Pharaoh and the Pharisees

Ignoring the unrest in our country due to systematic and industrial oppression magnified by covert racism in order to keep your life comfortable and unchanged doesn’t make you free.
It makes you an accomplice to those who are perpetuating it.
And that’s a privilege; not given by God because you are #blessed, but taken at the expense of the very humanity God created and calls his children.
It’s aligning yourself with those who were selling goods in the temple courts while Jesus was trying to flip your table.
Are you mad your table is being flipped while trying to argue with Jesus that it doesn’t need flipped because you know his name?
For 400 years the Israelites (People of Color) were taken prisoner in a foreign land. For 400 years Black people have been prisoners in our land both in chains and now lack of equal rights and access.
What side of righteousness will we stand on? Are our hearts hardened like Pharaoh’s? Are we using BIPOC labor and blood to build our cities, towers, monuments and empires?
We’ve been given the handbook to how this ends. We claim to align ourselves with Christ. Yet we are still in Egypt sitting on a throne with a hardened heart telling them if only they would work harder, or just listen and obey they could enjoy the oppression we have forced upon them.
It is difficult for me to sit in the temple of God… the church… when I see so many who are turning a blind eye.
My faith isn’t tested. In fact, it’s strengthened.
But my relationships are.
This isn’t political. This is moral. This is about ethics. And it is crushing to see so many whom I love remain naive’, ignorant, and perpetuate harmful rhetoric and dialogue that is easy instead of sitting in the uncomfortable places of personal deconstruction, learning, and regrowth through education.
Maybe it’s time these conversations start affecting our relationships.
Maybe losing relationships will be the Moses some of you need.

No Leave Me

I know it’s hard to understand. I know it’s hard to really comprehend and to be O.K. with the primal wound as an adoptive parent. You wish your love and effort could be enough. Allowing room for the primal wound within your adoption can give you a lens in which to see your adoptee’s struggles with compassion and empathy. To meet us where we are at as we struggle to fill a void that was left bare when our Mother’s went away.

The other day I was laying on the couch just feeling out of sorts for a handful of reasons. My pup was curled up next to me trying to provide what comfort she could. I was fading in and out of sleep trying to regulate my body as it grasped into the darkness of my uncounscoious mind into my dreams for comfort. Dreams are where my body can find peace as it weaves together scenerios and tapistries that cover my disregulation in comfort and ideals it longs for.

My mind, in it’s dozing fog searching for regulation to calm my anxiety, had drifted way back to my first Christmas with my biological family. To the couch after opening up presents… with my head on my aunt’s lap… the aunt who had been with my mother as she gave birth and stood by her side as she let me go from her arms into someone else’s… and I lay there surrounded by biological chemistry and people who looked like me and my aunt stroked my hair as I lazily dozed in and out of sleep soaking in 18 years of missing this… …
And then suddenly I was wide awake… 20 years later back on my own couch sitting with the realization that the comfort I was seeking that day in the viceral reaction anxiety was creating in my chest and stomach was the comfort of a mother who may never be able to just sit with me and let me lay on her lap as she strokes my hair to coregulate our anxieties.

Time bends in on itself as my 37 year old body feels the primal wound of simply longing for the tender care a newborn receives. I’m still there. I’m still 3 days old waiting for her to love me and stroke my hair and regulate me. But I’m stuck in the in-between. In the minutes and the space that passed between the hospital room and a car.

Every night I lay with our daughter and as she rallies her last ounces of strength to fight against sleep… the place where she too will find her mind trying to make sense of her world that has been tossed about. I believe she fights so hard against sleep because she hasn’t found peace in her dreams yet. She is still working out the in-between.

We lay as I stroke her hair and let my hot summer breath regulate her… I stir slightly and her eyes flash wide open, her body goes ridged and she squeaks out in a whispered breath, “Momma no leave me…” and her eyelids slowly fall back into position as she resumes working out her dreams.

And half in and out of sleep… we lay together.
We are still newborns…
Three and one day old…
Aching for the comfort of our mother stroking our hair and crying out as we see her fade out of our minds, “Momma no leave me.”


Will I?

I’m going out on a limb here… trying something new.
A little blog in the form of verse.

Will I get it right for her?

All this vinegar and fight in this lifelong trial.

Getting people who can’t see past the nose on their face to understand that it’s more than who’s wrong or whose right?

She’s the victim of a country whose systems are so far flung that we can’t sit side by side with those whose faults we hide because it doesn’t make us look good.

Millions of people chastised by the charities that offer a hand down but can break through their own petty politics to offer a hand up.

A hand up and out because they are too busy searching for the clout.

Manipulated statistics printed on oversized manuals that don’t even hit the granules of actual work as they sign the dotted lines of paper trails that suffocate the actual purpose of the act.

Is it enough for her that I wake up each morning and pop a pill or two that allows me to fight?
I want to change the world for her because I’ve lived that life before it landed me here.

In the desert, in the wasteland, in the no-mans-land where I’m expected to run, pick up my sword and fight…

But my body gives way and my heart can’t keep it’s beat straight because the expectation of rythmn was something that was taken away.

Taken away from me on the day that should have been about me but instead I was the game piece moved around to keep society’s peace.

Will I get it right for her? Do I have enough fight for her?

