Photo Album


I remember the day when I first met my son at the adoption agency in Seoul, South Korea. I woke up that morning feeling a range of emotions from complete anticipation, to sheer happiness, to utter anxiety. I waited nearly a year to meet my son and now I was just hours away. I didn’t know what to expect. As I sat in the coffee shop waiting for my visit, so many anxious thoughts spiraled through my head. How will I feel the moment he is placed in my arms? What if he cries when I try to hold him? What do I even say to him?  I have a small white photo album filled with pictures from that first visit. It includes many beautiful family photos of us laughing and playing together. One of my favorite pictures is where my son’s foster mother looks at him adoringly; the love completely radiates from her face.

The first few months after my son joined my family, we had a routine where each morning we looked at the pictures in the Korean photo album to help ease his transition. Most days he was eager and content to look at the photos. He liked to talk about the pictures and point to the trucks he used to play with. However, on this particular day the pictures triggered feelings of confusion and sadness. He started to cry and became completely inconsolable. My son ran to the front door, pointed to my car, and cried out, “Omma.” I wasn’t prepared for this. I panicked. How do I explain to a grieving two year old that he can’t get in the car and be with his foster mother? I stumbled through my words, fought back my tears, and eventually managed to explain that it’s okay to be sad. I reassured him that even though his foster mother was in Korea, she still loves him.

My son has vivid memories of his life in Korea and when he shares them out loud the gravity of his loss is both heartbreaking and beautiful. One morning while I helped him get dressed he picked up his Korean striped monkey shirt from his foster mother, smelled it, and insisted on wearing it. Or another time when he opened the refrigerator door, pointed to the small red bottle of gochujang and confidently said, “Omma” with a happy wide grin on his face. Recently he found a container of baby wipes in his dresser drawer. “Go to Korea when I bigger. Give to omma’s baby?” he excitedly asked. I remember a few weeks after my son joined my family, he liked to sit on the armchair of the couch and quietly stare out the front porch window and watch the cars and buses drive by. I used to think he enjoyed this because he is wildly obsessed with vehicles but now a part of me wonders if he was patiently waiting for his foster mother to return.

Adoption is complicated. I understand that as an adoptive parent with every gain I experience, there is an unspeakable loss for my son. Even though I gained a beautiful family, my son didn’t choose to be adopted. The truth is that in order for me to become a mother he had to first lose his birth mother, his foster mother, his birth language, and be uprooted from everything that was familiar. Sometimes I feel like my son’s and my relationship has added layers of intensity than other mother/son relationships. Because of our shared experience as adoptees, I am acutely aware that my son may struggle with being an adoptee in much the same ways I did by questioning his identity or trying to find a sense of belonging. I have moments when I fast forward my life to when he is a teenager. I imagine we have an argument and he tells me that I’m not his real mother. I know this is coming from a place of anger because being separated from his birth family was out of his control. The pain he feels is real. Or perhaps one day he decides to return to Korea and realizes that because he doesn’t speak the language or know the culture he isn’t Korean enough. However, while he’s in America, he doesn’t feel or look American enough either. I understand that as an adoptee my son will have to learn how to navigate the space of being both Korean and an adoptee. My hope is that one day my son feels like he is accepted; he is in a place where he truly belongs.

It’s been a year and a half since my son joined my family and there are still emotionally challenging days when he misses his foster family and is sad. I can’t predict what triggers his grief, but I’m learning how to better comfort him. Like when he says, “Mommy, walk around.” I know this means that he needs to be comforted. I pick him up, swaddle his feet and legs in his blanket and we walk around until he feels relaxed. Then I ask if he’d like to look at his Korean photo album. Although we’ve paged through it countless times, I can tell that each time he talks about the pictures it helps him create meaning from his loss. As we sit together with his head resting on my shoulder, I wonder if there’s a way I can ease his pain. Somehow take it all away. And it’s in these still moments that I choose to surrender to the grief; I know it will always be. As I continue down this path of motherhood, I understand there are so many uncertainties. However, the one certainty I do have is hope. My hope is that my son knows he isn’t alone on his adoption journey. I am here for him now just like I was the days that lead up to when he was first placed in my arms.


