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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Why is Korea still sending children for adoption abroad?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

We have to stop turning ourselves into victims.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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