Not just on the battelground, but in the sun and the fun when I’m supposed to be present but the weight of the world just seems to me too unpleasant?

It used to be just make it to the end, but now it’s so much more.
Because for her I’ve had to enter the fight and engage in the fray so for her it won’t be so hard to just live another day.




Who am I

I was three when I was directly told I was adopted. It was never hid from me. It had been talked about in front of me. But I was three when I was in the back seat of our car when my Mom told me that I did not grow in her tummy like my cousin was growing in my aunt’s tummy.

.

I was five when a boy came to my preschool to share about his experience living without legs. I was five when I looked at this boy and he handed me a word that helped give rhetoric to what I was already feeling: different.
.

I was 9 when I asked about my birth. I was turning double digits and wanted to know EXACTLY when I was born. My Mom had to pull out my birth certificate to find out. Because she wasn’t there. She didn’t know.

.

I was 12 when I first saw a photo of my Birth Mother. The first time I had seen ANYONE who looked like me. TWELVE.

.

I was 14 when my closed adoption was opened to me. 14 when I was allowed to write a letter to my Birth Mother and ask the question that burned so hot in my very core that it effected my every day life, “who am I?”
.

I was 17 when I saw them… all lined up in that hallway. A row of people who looked familiar. Who I knew without being told. I knew the second I saw them in the dark hallway lit by candlelight. I recognized my biology out of a crowd without knowing who they were. I had been searching for that familiarity my whole life.
.

I was 18 when I sat in between my Birth Father and my Birth Mother for the first time since my birth. For the entire hour I just starred. Analyzing and picking apart every physical feature, gesture, movement, breath…. to this very day, 20 years later, when I am with them I still stare and anaylize and try to grasp for any crumb of similarity and familiarity that falls off them so I can piece together, “who am I?”

.

I was 37 years old when I had to defend my voice as an adoptee. All trauma is valid. I should know. I engage is trauma work daily in practice, research, education, and within my very home and personhood. As an empath, a social worker, a Jesus follower, and a human, I see and hold people’s traumas with sacredness. The pain is not lost on me.

.

All trauma is valid. But all trauma is different. I spent 18 years without any biological connection. Many adoptees will spend their whole lives with none. Many won’t get the privilege of even knowing their parent’s names. Many fight their country of birth and our country’s state laws set up to protect biological parents which usurps the adoptee’s own worth as a person who just wants to know, “who am I?”

.

This is why partial adoptees speaking as adoptees, whether you agree with the term or not, is harmful. It usurps and co-opts our very core trauma. It steals the power of our lived experiences. It preys on our personhood and humanity. It silences us.

.

All trauma is valid. But all trauma is different. There is a place for all of us who have experienced trauma, but we cannot let our unhealed trauma perpetuate more harm. We must be brave and break the cycle.

Let your heart break.

Let your heart break child.
Let your heart break.

Shattered pieces held together by tension and the glue of oppression.
This isn’t living. It’s just drifting.
Beat to beat the clenching and the breaking.
This isn’t living. You’ve been taught to tolerate.

Let your heart break child.
Let your heart break.

It was my husband who first noticed that my heart conditions were brought on by encountering, handling, wading through my trauma. They started after secondary rejection. The first time I stood up for myself with a bio parent. They started effecting my daily life after a year of trauma therapy and memories of my sexual abbuse started coming back. Epsodes would come and go and with no genetic pre-disposition and no found triggers, my trauma-informed cardiologist agreed it was trauma induced. But it was my husband who noticed during heightened periods of processing is when I’d have flare ups.

This past two weeks have been very hard. While I am open, honest, raw, real, and do my best to portray who I am on social media (I have no secret agenda. I’m not here to trick you into anything. It’s just me.). Yet behind the scenes, even amongst the adoption community, there is oppression, tone policing, cancel culture, victimization, gaslighting, projection etc. While I’ve been speaking about adoption for years, I’m fairly new to this Instagram community. I’ve put my trust in people who didn’t have my best interest at heart. People whose own hurts and trauma affect their work and relationships. All trauma is valid. But it’s not the same. And as people who work in advocacy, activism, social work, agencies, businesses, law, etc. It is our responsibility to make sure we are addressing our own traumas before we pick our lanes. We have to own our own lenses and evaluate if are helping or harming.

My trauma is my resposibility to take care of. My trauma reactions are mine to own. My heart reminds me when something has it my core. It’s a white flag waved during my internal war that means I need to address something poking and podding my trauma.

This week my very core was rocked. I was held up by some very strong, wise, more experienced members of this community. When my heart started skipping beats and racing I knew.

It was time to just let my heart break. The hypervigilence, the tension, the anger, the frustration, the hurts, the pain, the rejection, and cping skills holding the shattered pieces of my heart aren’t working anyore. So. I’m letting it all come unglued.

I’m sitting with that infant who was abandoned.
I’m sitting with that child who was sexual abused.
I’m sitting with that young woman who was gaslighted and manipulated by a narcessist.
I’m sitting with that new Mother who experienced secondary rejection moments after giving birth.
I’m sitting with the midde aged women who has been holding together a broken heart with hypervigilence.

And I’m holding her chest as I tell her to let her heart break.
She will be O.K.

I will be O.K.

%d bloggers like this: