Un-Adoptically Me – My voice: Winning Beyond the Primal Trauma of Adoption is a raw memoir told through 88 “snapshots” tracing your journey navigating the complex and lifelong ripples of trauma surrounding adoption, love wrapped in loss, gratitude clouded by grief, and identity tangled in silence. Why was this an important book for you to write?

Writing Un-Adoptically Me wasn’t just important. It was inevitable.

It came from a place deeper than memory—where silence had calcified into shame, and my voice had gone missing inside the myth of being “lucky”.

It was terrifying, sacred, and necessary. Every page demanded I unearth the unspeakable, stand inside it, and speak anyway. This wasn’t about blame or bitterness—it was about belonging. About breaking open. About burning down the false self to finally meet the real one.

I didn’t write this to tell my story.
I wrote it to free it.
And in doing that—I freed me.

What were some ideas that were important for you to share in this book?

I wanted to say the things we’re not supposed to say.
That adoption can feel like a blessing and a betrayal. That “gratitude” can be a cage. That finding your voice often begins with breaking your own heart.

I wanted to make room for the full truth: the mess, the miracles, the paradoxes that don’t fit neatly on a Hallmark card.

Most of all, I wanted to hold space—for the reader who’s never felt seen. For the silence that lives inside so many of us. To say: your pain is valid, your story matters, and you’re not broken—you’re becoming.

This book is a love letter to the truth.
And an invitation to come home to yourself.

What was the most challenging part of writing your memoir, and what was the most rewarding?

The hardest part?
Telling the truth in a world that prefers the fairytale.

Writing this book was like opening a locked room in my soul and walking barefoot through the wreckage. Every sentence cost me something. Every memory asked, Are you ready to feel this now?

But the reward?

Everything.
The release. The reclamation. The raw, holy exhale of saying, Here I am. All of me.

I didn’t just write a book.
I shed a skin.
And what remained was something I never thought I’d find—peace, on my own terms.

What do you hope is one thing readers take away from your story?

That you’re not crazy. Or too much. Or alone.

That your feelings are real, your story is sacred, and your truth is worth telling—even if your voice shakes.

If one person closes my book and finally feels understood—not fixed, not explained, just seen—then I’ve done what I came here to do.

We heal in the presence of truth.
And if my truth helps you hear your own, then every shadow I faced was worth it.

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