Our extended relatives made it clear. My sister and I were “add-ons.”

It made me embarrassed, that I had to explain my existence to other people.

I think that’s why God gave me my daughter, so I wouldn't be alone.

If I wasn’t adopted, I’d be working a rice field. I’m not really an outdoor guy.

I didn’t have problems during childhood. I am who I am, Dutch Korean.

My teacher told the class, “This is her last day. She’s going to America.”

I’ll embrace the sorrow I still feel, and one day I will heal and forgive.

I remember looking in the mirror, trying to see what made me a target.

My mom told me herself that I was born on the floor at home.

Yeah, I’m black and Korean. But first and foremost, I’m black.

As a child, I often dreamt about what I saw the night I was abandoned.

I did a total 180 from not hanging out with Asians, making up for lost time.

When I walk into a room, do people look at me and say, there’s the Asian girl?

I never really discussed racism with my parents. I didn't want to relive it.

What if I find out something I don't want to know? That scares me.

I did 23andMe. My second cousin on my birth father's side contacted me.

I got married after my husband promised me he’d never mention my past.

I ask myself a lot of questions about my ability to be a mother.

It took my birth father 35 years of searching. He finally found me 3 years ago.

I’ve been homeless 15 times, from 1987 to the present—5 years in NYC.

I have both my birth family and my adoptive family, and I love them both.

I remember, vividly, the morning my mother gave us up. She was crying.

My adopting father told me he met my mother, and he negotiated with her.

It wasn't until college that I started to sort out my multiple identities.

My mother thinks that I’m happy all the time, not how I have struggled.

My earliest memories are of living in one room with my birth mother.

I was born to have an identity complex, being adopted and transgendered.

I miss Korea and my birth family. It’s a sadness that I carry with me.

I didn’t get the answers I wished for, but I am more at peace with that.

Why is Korea still sending children for adoption abroad?

We always felt we were Danish children, with Danish values and norms.

Maybe even more as an adoptee, I’m afraid of losing my parents.

After that, I kind of realized…okay, I’m a child born of rape.

An immigrant family that was unwilling to give up on an abandoned orphan.

My college essay was called “My Lucky Number”— my case number, K90821.

I was in the orphanage for the undesirable children. I was not adoptable.

As of today, I do not know who is telling the truth, and who is not.

In the Holt records, it says that I was left on the doorstep of a man’s house.

I’m grateful, truly, to be alive today. That’s why I tell my story.

People say my happy appearance is impressive, given my childhood.

I learned how to pronounce my Korean name, and realized that it’s beautiful.

I’m most likely a foundling, left near a police station.

I learned that I was incredibly lucky to have grown up in Denmark.

The email said, “We found your mother. You have to come to Korea now.”

That pain never goes away. I take my pain, and I put anger over it.

I meet facility alumni. Some are successful, some have gone astray.

I want to be as good a parent as my mom was for me. I’ll try my hardest.

We have to stop turning ourselves into victims.

Because I’ve chosen to become a single mother, I think about my birth mother a lot.

It’s good to feel like you can acknowledge the complexities around adoption.

Adoption includes the first family. The child did not appear from nowhere.

I don’t remember much, except the crying—all those unhappy children.

What I had been looking for in my birth mom, I found when my son was born.

I don’t know how to put it into words. I wish I could live like everyone else.

I don't talk much about growing up in an orphanage—my darkest moment.

I was the baby—the first choice to give up for adoption. I understand that.

My adoptive parents are Korean. I grew up speaking Korean.

Korea never left me. Korea is inside of me. I eat, breathe, and live Korea.

A feeling of detachment, and an inability to connect with anybody.

She gave me a ring she was wearing and said, “We have the same hands.”

I grew up feeling like a Martian who had arrived from outer space.

Would I have been better off in Korea? I think the answer is always, no.

My oldest son got me a DNA test, and it stated I’m 100% Japanese.

When I married, I hid my history. Afterwards, the truth became known.

I have chosen to see adoption as a part of my life, not the driver.

My mother simply asked me, “Would you like to go to America?”

God, why am I here? Why did you put me in this household?

I enjoy traveling. When you travel, you’re not supposed to belong.

Five Korean adoptees getting together, then 12, 15, 20, hundreds.

In Korea, I can feel the way people look at me, and I lose confidence.

The woman on the phone says, “We think we found your mother.”

There’s no information about me, my birth, my family in Korea. Nothing.

I am a man who should have died a long time ago, but I have a family now.

My biological father is standing there, leaning over a motorcycle.

I feel my friends hold the concept of finding birth parents closer than I do.

My adoptive parents loved me so much, before they even had me.

It was like opening Pandora’s Box, this piece of paper in my hands.

It’s important for me to share, to encourage others who’ve been victims.

My adoptive parents are Korean. I found out I was adopted 3 years ago.

What I’ve learned through my faith in the Lord, is that it happened for a reason.

Learning Korean really made me the most in touch with being Korean.

Mild curiosity grew into a need to connect with adoptees and Korean-Americans.

There’s a different layer on life when someone chooses you.

For the first time, I saw other adoptees who looked a bit like me.

My birth mother has remarried, and her husband can’t know that I exist.

My biological parents wanted us to be together with a Christian family.

My mom’s comment to me was, “You should be dating your own kind.”

I see a lot of Chinese babies who are adopted. We kind of blazed a trail.

I sold hard taffy, physical labor. Those jobs were my ticket to survival.

I remember walking down a dirt road in Korea, and crying.

It was an unspeakable act. I wanted to forget it. But I couldn’t.

If I were to be given another life, I would want to receive parental love.

When I met my birth mom, it wasn't under the best circumstances.

It’s not a job, but getting married that’s a challenge.

I was 7 and a half when I was adopted. I was told that I had two sisters.

My facility experience has made me tough. I don’t cry over small things.

My husband and I are both Korean. Our son inherits our Korean heritage.

He puts his little hand on my face. “Momma, we have the same eyes.”

Mixed-race kids were seen as human refuse, a scourge on their culture.

All of a sudden, I saw real Koreans, who weren’t speaking Danish.