227 Adoptee Remembrance Day
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Full shownotes: https://www.adopteeson.com/listen/227
Haley Radke: This podcast is for educational and entertainment purposes only. Nothing stated on it, either by its hosts or any guests, is to be construed as psychological, medical, or legal advice.
You are listening to Adoptees On, the podcast where adoptees discuss the adoption experience. I'm Haley Radke. Today's episode has mentions of suicide, self-harm, and other potentially challenging topics.
Adoptee Remembrance Day is commemorated annually on October 30th. It is a day to remember our adoptee friends who have died by suicide.
On this day, we also acknowledge the adopted people who are without citizenship in the very country they were taken to as infants or children.
We think of those who have suffered abuse at the hands of their adoptive parents and grieve those who've been murdered by the people who promised to give them a safe home.
We mourn with those of us who have buried pain through addictions and lost time through incarceration.
On Adoptee Remembrance Day, we validate the experiences of those who have had adoption disruptions and multiple placements.
Today we recognize the disconnection and loss of all who identify as being separated from our families of origin by no choice of our own.
This is the third annual Adoptee Remembrance Day and the third annual Adoptee Remembrance Day episode on Adoptees On. In previous years, I've asked listeners to submit recordings of what the day meant to them. This year I recorded a live event with the Adoptee Voices writing groups, and 10 adoptee writers who are sharing a collection of their poetry and prose with us today.
It was powerful and moving, and deeply beautiful, and filled with sorrow. Thank you to Sara Easterly and Adoptee Voices for assisting in the curation of this episode, and to each of the writers who recorded their thoughts. It is deeply appreciated, thank you.
Before we get started, I want to invite you to join our Patreon adoptee community today over on Adopteeson.com/community, which helps support you, and also the show to support more adoptees around the world.
Okay, friend. Let's listen in.
Maya Holmes: My name is Maya Holmes. I'm from St. Louis, Missouri. I am a same-race, African-American, domestic adoptee, and this piece is called A Day for the Forgotten and Broken-Hearted.
October 30th is our special day, much like birthdays and anniversaries are to others. Coming together, one by one, arms linked and hearts connected. We are one community with different stories and similar outcomes. We need each other, and that's what Adoptee Remembrance Day is all about.
Today is a day of freedom. Freedom to cry and to laugh. It's a day to release ourselves from the chains that bind us, to expose and start healing the scars that were passed to us in our prenatal environments. It's a day to release the tears from the pain inflicted upon us, not by choice. It's our time to not be grateful. To let go of the rehearsed storylines we tell to protect our hearts and others’. Today is the adoptee’s day to be selfish.
Adoptees are often forgotten. We become numb to our circumstances, causing us to stay in the fog. We are the shadows of our adoptive families. To be adopted is to be in a constant state of wanting: wanting to be seen, wanting to be heard, and most of all wanting to be celebrated.
To the adoptees abandoned by their chosen families: we see you. To the adoptees who face secondary rejection: we feel you. To the adoptees looking for validation: we know you. To the adoptees advocating for our community: we hear you. And to the adoptees calling for help: know that there is someone waiting for you.
It's our time to have a day, a day to be remembered, to be heard without judgment, to feel loved without conditions, and to be heard with no interruptions.
So let's reclaim our identities and stories, and celebrate.
Christine Koubek Flynn: I'm Christine Koubek Flynn. I was born in Massachusetts and adopted domestically in New York. This is called On Remembering Adoption.
I feel a little ashamed to admit, especially to other adoptees, that sometimes I don't want to remember adoption. There are periods when I struggle to talk about it or write about it, even as a journalist. I have a deeply rooted inclination not to say much about adoption. It's hard to find the right words, non-offensive words, politically correct words. Words that won't hurt someone's feelings.
When I was younger, I fantasized about going a whole year not remembering that I was adopted, which I could never pull off, because I look nothing like my siblings. Not to mention a year includes autumn, and autumn includes my birthday, which now also happens to be the first day of National Adoption Month. For me, the first day of November is the anniversary of when a rapid succession of loss began. Losses before I learned words, let alone had an ability to process them.
There are also constant reminders in the media calling me to remember. (Damn you, Randall, on This is Us. You're so good.) When the movie Philomena debuted several years ago, a friend texted, “Have you seen Philomena? Just saw it, so good. Made me think of Ann.” While I know she was being kind, there was no way I wanted to see that movie.