The Realities of Doing a Birth Search


As an adoptee, I’m often asked if I’ve ever done a birth search or have met my birth mother. On the surface this may seem like a simple straightforward question, but the answer is often much more complicated. When I tell the person that I’ve never tried, I’m usually left feeling regret, guilt, and even sad. Throughout different times in my life, I’ve had numerous thoughts about my birth mother. Does she ever think about me? Maybe she’s waiting for me to contact her? Has she told her family about me? If I ever meet her, how will I deal with the unresolved emotions that I’ve compartmentalized and buried for years?  

About a year ago, after spending considerable amounts of time going back and forth thinking about doing a birth search, I finally decided to take the first step. I’m not sure what prompted my decision. Perhaps it was the assumption that my birth mother is in her sixties with grown children of her own, possibly with grandchildren, and she may be more open to a reunion. Regardless, I sent an email to my Korean adoption agency requesting my file. Surprisingly, three days later, I received an email with my adoption paperwork. I didn’t know how to feel or what to expect. I wished there was an instruction manual on what to do when you receive a 20 page document filling in the gaps of the first six months of your life, but there isn’t one. I knew that whatever was written in my file could completely alter the course of my life or leave me feeling incredibly disappointed. My adoption like all adoptions in Korea was closed. Did I really think it would be that simple where my birth mother’s name was listed and I would be instantly reunited with her? I was abandoned on the street in a city of three million people. What did I expect? I didn’t even know if my birthdate was accurate. Or if my birth mother named me. I can’t help but wonder why she didn’t leave her name, an address, or a note. Maybe she never intended to be found.

Sometimes I try to imagine my life reunited with my birth mother and having a relationship with my extended Korean family. I wonder how that would play out. Would I be accepted into the family or be a shameful secret? How would my birth mother who is a complete stranger try to manage a relationship with me in spite of all the years in between? Would the loss be too great? Perhaps it’s not even possible.

As the years pass, it becomes easier to let go and accept the fact that I may never know the details of what circumstances lead to my adoption.  A part of me understands that it’s unlikely that I will ever have the opportunity to experience a mother/daughter relationship with my birth mother. There are many losses that come with adoption, but beyond any other adoption loss not knowing my birth mother in a personal meaningful way remains one of my most profound losses.




Growing up as a Korean adoptee in a predominantly white family and community, I understand what it feels like to not have a sense of belonging. There were moments in my childhood where I wanted to fit in so I acted white and sometimes felt white, but over time there was a quiet disassociation of my Korean identity. My most vivid memory was during Halloween when my best friend and I dressed up as Madonna. I felt so inadequate. How can I look like a white pop star? I’m Asian. It validated my insecurities that I can never be an American. My Koreaness set me apart.

Shortly after returning from my first trip to Korea, I again started to question my own sense of belonging. Where do I belong? How do I fit in? Even though I looked Korean when I was in Korea, I didn’t feel Korean enough and when I am here, I don’t look or feel completely American either. My experiences in Korea made me realize that I had to be intentional about creating spaces where my son can see others who look like him and have the opportunities to make connections with other transracial adoptees. As a new adoptive parent, I was overwhelmed by this prospect. It was exhausting to always have to think about it.

Now even as an adult adoptee, I’m still trying to navigate being Korean, a person of color, and an adoptee. I understand this will always be a part of my identity. However, when I’m with other Korean adoptees I can be completely myself because there’s a shared history and a common language. I am completely understood. It’s in these collective moments when I think that maybe this is what it feels like to truly belong.

I understand that because my son is a transracial adoptee he will struggle to figure out where he fits in. He will constantly question his identity and his adoption. My greatest desire for my son is that perhaps at some small still moment during his adoption journey he will be able to look at himself in the mirror and feel like he is truly accepted-that he belongs.

…But the plants want love, too-

they lean into the sun like children diving

off the board saying watch me,

watch me, but it’s mostly just the sun

watching, the air caring

about the browning leaves before you

come and snip them

And the roots-I should insert

easy metaphor about my own

deep ones or lack of them

born, loved, left,

found, chosen, loved again and again,

these roots digging into

the earth like an apology

poem excerpt from Korean Adoptee Thinks about Plants by Lee Herrick

Just Right Days

This past week my son started preschool. He was overly excited about his first day. He couldn’t wait to start, but I on the other hand, was a complete wreck. All the typical anxious thoughts ran through my head. Will he like it? I hope he eats his snack. Who will help him when he needs to use the bathroom? Later when I picked him up I asked him how was school. He smiled big and replied, “Just right.” I was completely relieved. I let go for a moment, but deep down I knew this was only the beginning.

