classes, but I remember her clearly because she and I were one of just a few Asians on campus. Over the last few decades, I’ve watched her through social media grow and evolve with her family. When I look at the pictures she posts of her children, it’s clear how central they are to her and her husband’s life. Almost every adoptee I’ve spoken to for this podcast has had children of their own. As someone who chose not to, a piece of me wonders what that feels like: to suddenly see your own face reflected in someone else’s. I’ve heard people say the love you feel for your children is like no other. I wonder if that’s amplified for transnational adoptees, who can finally see and feel a biological bond they’ve never experienced with anyone else, or at least don’t remember. I knew this process would be a journey for me. I knew there would be times I’d have to face decisions I had made and either confirm them or question them. My husband and I are very happy with the life we chose together. Still, I’ve found myself pausing throughout this process and wondering, even for just a breath or two, what it would feel like to see a piece of my genetic self in front of me. Talking to Sara was easy. She was kind and engaging. In our pre-interview call, she wasn’t sure she had much to add. “I had a pretty peaceful upbringing,” she told me. I reassured her that my goal wasn’t to pull back the curtain on some dark underbelly of transnational adoption. If anything, I wanted to offer a fuller picture of the experience. I noticed Sara often qualified her answers with, “But that could just be me and have nothing to do with being adopted.” Like others I’ve spoken with, she shared a story of starting school and classmates pulling their eyes to mimic hers. She said kindergarten was challenging, then was quick to add that it got better soon after. I thought about what Katie had told me, that each of us sits somewhere different on the spectrum of what it means to be adopted. For Sara, it felt as though she had leaned deeply into her American family and culture. What struck me most was how steadfast Sara was about how deeply she was loved and how fully she belonged to her family. Toward the end of our conversation, she was eager to share one of her favorite moments with her mother. Colon cancer had been found in the family’s history, and her mother wanted her to get tested. Sara reminded her that she had no medical history. Her mother insisted it ran in the family. This went back and forth until Sara finally had to spell it out: she had no biological link to it because she was adopted. Sara was tickled by the story, and it was clear she was grateful that her family saw her as nothing but their own. I asked Sara whether she’d ever wanted to learn more about her own medical history, especially now that she has children. She answered quickly that it had never interested her. “There are some things that are better just not being known,” she said. Part of me could see wanting to know, but looking at my own history, I knew exactly what Sara meant. My healthcare system has flagged me several times as a good candidate for genetic testing because I lack biological information. I’ve always turned it down, more afraid of what I might find out than of not knowing. When I mentioned I’d be visiting South Korea for the first time since leaving at three, Sara admitted she had never wanted to return. What was the point? She was happy with her life in America. She knew adoptees who had gone back, some who had even connected with birth families, and it had only created chaos and unrest. For Sara, there was no unfinished business and no threads to reconnect. She was happy with the world right in front of her. After our call, it took me a while to think it through. I’d heard less internal conflict than in other conversations, yet something about it took me a while to process: Do we really need to pursue the subconscious impact of our adoptions? Or does reflecting on our origins only create more disruption to living in the here and now? I don’t know. Some will say you need a bit of both. But my hope is that by continuing to have these conversations, I can better understand both the potential gain and the cost. A Note on Care & Support The reflections, resources, and recommendations shared here are offered from personal experience and conversation. I am not a therapist or mental health professional, and the content of No Roadmap Home is not intended to diagnose, treat, or replace professional mental health care. Please consider working with a qualified mental health professional for support that is specific to your circumstances. If something you read here brings up difficult emotions or you’re struggling and need someone to talk to, you don’t have to navigate it alone. In the U.S. and its territories, you can call or text 988 to reach the 988 Suicide & Crisis Lifeline, or use their online chat. The service is free, confidential, and available 24/7. You do not have to be suicidal to reach out—you can contact 988 if you’re experiencing emotional distress or simply need someone to talk to. Get full access to No Roadmap Home at noroadmaphome.substack.com/subscribe