My birth mother, Ann, had passed away four years earlier, and I was afraid to re-trigger the lonely, complicated grief that would still hit me like a rogue wave. Why see a movie about an Irish teenager who had made love, got pregnant, was sent away, and then made to give up her son for adoption and keep quiet, whose son's existence was a secret? The trajectory was eerily similar to Ann's story.
I had sons to care for, family events, work deadlines, and a determination to avoid anything that might send me back to that somber place, remembering my own birth mother, whom I'd met when I was 19. We'd cobbled together a 20-plus-year relationship in which I felt both loved and seen, and then I lost her again, this time to breast cancer.
But then I had a change of heart, so I texted my friend, Heather, who was also adopted: “Philomena? Tomorrow?” We sat in a nearly empty theater for a Saturday morning showing and squeezed each other's forearms as we discovered that there was everything –and nothing!-- somber about Philomena. I laughed when she spoke bluntly about her sexual parts, and felt my heart rest as I listened to her soft way of saying hard truths, in scene after scene.
Phillomena reminded me of Ann. I remembered several autumn drives along her memory lanes. I sipped coffee as we rode along and Ann pointed out a baseball dugout, parks, a church: the places where she met the boy who'd become my father.
One movie scene replayed in my mind for days after. It's the part where Philomena grapples with which was her greater sin: having a child out of wedlock, or keeping the secret for 50 years? I was born in the late 60s, just before Roe v. Wade, a time when secrecy and silence, learned as if by osmosis, were the price a child paid for love and belonging. I don't think people understood –or perhaps wanted to acknowledge– how severing a child from its origins, its ancestry, and the mother it grew to know from within, is a life-impacting trauma. I was never supposed to know my birth parents, let alone love them. The messages, some of which might have been well-intentioned, were clear: I had a family where I belonged and could try to blend in. There's much to be thankful for, why dredge up the past, don't dredge up the past. That's the kind thing to do.
And yet there's a part of me that believes –that has always believed– that the kindest thing you can do for another person is to listen, to try to see him or her, the whole and true him or her, and honor that story.
As Fred Rogers once said, “Anything that's human is mentionable, and anything that is mentionable can be more manageable.” That's the belief that sent me to the movies, and has me always circling back to listen and share adoption stories, whether in person or on a page. The times I talk with other adoptees help adoption’s aftershocks feel less overwhelming. They shine a light through the dark places, and remind me once again, how very connected, how tethered to one another we are.
Marci Purcell: I'm Marci Purcell from Austin, Texas, and I'm an adoptee, adopted out of foster care. This piece is called We Remember In Our Bones.
We remember in our bones. We can't remember in our heads, in our homes, in our beds, But in our bones, we remember. We can't remember the lands, the choice, the hands, But her voice, we remember. Our mind aches for what not it knows, But we remember, in our bones.
Rebecca Cheek: I’m Rebecca Cheek. I live in South Carolina. I am a transracial, international, Korean-American adoptee. This piece is called Individually, Collectively.
Part One. Let go of the anger and the pain, the collective disdain we have for those people who will never understand what we live through, but also never attempt to. No understanding without empathy, thinking of outcomes that only serve them well.
We are empty. Tapped out. Individually, collectively.
Part Two. Let's take rest and repair. The collective care we have nourishes our souls. We know without knowing the details of each other's lives, but also don't require them.
Breathe together to survive. Contemplating outcomes that serve us well. We are full to bursting. Individually, collectively.
Roberta Holland: I'm Roberta Holland in Boston, and I was placed as an infant through a closed domestic adoption. My piece is called Happy Birthday.
You weren't there, but you say I was born. You weren't there, but you say I was loved. You weren't there, but you say I was a gift. A pink, shiny newborn given away in love. Love, not pain, not fear. You weren't there, but you say my birth was happy. A day to be celebrated, a day no one mourned.
I mourned. Deep below my fontanels, I mourned. An antiseptic coldness, Seeping into my tiny bones as I whooshed out of my mother, out of the womb, Out of her orbit, Into the void.
The snap of loss, Of a connection breaking, Imprinted on my every cell like a permanent birthmark, An unshakable legacy you can't wrap with a pretty bow.