Schools are a place of contradictions. Like any parent, I know that when my son goes to school he will learn wonderful new things about himself and the world that are beautiful, but in this same place he will experience how ugly and unkind the world can be. My son is still young, but the day will arrive when he comes home from school and he’s upset because someone on the playground made a racist remark by pulling back their eyes and calling him a “chink” or maybe a more subtle comment like being asked where he’s from implying that he’s a foreigner or “the other. “

Later when my son reaches high school, he’ll notice that in history class there is little mention of any Asian people, how they contributed to America, who they are, and why they are living here. I can’t help but wonder whose voices will be amplified? Whose narrative will be omitted? Will my son have the opportunity to learn about how during the 19th century the Chinese came to America because of the California Gold Rush and became the first immigrant laborers who built the Transcontinental Railroad yet faced extreme discrimination and was later banned from immigrating to the United States? Perhaps when he studies WWII his textbook dedicates a small paragraph to explain how Japanese Americans were rounded up and sent to internment camps, or will that be completely deleted? And finally, I wonder if the only Korean person he will ever learn about is the North Korean dictator Kim Jong-un and the negative images portrayed about him in the media. How does this racial invisibility in school impact his perceptions about himself? How will it shape his worldview?

I’d like to think of my son as a strong and resilient person who will be able to easily navigate any microaggression he encounters and be unscathed. But the truth is that when these experiences happen, it will be confusing and hurtful. I want to be able to protect him from these painful experiences but I know that it’s simply impossible. Instead, I can give him the support and confidence he needs to feel proud of who he is and who he wants to become. In the meantime, I am hopeful that his “just right” days are infinitely possible.

Why Representation Matters

When I was growing up, I was a huge Charlie’s Angels fan. I remember watching the television show religiously. I was enamored by the beautiful Hollywood hair, the glamorous sexy clothes, and their smart investigative skills where each show ended with the crime effortlessly solved. My loyalty for the show was so steadfast that my friend and I often wrote scripts and acted out scenes from the show. I always played the part of Kelly. She was my hero. As a Korean American, how did this white movie star with wavy brunette hair become my first role model?

Even though I attended a large suburban high school in a metropolitan area, there were only a handful of people of color in my school and I can only remember five other Asian students. My circle of friends were all white. My best friend was white. I existed in and easily maintained a white culture. I walked through high school not noticeably affected by my race. There was a whitewashing that occurred and until I looked at myself in the mirror, I completely forgot that I was an Asian American.

It was during my twenties when I began to explore my racial identity by seeking out Asian American films and books. What I quickly learned was that Asian American female actresses were non existent and if they were in films, often times they played the stereotype role of the fetishized girl, the “dragon lady,” or “china doll” who is seen as the “other.” Asian American men, on the other hand, were completely reduced to either the caricature of the martial artist like Bruce Lee or the emasculated man like the awkward foreign exchange student Long Duk Dong from the movie Sixteen Candles. His character was intended to be the comic relief. Jokes were made at his expense while he spoke in broken English and gongs played in the background.

These are the images that I grew up seeing in television and media. These negative stereotypes impacted how I viewed myself and created my racial identity. Now as a parent who is raising an Asian American male, I wonder who will be his role models? Will he grow up seeing strong Asian American men in popular culture who fall in love, have successful jobs, and live complex “normal” lives? How will he internalize the absence of representation?

This past week I attended a show at Theater Mu. This theater company casts all Asian actors and seeks to represent the diverse stories from the Asian American experience. The show ended. The actors came out and bowed to the audience. As I clapped hysterically, I looked out on to the stage and all I could see was a group of talented Asian actors who looked like me. It was in that quiet fleeting moment where I felt validated. I existed. And that’s why representation matters.

Coexisting as an Adoptive Parent

It’s been 14 months since my son joined my family and I’m still learning how to navigate the complex and often times emotional world of being an adoptee who is also an adoptive parent. I’d like to think that as an adoptee I somehow have an inside advantage to understanding the nuances of adoption, but to be honest, there are moments when being adopted makes my relationship with my son that much more complicated.

