Great Expectations

great expectations

"What are your expectations?" Carolyn asked me.  

I thought about her question, but nothing came to mind.  "I mean...expectations for..." I trailed off hoping she'd jump in to elaborate.  

"With your mother.  What do you hope will happen long-term?  Do you want to have a relationship with her?  Or someday meet her?" 

I felt overwhelmed and struggled to respond.  "I...don't know.  I guess I haven't thought that far ahead."  I sat with my thoughts for a moment and tried to imagine what it would be like to have a relationship with my birth mother, or what it would be like to meet her.  It felt painful and scary.  "I don't...I don't think I want to have a relationship.  At least not yet.  That feels like too much.  I'm having trouble with that idea," I admitted.  

"Well, maybe that's something to think about this week.  Even if you feel like you might not have any expectations, you'll inevitably have some.  That's just how our minds work.  It might be worth exploring what you want out of this, though, so you can be prepared either way," Carolyn said with soft encouragement. 

I nodded, but I wasn't convinced.  

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Expectations are sticky.  I learned at a young age how difficult it was for me to adapt to new changes, routines, and environments.  I was heartbroken anytime my plans fell through.  It would literally cause a pain my chest and I would cry and cry.  Even as a child I remember thinking that I shouldn't be so upset about something so silly, but I could never stop it.  It physically hurt.  As I grew older I practiced repressing that feeling.  It was uncomfortable to feel and I could never justify harboring that feeling, so instead I would convince myself that, "I didn't want to do that thing anyway."   Or I would begin listing all the reasons why it wouldn't have been good if my plans had worked out.  I would think about all the things that could go wrong.  This was my way of coping ultimately with abandonment because, even if I didn't understand it at the time, sudden change meant that abandonment was soon-to-follow.  I was going to be alone again.  My family would forsake me.  My friends would forget about me.  And I would be left with nothing.  Looking back now, it's so heavy to think that these are the feelings I felt as a child, but I could never process let alone communicate them.  So no, I didn't want to think about my expectations when it came to my birth mother.  And to be completely honest, I don't think I was even capable of forming any definite expectations even if I wanted to.  I think I have feared using that muscle for so long that it is now atrophied.  Instead, I chose to move forward with the notion that I would take things as they come.

On October 20th, 2020 I sent my first handwritten letter as well as three photos of myself to my birth mother.  The social worker had advised I begin working on a letter before she even made contact.  Though I had initially struggled with it, I did have a bare bones start.  It was easier to complete knowing it would actually be sent to someone.  It wasn't a conceptual letter anymore.  It had a recipient, she would receive it.  My birth mother would receive my letter.  The social worker translated my entire letter and sent it to her via text message:

My name is Nikia and I was born on March 14th, 1988 with the name Kil, Jee Yung.  I am now thirty-two years old.  

I have been told my entire life that my birth mother named me and chose “Yung” which meant “prosperity”, so my adoptive parents kept it as my middle name to help preserve my culture and to respect my birth mother’s intentions.  More than anything else, I’d like you to know that I am okay.  I have lived a fulfilling life, one filled with happiness, joy, and abundant love.  It has, indeed, been prosperous.  Thank you for giving me that name and for giving me an opportunity to live up to it.

I’d like to share a few things about myself.  I grew up in the United States and spent the first 26 years of my life in Maryland (East Coast) with my parents and two older brothers.  I now live in Louisiana (South) with my husband and step-daughter who is seven years old.  I am a musician and songwriter.  I studied violin in college and now teach violin at the local conservatory which is my greatest passion.  I also play piano and sing.  I love to be creative and tend to be quiet and contemplative.  I love to travel and spend time outdoors in nature.  I enjoy writing and times of reflection.

My childhood was wonderful.  I grew up in a suburban neighborhood and played outside climbing trees with friends.  My mom is a piano teacher.  She is passionate, protective, and selfless in her love.  She sacrificed a lot to make sure I was well-taken care of.  My dad is a welder, and he is wise, diligent, and selfless in his love.  He has passed on his wisdom and adventurous spirit to me over the years and I think the world of him.  I knew about my adoption my entire life, but did not start searching for you until very recently.  As I’ve grown older and now have a child in my own life, I realized that it’s important to me to know you and I didn’t want to waste too much time.  I never thought I’d find you this fast.