When I'm a toddler blowing out candles on a Raggedy Ann birthday cake, My eyes are watery and I don't know why. We will blame it on the smoke and not the sting of memory, For what can a baby remember?
When I'm in elementary school, Surrounded by friends in an ice cream parlor, I dive under the table as the waitstaff sings Happy Birthday. We will blame it on my shyness and not my feeling that something is wrong.
When I'm in high school, then college, I am sucked into a darkness Meters below the sheen of parties and pub crawls. We will blame it on who showed up, who didn't, Too much alcohol, not enough alcohol, And not the undertow of sorrow that permeates this day, always.
When I'm an adult and become muted, go still on my birthday: Don't blame it on a lack of presence or festivities. It's not the celebration that matters. Don't blame it on vanity about getting older. It's not my age that matters.
I can name what matters, now. That first birthday gift. The gift I could never return, the gift of me, The rupture from who I was supposed to be, The tumbling of the dice as I was given to a new family.
That gift of adoption, the gift born of loss, Can't be repackaged no matter the love, the festive decorations. It's a black armband, encircling my heart, A pang I'm not supposed to feel. Reaching out to my tribe of adoptees, I only need mention my birthday, and they get it. The care emojis and the empathy flow. A salve on the wound. Communal pain eased by acknowledgement.
They know the truth: That my birth and death are conjoined twins. The death of another life, Not better or worse, but different, first.
So remember, you weren't there, But I was. If you notice my watery eyes as I blow out the candles, Give me the space I need to breathe, The space I need to grieve, The anniversary of my joyless birth.
Adam Anthony: My name is Adam Anthony from Nashville, Tennessee. I'm a domestic, infant-born adoptee. This piece is called How Do I Really Feel About All This?
All my life regarding my adoption, I've been told stories with words of gratitude, love, excitement, and pride. The not-so-subtle Christian overtone for my family, friends, family friends, acquaintances, and such. Those are the origin feelings that I was supposed to feel and emulate with and identify. I'm not saying I did not genuinely have those emotions, it's just that the darker and more complex emotions of anger, confusion, frustration, and doubt were too much for many that I've grown up with. I put those emotions away in a box without discussing them much, but they were still apparent in my everyday actions and behaviors.
Anxiety became a best friend, and how easy it can be to expel those feelings on an unsuspecting person that I encounter. I then feel hurt. With the journey I've gone on so far, there's so much hurt accompanying the sadness and some regret. It's reserved mainly for those ancestors and biological connections past, that I never got the chance to connect with, or our time together on this Earth was much too short. It hurts that the people involved, and the system, did not consider my possible desires to want to know where I came from and the people who played a part in my existence. The assumption that I would just be okay with living a life that never fully suited me and having a limited backstory because “I'm so blessed” and grateful to have the life I've been given, so the rest is moot? Well, that's just incorrect. I feel the pain from the choices other people made for me, and because of my birth and adoption circumstances, there was nothing I could ever do.
Well, where is the space for me to say the feelings of what's really going on here? I know that it makes people uncomfortable because they're not used to me being so verbal and clear with my emotions on all this, but it is time.
Of course, I know the gaslighting and persuasion comes from unsolicited opinions, either from those who know my adopted parents and are ready to defend and support them, or those who know my biological parents and are ready to do the same. That reality makes me angry. I did not choose to be hidden or relinquished, but I know I must yield power and presence inside me, because I've talked a lot for most of my life and felt this strong internal purpose that would take time to yield and understand.
Not that I feel self-righteous or indignant, but purposeful, and overwhelmed because no one in my family consistently cares in the way I need them to without inserting their own biases or opinions. When it comes to healing and telling my story, it truly is up to me. No one else could do this journey for me, nor would I wish anyone else to go on it. This journey is not for the weak, I feel. It's for those who have the capacity to endure, as well as heal.
Tina: My name is Tina. As a toddler, San Francisco Catholic Charities facilitated my interracial, domestic adoption from foster care. This is Breathing Blue.
Inhale, exhale Crackling wet Wave moments, Tide of time near. Calm, blue, breath. Didn't we all begin Simply? Growing body, liquid belly swelling, Buoyant, rocking, kicking
What swam deep with echo Voicing ocean's sleep. What was the sound of her? Vibrations of male denial, Rogue wave, immaturity, Amniotic storm, tranquil innocence. Infant swimmer, waterfall escape.