Maybe post adoption is similar to mothers who give birth and experience postpartum depression because like these mothers, I didn’t feel a sense of euphoric joy and happiness that I’d expect following my son’s adoption. Instead, for the longest time, I felt a deep sense of guilt for adopting him. Sometimes when my son is sleeping and he wakes up crying out for his foster mother or when he makes up songs by singing, “Family-mommy, daddy, M,” it’s especially in these beautiful yet heartbreaking moments when I wonder how could I take my son away from his foster mother, his culture, and everything familiar.

Not only has my son’s adoption created feelings of guilt, but it’s also triggered many strong emotions and more questions about my own adoption. How do I avoid projecting my feelings about my adoption on to what he’s experiencing? Some days I want to be able to shut off my thoughts and pretend we’re not an adoptive family in order to be free from the expectations and pressures of adoption.

I’m beginning to understand how my son’s adoption will affect and define our relationship. He and I will always have the shared experience of being adoptees. Perhaps it will take time to be completely comfortable coexisting in the spaces of being an adoptee and an adoptive parent-a unique relationship which can feel all too familiar, yet entirely uncertain at the same time.


There are some families in the adoption community who celebrate the day their child arrived into their family by calling it “Gotcha Day.” This day is similar to a birthday celebration with family and friends. It’s presumed to be a joyous occasion. It sounds incredibly happy and loving, but in some ways the term feels a bit perverse. As an adoptee and now an adoptive parent, the word “gotcha” implies that my son is a commodity. What’s missing from this narrative is that “Gotcha Day” doesn’t acknowledge my son’s feelings of grief and loss over the abandonment of his birth family. Should he be expected to feel happy or grateful that he’s adopted when he’s experienced a deep and sudden loss?

As my son’s one year anniversary date approached, I started to experience mixed emotions of happiness and sadness. Wasn’t I supposed to be excited that he made it to this significant milestone? I have vivid memories of the first day of custody where on the van drive to the hotel my son reached down to grab the door handle struggling to get free. Or during that first evening when he cried out for his Omma (foster mother) while he ran to the hotel room door. How would his body respond to such a visceral traumatic experience one year later? And then it happened. The grief came in the middle of the night. My son woke up sobbing and calling out for his Omma and Bo (foster brother). I didn’t know how to comfort him. I held him tightly in my arms and whispered, “Omma loves you. You love Omma” as we both cried and let the year of loss wash over us.

I understand that throughout my son’s life, and even possibly every year during this time, his body will remind him of the day he left his birth family, his foster family, and his culture in order to join my family. Because my son is adopted, the gains and losses are a very real part of his life that needs no cause for celebration.

I Am Here

When I was six weeks old, I was abandoned and found in front of a steel factory in Daegu City, South Korea. The stranger who found me brought me to the nearest police station. I was referred to the White Lily Orphanage where I spent two weeks in their care until I was placed into a foster home and then finally adopted when I was six months old. When I first read this information from my file, I was shocked. The fictitious scenario that I had created in my mind of how I was adopted no longer matched the painful facts of my early life in Korea. Once the initial shock wore off, I was left with so many questions. How could my birth mother abandon me? Why didn’t she bring me to an adoption agency? What was she thinking the moment she lifted me out of her arms for the last time? Some days the weight of my unanswered questions feels overwhelmingly endless.

International adoption in Korea has a messy and complicated history. Since the 1950s it is estimated that up to 90 percent of children placed in orphanages or adopted have been to single unwed mothers, many of those children of who were abandoned. There’s a citizenship law in Korea that if you are abandoned then your birth father is considered “unknown.” This allows abandoned children to be deemed a citizen and therefore gives them access to government assistance, employment, and education. Yet, under this same law, if my birth mother had raised me as a single parent these same benefits would not be afforded to me. Maybe her only “choice” was relinquishment.

I’d like to think that during those six weeks while my birth mother cared for me, she didn’t agonize about her decision or was traumatized and shamed by her pregnancy like the pervasive unwed mother narrative suggests. Instead, this smart resilient woman knew exactly what she was about to do. Maybe my abandonment didn’t come from a place of sadness or desperation, but rather from a place of hope and love.

