I live with a public secret. It affects me profoundly at times, yet it’s barely noticeable.

My right eye is a “false eye”. A prosthetic. A piece of glass. A bauble that rests in my eye socket but does nothing. My disguise does its job well and goes unnoticed to the average person. Even my closest friends and family tell me all the time they forget about it entirely.

But it’s there. Always a truth of my existence. Which is a lot like being adopted.

This prosthetic is a recent development. In 2013, at the age of 48, I was diagnosed with an extremely rare type of melanoma cancer that forms within the eye. It grew fast and while I’m not sure how long it was there, it started to slowly separate my retina, which blurred my vision. So, I went to the eye doctor who diagnosed me and immediately sent me to UCLA for further testing and treatment.

The cancer was positioned very close to my left tear duct, and dangerous because it was growing quickly and if it hits the ocular nerve, it moves into the brain. Because of these complications they recommended the urgent removal of my eye, and its replacement with a prosthetic. Years later, and bullet dodged, my new pretty bauble hides the truth of all the shock and fear that came before it.

I’m very grateful to the amazing physicians and specialists who took care of me and that we live in such remarkable times. My adoption story is similar. In both instances, I was given no other option. It was not my choice as an infant to be removed from my natural mother. It may have been necessary, but that’s hard to judge from the distance of decades. I’m grateful to be alive, and to have been raised by good adoptive parents who loved me. But both instances began with loss – something permanent was severed, and

something new and pretty sits on the surface covering up the pain beneath. Having only one working eye hinders my depth perception, but only up close. Now, with my one eye, I still see at distances over twenty feet the same as before. This is because our brains line up the order that objects are in for us: when looking outside the window into my yard, I see the patio, the grass, then a tree, and the fence beyond. Our brains create that visual and line up ​common objects, so we don’t have to think so hard. This is all part of our grand human design.

Inside of twenty feet, that’s when our two eyes work together, creating an overlap of what we see to measure depth or distance. Now, parking my car, hiking on a trail, or moving down a set of stairs is more challenging than before.

I can hop on escalators, even towing luggage, but I pause an extra beat before I step onto that rolling contraption. When I’m going down sloping walkways or stairs, I always make a beeline for the side wall or handrails no matter where I am. I need them.

I recently took a lengthy international trip and was traveling with new friends, and realized I needed to let them in on my little secret. Because this one-eyed business with lots of trains, planes, and buses meant I wanted them to understand my needs. Each in turn took in this information and were glad I let them know. It felt good to share this with them, rather than try to brush it off like it wasn’t a thing. Because it is a thing.

Again, that’s an awful lot like adoption when you think about it. Adopted kids often run in this weird in-between place. The truth is that we do need the people around us, especially the ones closest to us, to know we’re going to sometimes need some extra support. A little extra help navigating the world. But we often don’t want to make a big deal about it either. I don’t tell people about my eye because I don’t want to be different. I get to decide who knows and when or why. I felt the same about my adopted status growing up. Adopted from birth, I never really wanted to be “special”, yet when other people knew, they insisted I was.

Adopted kids are often expected to know how to express their thoughts or feelings about their adoptions, but often lack the words. Growing up, I often found myself alone inside, trying to describe my emotions or frame questions but I had no examples to follow. I also didn’t want to hurt the feelings of my parents and risk losing their love. So, then nothing got shared or said, and my loneliness only expanded.

My perspective has been forever altered by being adopted—and by losing my eye to cancer. However, others perceive me differently when they know. It harbors its own set of rules, limitations, and yes, sometimes even blessings. Cancer is a hell of a teacher to appreciate the most basic things in life. But I would not wish it on anyone, either. There are blessings stored within curses ​that no one else can perceive. The complexities are like the classic wooden Russian doll sets – each unique one lives inside the other.

I’ve adapted and folded this altered existence into my being so completely that unless you know me well, you won’t see it. Which ironically really hits home when we think of adoption practices in the US until the mid-1970’s.

Adoptions were meant to be secret back then, and many adoptees were matched as closely as possible to look like our new family, which was very true for me. Blend in, disappear, and don’t let anyone know you’re different or see what your life is really like. I’m exceptional at that, and I think other adoptees are too. For many of us, hiding our pain is by design, and that coping mechanism is a beauty to behold until someone really knows our truth.

The “gift” of cancer is one that keeps on giving. This brand of melanoma likes to come back. It’s preferred stalking zones are liver and bone. So far so good, but I live with that fear as each November approaches and it’s time for my annual MRI or CT scan. I tell few people about it, but of course the uncertainty lingers. I take the big win every time I get the “all clear” results and have felt lucky as the years accumulate. Adoption taught me this resilience, and I’m grateful for it. But there are times when I wish I hadn’t learned to be so tough.

There are ways that people can help their adopted children or friends better navigate the world and respond to their needs in productive and helpful ways. Regardless of our age, many adopted persons need others to:

1. Respect our desire for control. Who we tell and how much gets shared about our lives needs to be our say, because people do treat us differently when they know.

2. Understand our needs evolve over time, and there is no “one” adoption story.

3. Perceive that even when things look pretty and calm on the outside, that may be much different than what is happening below the surface.

4. Remember these changes are permanent. We adapt, we cope, we survive and hopefully learn how to thrive despite these challenges, but they never go away.

5. Embrace the paradox of our reality: even if being adopted was necessary and we love our families, there is always loss at the root of it.​

Just like you, I’m totally normal. And I’m not. I’m grateful to be alive and I will take care of myself and fight hard as I always have. Because I want to be here. It’s taken me a long time to know my worth, to understand that I can be seen and appreciated for all of me, even when I still struggle to find the right words.

And that I think is one of the most important journeys I am still trekking in both adoption, and cancer. And now that I’m getting a little better at asking for what I need, I’ll hope I can count on you – and help others do the same.

Which is why I’m joining the other coaches at Growing Intentional Families Together. I want to share my wisdom and lived experience to help families better meet the needs of their adoptees, no matter what phase they are at on their journey.

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