In so many Western countries, adoption is often seen as a humanitarian act — something beautiful, selfless, even heroic. People talk about it as if it’s purely altruistic: a child from a “third world” country gets a better life, so they should be thankful. But this narrative hides something deeper. It ignores the politics behind adoption — global inequalities, colonial histories, and the fact that adoptive parents often get celebrated far more than adoptees get understood. One of the most common things people tell me is: “You should be grateful.” Grateful for being adopted. Grateful for a “better” life. Hearing that is infuriating — nobody would ever tell a biological child to be grateful for just existing, right?

I had a good childhood. I had everything I needed. But that doesn’t mean gratitude is my duty. It doesn’t mean anyone else can define what I feel, or what I am allowed to feel. What unsettles me most is how easily people speak about adoption as if they know its weight — when they have never carried it.

Middle school was the first shift — the age when you start asking who you are, where you come from, what your place is supposed to be. At first, I thought the problem was me. I felt stuck between worlds. No home. No culture. No place that felt entirely mine. It was a strange loneliness — dim, heavy, and hard to speak about. Over time, I began to understand that nothing was wrong with me. The emptiness came from the spaces that were never filled — the language I was never given, the tools I was never taught, the story I had to piece together on my own.

One problem with Western adoption narratives is that they end the story the moment the child arrives. People assume: They’ll grow up here. They’ll be fine. They’ll blend in. But there is almost no aftercare. No thought for identity. No thought for belonging. No thought for cultural connection.

My parents weren’t strict; I had freedom, and I am grateful for that. But the ignorance was still there. I grew up in a small town where “Asian food” meant the local Chinese-Indian restaurant — not real Chinese food, not the food that tastes like home. My parents never tried to introduce me to Chinese culture. Never thought about sending me to Chinese school. Maybe I wouldn’t have wanted it then. But the absence of the thought mattered. Years later, I found myself introducing Asian culture to them. There is a strange irony in that.

A while ago, a news report aired about racism against Asian people in the NL — how normalized it is, and how often it goes unspoken because we already know it won’t be taken seriously. After watching it, my father asked me if I had ever experienced racism. Honestly, it felt like he was asking me if the sky is blue. Of course I had. It’s almost a starter kit for Asians here. When I told him, he looked surprised. That moment said a lot — the first time I truly understood how unaware they were.

Everything I’ve talked about is personal, and I know not everyone will feel the same. But I still feel caught somewhere in between — not as lost as before, but not fully grounded either. Western adoption carries an unspoken expectation of gratitude — a quiet pressure to be thankful, without acknowledging what was lost, what was taken, or what was never allowed to grow. The gratitude narrative overshadows the complexity of being adopted. And once you become aware of that complexity, it’s hard to unsee it.

Knowing more does not make things easier. It only makes them clearer — not always comfortable, but honest.