If I ever have the opportunity to meet my birth mother, what would I say to her? I would tell her that I understand her decision to relinquish me wasn’t actually her choice. I would say that I too, understand grief and loss. I survived. I am here.

Lee Herrick writes in his poem “Salvation”

I wonder what songs my birth mother sings and if she sings them for me what stories her body might tell. I have come to believe that the blues is the body’s salvation, a chorus of scars to remind you that you are here, flawed, angelic, and full of light. I believe that the blues is the spirit’s wreckage, examined and damaged but whole again, more full and prepared than it’s ever been, quiet and still, just as it was always meant to be.

May 24, 2017

Scene 1

May 24, 2017-Seoul, South Korea

I wake up, eat, and get dressed. Omma (mother) packed a big red suitcase filled with my clothes, bottles, hanbok, toys, and my blanket. I board the bus with my family to my adoption agency. I know this route well because I take this bus once a month.

Scene 2

Eastern Social Welfare Society- Seoul, South Korea

When I arrive at the agency omma begins to cry. My foster brothers try to comfort her, but she continues to cry. I ride my favorite orange bike in the lobby. I play with the toys. Everything is familiar. I know what to expect. A strange woman and man enter the room. They speak in funny words that I can’t understand. They nod and smile at me while they speak. The strange woman starts to cry. She reaches out and holds omma’s hand.

Scene 3

There is a white van waiting for me in the parking lot. Omma places me in the arms of the strangers. I don’t cry. I don’t struggle. The van stops at a stoplight. I reach down for the door handle, but I can’t open it. I start to panic. I am frightened. The strange woman speaks to me, but her words are of no comfort.

Scene 4

Somewhere in Seoul, South Korea

I arrive in a room. I look around. Nothing is familiar. I don’t recognize the smells. This isn’t my house. I am confused. I run to the door. I say, “Omma?” I say it again, but this time louder. She doesn’t answer. I am silent.

Many Desires From Home

img_0838-1Like many Korean American adoptees growing up in America, I was curious about my birth country and hoped one day to visit. Many adoptees take advantage of the popular homeland tours that their adoption agencies offer. I never had any real intense interest in doing a birth country tour. I just assumed that one day I would visit Korea on my own. It wasn’t until the adoption of my son that I had the opportunity to return to Korea. How do you emotionally prepare for a reunion trip? There wasn’t a guidebook that told me how to do it. How was I expected to feel? I wasn’t quite sure. The only certainty I had was that I would no doubt feel an extraordinary sense of belonging, but also a profound feeling of loss.

The euphoric sense of belonging happened immediately when I landed and walked into the densely crowded Hongik subway station. Here I was greeted by a sea of black haired and brown eyed chatty high school students who rapidly walked towards me. My initial thought was that everyone looked like me. It felt entirely surreal to be surrounded by people who physically resembled myself.

However, the more time I spent in Korea, the more my sense of belonging started to wane. This was especially evident when I tried to communicate by using my textbook broken Korean. Many times the servers at restaurants handed the English menu only to my white husband or when it was time to order ignored him and talked directly to me. Once while I rode the subway a woman started a conversation with me. I looked at her and replied, “Sorry, I speak English.” I’m sure people thought, She’s Korean. Why can’t she speak it? I felt like a foreigner. I was a foreigner.

There’s a place in Seoul, Korea called Namsan Tower. This tower sits atop a mountain and has spectacular panoramic views of the city. When I reached the observation deck and looked across the vast mountains over my birthplace, the stress from the week overwhelmed me. I started to cry. My husband asked me what was wrong but I didn’t know. Maybe I grieved for the life I could’ve had in Korea. Perhaps I felt regret for being in Korea and not searching for my birth mother or maybe I was disappointed because I realized that Korea would never feel like home.

When I think about my son’s adoption, I have these moments of irrational fear that he will resent me because I was the one who removed him from his birth country. He will be angry with me because he will never fully know his culture and not be Korean enough. The truth is that my son’s birth mother made an adoption plan. If he hadn’t joined my family, he would’ve been adopted by another family. He didn’t choose to leave Korea. The choice was made for him.

I understand that even though I was born in Korea, I will never be Korean. I will always feel like a stranger when I visit Korea. It will never feel like home. Nevertheless, the deep longing to return to the place where I began still remains strong.