Continue adrift, drowning differently. Who hears? Scream and cry, Witnessing shiny drips, slipping over round cheeks, Choke, cough, gasp. Water or air. Once submerged, now surrounded, Trying to live, Simultaneously dying. Last breath, last beat. First. Thrashing before birth, First breath, First beat, Last.
How did this all start? Ending so fast All this life, exiting Never knowing How the stars longed to marry you. How does the floating learn to travel like everyone else?
Crashing birth First breath, First beat, Last. Beginnings, Futures past, Last breath, Last beat, First.
Departure of you Brings rain. Welcome, sparkling reflection. Distant heart Thump, splash, pump. Moonlight’s answer calls Twinkling’s light Just enough, Quieting fight. Pulling horizon, Washing you Out to sea. Cradled, Free. Soaring and drifting are the same. Disappearing drenched, Or new day dawning. Permanent, perfect, in between. As the moon glows, radiant. Adoptee’s rebirth. Constellations, legacy, wake.
Cynthia Landesberg: I am Cynthia Landesberg from Washington, D.C., and I am a transracial, transnational adoptee from Korea. This piece is called The Day They Say I Was Born.
The day they say I was born is the day my umma wrote 9-21 on a piece of paper she pinned to me before leaving. Or, a social worker closed her eyes, pointed a finger, and landed on that date. Or, a doctor guessed based upon the number of kilograms on the scale. Who knows.
The day they say I was born is the day my umma was fooled by nature to nurture me, marking the start of seven weeks until the finish of us.
The day they say I was born is the day my adoptive parents celebrate my arrival. Not to the world, but to their world. Recalling the toes and fingers and nose of their six-month-old newborn, forgetting that I belonged to someone else before them.
The day they say I was born is the day I share with my adopted sister, six years and seven days apart. “Close enough.” Joint parties with cakes that were half Big Bird, half unicorn. Half me, half her. Malleable, movable, mutable sisters, molded into convenience.
The day they say I was born is the day I announced I would not celebrate my birthday anymore, not celebrate the loss of being born, not celebrate the loss of being lost.
And it is also the day I cried, alone, because that was not what I really wanted either.
The day they say I was born is the day I have learned to draw closer and hold tighter. To my sons who miss their first mamas, too. To my daughter who taught me what a birth-day actually is. And to my husband who gets up early to slow-cook short ribs for my dinner, nourishing me the only way he can.
The day they say I was born is the day I howl, openly and bittersweet heartache, for what could have been. For the loss of not knowing what could have been.
Uncertainty of origin drives people to tell tales. Jews and Genesis, Greeks and Gaia, Koreans and Tongan. And me, and the day they say I was born.
Sandi Smith: I’m Sandi from Milwaukee, Wisconsin. I am a domestic, infant adoptee, and this piece is called Earthquake.
Waves, aftershocks, tsunamis Shifting earth, swaying buildings, rippling of the ground, liquifaction. Two bodies once joined in their shared grief, a grief for which they had no words. Relationships ending, grasping for something solid, if only for the moment.
An earthquake: Two plates below the earth, moving against each other Under pressure And the pressure mounts. Small rumbles give a warning to what is to come. Then the shock, unexpected, Traveling secretly underground. A pregnancy, unexpected, Unwanted, shameful, and the earth quakes.
Liquifaction: Once-solid ground turns to rolling waves.
Aftershocks: Society's structures, once dependable, Sway and crumble. A tsunami builds on the horizon. It approaches to swallow up anyone in its path. Run away, find higher ground. What was once familiar is wiped out. Only detritus is left in its wake.
Detritus: A baby. Debris must be cleared. ‘Time will heal the horror,’ they say. ‘You'll forget the shock. The swaying and undulating of what was one solid. Simply push aside how it felt when you ran from the threat of your destruction.’ But, there was a scar on that landscape that cannot be erased. A baby. A child, a young woman, a new mother, a wise woman.
What you ran from lives on in me. How can I name the feelings? I was your shame, your secret, your story to conceal. But I too have a secret to tell. In my story, no relationship feels solid. Lliquifaction. All around me, the world appears solid. I alone feel the rumbles of what may come to swallow me up.
