What If?
During a mushroom trip in March of this year, I sought insight from tarot cards to reveal any hidden shadows I needed to explore. Initially, my journey seemed light-hearted—I even debated whether my dose was too low as I strolled and contemplated going to the gym. However, upon returning to my brightly lit apartment, I felt relieved to be home.
In the weeks preceding my trip, swirling "What Ifs?" haunted me, a consequence, I believe, of being an adoptee. As a Black child raised by a single white mother, I longed to blend in, yet my reality was one of racial isolation. In elementary school, I was the only Black student. I remember my first time visiting my birth family in Chicago in elementary school, I was astounded by the abundance of Black people. I had found myself wonder what if I had grown up around more Black individuals? Could I have been seen as human during recess games instead of just a dog?
Having an open adoption exposed me to new realms of "What Ifs?”. I maintained contact with my biological family through photos, calls, and occasional visits, perpetually pondering alternative realities. I pleaded with my adoptive mother for a sibling, convinced it was meant for me. She had adopted me, why couldn’t she adopt another? She assured me I would not want a sibling, for when she was growing up, she had tried to sell her own sibling to the neighbors.
When I learned my biological mother had another child, the sibling I yearned for was finally mine. But since she was to she live in Chicago, the prospect of companionship ended in tears. I desired her company to alleviate my loneliness and isolation. What if I had never been adopted? Would I have repeated my adoptive’s mother's youthful mistake of trying to sell her own baby sister to neighbors? What if I had grown up in Chicago with my birth family? Would a more diverse environment have nurtured a stronger connection to my Black identity?
As I delved deeper into these "What Ifs?" I confronted profound anger. My therapist urged me to acknowledge and accept this anger rather than suppress or rationalize it. Sitting with my anger proved challenging—I had to consciously allow myself to feel it, resisting the urge to dismiss or explain it away. Visualizing my anger I held, it gently, like a child, until it diminished.
Anger is a persistent emotional hurdle for me. During my mushroom trip, I found myself holding my newborn self—a bundle of tears and vulnerability—and descending into deeper introspection. A moment of profound consequence as my teenage mother reluctantly entrusted me to the white woman who would raise me. As I cradled this infant version of myself, familiar anger surged, as I saw my adoption play out before me. Intertwined with visions of pivotal moments and alternative paths, this simple act rippled through my life, reshaping memories and possibilities.
Navigating this anger, I realized I was holding emotions, such as shame, anger and embarrassment. I grappled with urges to escape or diminish them, to convince myself things could have been worse. Yet as I allowed myself to ride the waves of the emotions, I recognized that embracing and expressing my pain was crucial for healing. Discussing and writing about the complexities of adoption—unearthing deep-seated emotions and revelations—felt like to laying bare my innermost vulnerabilities, having someone poke and prod through my guts. Holding my infant self, I wept, overwhelmed by shame at the pain woven into my adoption story—a decision made when I was too young to comprehend, altering the course of my life forever.
At times, I feel embarrassed to be an adoptee—raised in a community with fewer than ten Black individuals, in a single-parent household where my white mother claimed to be Black in a past life. Conditioned to be grateful, I wrestle with dismissing the harm caused, perhaps seeking control where I once had none. This trip allowed me to realize that the process of confronting my past is not an invitation for others to poke and prod; it is my own excavation, to uncover the deepest layers of myself.
Personal Essay by Kevyn W A Y (they/them) | Connect on Instagram