Aftershocks. Fear of abandonment. Tremors. Uprooted. Do whatever you must to stay rooted. If the ground shifts below your feet and loss is imminent, run! Run away to a safe place.
You ask me how I feel about my adoption? I feel that I have lived on the head of a seismograph’s needle. Sensing doom, Recording rumbles. Sensitive to the waves rolling just under the surface of what appears solid to others. My whole life? Liquifaction.
Chae Ryan: Hi, my name is Chae Ryan. I am an international, transracial, Korean adoptee from Perth in Australia.
I don't believe in heaven, but the closest my human conception can relate to is the glowing white holes of the emergency room. Here was a place for the living, for those fighting to survive, and for the unconditional love of the angels dressed in white and blue, who have dedicated their lives to saving them. Yet here I was, in such an intense, overwhelming pain that all I wanted to do was end mine. I was an imposter here.
I overheard whispers amongst the angels about the incoming Afghani refugees being airlifted to the hospital as part of Australia's response to the humanitarian crisis in Afghanistan. And though I'd been sitting in the room for 13 hours, by that point, I didn't mind. I could see that many of the staff had been there just as long.
When the attending doctor saw me, I remember being so physically ill and crippled, I could barely move. The agony and sheer feelings of anguish were unbearable. The doctor gave me a sedative and I escaped my pain into a spaceless, dreamless slumber.
I awoke 10 hours later to the sight of refugees crowded into makeshift beds from the gray padded hospital chairs. Their eyes had lost a sparkle of the infinite universe and the intricate wonders of a human soul. And if this was heaven, then only their physical bodies made it here, and their consciousness was left far behind in what I could only imagine was hell. This was what trauma and PTSD looked like, and I didn't know it at that moment, but this was what I was experiencing, also.
Noticing my staring through the rectangular window of my room, a friendly nurse interrupted my gaze with a wave and a smile, making their way over.
“Sleep well?” he asked with an ironic grin, suggesting that he knew that I had.
“I'm sorry, I don't think I should be here,” I responded, convinced I needed to remedy my feelings of guilt and shame in taking up a whole bed and room to myself while I could see that space was very limited.
“Nonsense. You're exactly where you needed to be,” he responded matter-of-factly. “Come on, they'll be waiting to meet you.” The nurse took me to a room where I presented in front of a panel of six doctors specializing in different areas of mental health. They asked me questions about my life, and the circumstances leading up to me now wanting to end it all.
Up until this day, anytime someone had asked me about my life, I always avoided sharing my story. It was too painful managing other people's emotions or beliefs surrounding adoption, and it's exhausting, and I was stubborn in my refusal to believe that my start in life had affected who I was. I had run away from home at 15, and I'd been running away trying to avoid this inescapable pain ever since.
The more questions the doctors asked me, the more I realized I didn't know who I was. I didn't know my family's medical history, and a lot of my memories of my childhood are locked away in a part of my consciousness that I can't access now. Or perhaps those memories have been erased completely. I'm not entirely sure.
I started to panic. I was having an identity crisis. I shared with them my story of how I was placed into a home as a child, where I should never have been placed. How I struggled in relationships and accepting love, how I poured myself into socially acceptable addictions, like exercise and work, to try to cope and fill the empty void of a family and a deep yearning in my heart. How in this moment, the separation from my girlfriend and my rejection in landing a work promotion, had evoked the reliving of the trauma of relinquishment from my birth mother, or what I now know as the primal wound.
Later that day, the nurse presented me with my treatment paperwork. I felt like I had just received a school report card. Only this time, instead of self-sabotaging and deliberately failing maths, as I had in high school because I was so desperately confused by my Asian identity, this report card was proof that I was failing at the life that I had been given. My results were in, and I had scored major depression and complex developmental trauma. And learning about what my diagnosis meant, I discovered that adoptees have a four times higher rate of attempting suicide than non-adoptees, and are at a higher risk of depression, addiction, and other mental health challenges throughout their lifetime.
I realized I couldn't keep running anymore. I couldn't keep telling myself that my adoption hadn't affected me, because the proof was in the statistics and the lived experiences that many adoptees have been brave enough to share. My adoption has affected every part of me, my mind, my beliefs, and every single atom within my body. And growing up in an environment that didn't accept, acknowledge, or validate my pain, had led me to a life of suffering in isolation, in silence, and an endless sabotaging of myself.
So for the very first time, I started to explore the complex and painful story of who I am and where I came from. To discover, advocate for, and reclaim my identity, to heal from the trauma before it took my life.
The nurse had been right: I was exactly where I needed to be, and though I didn't believe it, then, I know it now. All adoption starts in loss and trauma. I wasn't an imposter after all, and my body for a long time had been trying to tell me that this, this was important.
It's been a year since I visited those white holes. The path I followed has been incredibly difficult, and at times it's heartbreaking knowing that the next year of my life will be even more challenging still. But I've found support in connecting with organizations and purposely established government agencies that exist to help adoptees just like me.
I know now that I'm not alone. I have allies and I can see clearly now the footprints of the adoptees that have walked and survived this incredibly complex path before me. Their resilience, capacity to love, and bravery inspire me each and every day. I'm thankful that I'm still here, and I wanted to share my voice on Adoptee Remembrance Day.
Haley Radke: Thank you to each of the writers who poured their hearts out through writing with other adoptees, and sharing their personal experiences and pain and creativity. Just an honor to be able to share your work. A lot of these folks are private and don't have public social media. Those that have websites or social media that are okay with it being out there, they are linked in the show notes for you. And in future, if any of these pieces are published or find a home, we will link to that as well for you. But for now, I hope you have enjoyed and learned from their words and that something you heard today will resonate with you and you'll feel seen and validated, and know that you are not alone.
If the thought of writing with other adoptees sounds inspiring or interesting to you, I have a short interview with Sara Easterly of Adoptee Voices at the very end of this episode. So if that sounds good to you, you can keep listening to the very end, past the music, to hear my conversation with Sara. Thank you so much for being here with us, thank you for listening to adoptee voices, and let's talk again next Friday.
Okay. So we just finished recording everyone's pieces and it was so impactful and powerful and just full of emotion. I mean, how proud are you of the community that you have gathered together of adoptee writers?
Sara Easterly: Well, I'm still feeling really emotional coming off of hearing them read. The answer is yes, I'm bursting with pride in them and it's not in a superior way, I just feel so much caring. And just the courage that I saw each of them exhibiting, it takes so much courage to even get it out of us –as I think all adoptees know– to start just getting all of this built-up stuff out and on the page. And then there's another level of courage to read it aloud in our writing groups. And then today, just knowing that their words will be shared on the podcast, I think that's just taking that courage, you know, just pushing it one step further.
So I just– I'm in awe and I feel like I'm bursting, I feel like I could cry. I probably will go have a good cry after. Just so many emotions that are all swirling right now. Yeah, just so proud of them.
Haley Radke: So proud. I can see mother hen vibes– in a good way, in a good way.
Sara, tell us about Adoptee Voices. What made you create it? Tell us about some of the things that you offer in building adoptee confidence in writing and skills.
Sara Easterly: I've been a part of writing groups and writing communities for 22 years and different writing groups in all different forms and ways to go about them. During the pandemic, I joined a writing group that was all online, and it kind of opened my eyes. I was kind of thinking in the back of my mind, ‘gosh, this would be a really nice kind of way to do an adopt–’ You know, the adoptee community was starting to come together in so many unique ways because of the pandemic. It was one of the silver linings of the pandemic is just seeing how our community flourished in so many different ways with online spaces.
And so I had this idea in the back of my mind, and then an adoptee who read my book got in touch with me, Julian Washio-Collette. And we were talking and then he said, “Do you know of any writing groups for adoptees?” And I'd been kind of doing the adoptee thing where I had this idea, but I was too afraid to let it out, like too afraid to do anything with it. I was sitting on the idea for probably four or five months, and then as soon as he asked me the question, I said, “Yes, I do. I'm starting one.”
It was like I just needed that catalyst to move forward. And I actually had reached out to Jennifer –I kind of just did these side things– Jennifer Dyan Ghoston. We were in an adoptee meeting at some point, and I sent her a note, “Would you be a facilitator?”
And then I heard Alice Stevens on your podcast, and I heard her passion about publishing, and I had a very similar experience to hers in terms of having roadblocks when I went to publish my book. When we share the truth, we bump up against the narrative that, culturally, everybody wants to hear about adoption, and so it's hard to get published. Publishers look to trends, they look to what's gonna sell. I was flat-out told, “Adoption books don't sell,” by an agent. And so I heard Alice's passion and I'm like, ‘I want Alice to be along for the ride.’ And found other facilitators, Ridghaus.
And we started the first two writing groups and then we realized that we had a mix of different kinds of writers. We had writers who were interested in publishing, and we also had writers who didn't care about publishing –maybe not in the moment or maybe they will down the road– but just there to express and get it out, get it all out. And I realized I had both of those purposes myself when I was writing.
And so we started a second writing group. So we have now one called Hone Your Craft and another writing group called Honor Your Voice. And really those just came out of that need that we saw, that there are multiple reasons why we write. And I think what's amazing is just seeing that no matter the reason, there's so much healing that happens, it's just the magic, the outcome that happens when you're not trying to do that.
Haley Radke: Isn't that amazing? The secondary– for our hearts, it's really a primary reason to get those things on the page. What would you say to someone that's like, ‘oh my gosh, I do wanna write kind-of, but I need a push or…’ What are the benefits or some of the things that you've seen from your writers who maybe came into it with ‘Hmm, I'm not sure. How do I even have the skills for this?’
Sara Easterly: Well, I think to be a writer, you just have to write. And I love when we've had multiple writers come in saying, “I'm not a writer, I'm just, you know, gonna explore.” And then, you know, one of them was a reader today who, yes, she's a writer and she has claimed that she's a writer now. So I love seeing that evolution because all it takes to be a writer is to write.
I need accountability, myself. This is why I am a fan of this format, because we write together “side by side”. I'm putting my fingers up in air quotes because we're over Zoom and we have people from all over the world writing with us. And so we're turning off our audio, turning off our video and just writing for usually an hour and a quarter, hour and a half, writing side by side.
And I personally need that time myself, just otherwise, you can deprioritize your writing. It's so easy to do. Every writer does it, adoptee or not. It can get on the back burner. So if you're a writer who needs accountability, then find a group. It doesn't have to be ours, but find a group that can help you with that. There's a lot of in-person writing groups that do the same kind of thing, too. I've been in loads where I sit around a table with other writers and we all just write after we talk. But you feel the pressure, because you're like, ‘oh, look at all that's happening over there. I need to do that, too.’ So that helps if you need that pressure.
Haley Radke: Okay. Now, could you tell us about Adoptee Voices and what's coming up? If people are listening to this right when it's released, what are the opportunities for adoptees to write with you, write in community, write with other adoptees?
Sara Easterly: Okay, well I'll tell you: Adoptee Voices, we're just wrapping up Cohort 7 and we're starting Cohort 8, November 1st and November 3rd, respectively. So that's coming up. They’re six-week writing groups. We have our full schedule for the 2022-2023 program year up on our website, which is adoptee-voices.com.
Haley Radke: So if people are listening to this later and those groups have already started or wrapped up, we can always find links to all the new things, sometimes you have standalone workshops. If we just check the website, I'm sure the calendar has all the things that we need to know.
Sara Easterly: Yes. And I do want to give a plug to, if you're on the website, we have an e-zine that we publish after every cohort with more of the writing. So if that gave you a teaser today, listening to all the stories, then reading through the e-zine is a nice thing to do.
Haley Radke: I'm so glad you mentioned it. I know I've recommended it as a resource at some point in some episode. There's so many good– I love the combination of, just like today, poetry and prose and it's just a variety of writing styles and voices and experiences. It's just so important. Thank you so much, Sara, for all you're doing to help adoptees along in their writing journey, and the facilitators that you've gathered together are just so many remarkable people. I think, if not all, most of them have for sure been on the show before.
Sara Easterly: Yeah. They're amazing people. They're really amazing. I feel so lucky. I just pinch myself to have Alice Stevens and Ridghaus, Jennifer Dyan Ghoston, Kate Murphy, and Susan Devan Harness. I mean, it's just a dream team and I love working with them and it's amazing the friendships that develop just through being in community together. All around.
Haley Radke: Absolutely. Yes. Well, thank you so much to your writers and to Adoptee Voices for working with us on this episode. I'm just so, so grateful. And we'll have links to Adoptee Voices website and socials in the show notes and all the courses and everything that you've got coming up.
Thank you so much, Sara.
Sara Easterly: Yeah, thank you Haley. Thanks for the platform for the writers. I'm so thankful.