I want to thank you for giving me up for adoption.  It is a complicated thing to be adopted, but I had an amazing support system with my family growing up and was surrounded with so much love in my life.  I feel an immense amount of gratitude for you and I hope that this gives you some peace.  I don’t have many questions at this time.  I am less interested in what you do and more curious about who you are.  The things you enjoy spending time on, your favorite things about Korea, your favorite foods to eat.  I know that you were a seamstress - did you enjoy it?  I like to sew, but I’m not very good. 

I am so grateful that you reached out to Holt and are open to communication.  Even learning the small amount about you and your family has meant so much to me.  I know that must have been difficult and must have been a shock after all these years.  Thank you for your courage, strength, and openness.  I respect that you have a life of your own now and I don’t wish to disrupt it.  I’d just like to learn a little bit more about you and how I came to be, so please share whatever you’d like when you’re ready.

Nikia

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By Nov. 3rd the social worked had confirmed receipt of my letter and told me she had sent it along to my birth mother.  One week later, I received the following along with two photos:

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Dear Jee Yung,

I received your letter. What can I possibly tell you? I am truly sorry.  I am so thankful that you have well grown up to become a beautiful woman.  Your adoptive parents must be  wonderful people. I am very grateful.  I am so sorry that I did not keep you.  I cannot find words since I am a sinful person.  I just hope that you will accomplish everything you would like to achieve, and that you will be blessed with good health.  I am so very proud that you are a mother yourself.  I know that you wanted to see my photos. I do not have many pictures.  I am so sorry.

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I don't know what I expected to feel when I saw my birth mother's picture for the first time.  I think it all happened so fast that I didn't have time to wonder what it would be like.  For so long it seemed like a want that would never be fulfilled, a desire left to desiccate over time.  Through this whole process I told myself that if I could just see a picture, to know what she looked like, I'd be okay with just that.  I would be content with the millions of questions I have left unanswered.  I just wanted to see what she looked like, to see where I came from, to study the face of the woman who brought me into this world.  

When I finally saw a photo of her, though, to my surprise and dismay I felt...nothing.  And then I felt pain because in that moment I realized that as hard as I tried not to have expectations, Carolyn was right and they still formed anyway.  I expected to feel connected to her, or to feel connected to someone.  For the first time in my life I was looking at someone I was biologically related to.  Surely that meant I would feel something. But instead, as I looked at the photo examining her face and making comparisons with my own, I felt nothing except ambivalence.  I was looking at a stranger.  And though she looked like me and I like her, I still felt an emptiness and a loss.  I didn't feel a connection.  I felt more alone than I ever had before.  If I couldn't feel connected to my own birth mother, then what did that mean for me?  Was I to feel alone in this for the rest of my days?  

It was a miracle to have received a letter from her at all, but I admit I was disappointed that it was so short in comparison to mine.  I had yet another expectation form without my consent.  Looking back I realize I expected to receive a long, beautiful, poetic response.  Instead, I mostly felt sadness while reading hers.  I could feel her guilt and shame.  It didn't feel like a beautiful reunion or a letter of love.  It felt like an apology and that ultimately made me feel guilty, too.

It took me a long time to respond and I realize now, that again, I had formed an expectation that we would be exchanging letters back and forth, slowly getting to know each other.  I sent a reply right after the New Year explaining that November and December are busy months in America with the holidays.  I decided to keep my second letter short and to-the-point.  After discussing it with Carolyn, she reminded me that cultural differences and language barriers might make communication uneven and difficult.  Instead of trying to use flowery language, maybe I should be more succinct.  So I decided to ask two questions that only she had the answer to: I asked why she gave me up and if she had any information on my biological father.  

It has now been eight months and I have yet to receive a response.  I followed up with the social worker back in March and so she called my birth mother who said she did not have time to respond because she was afraid her partner would find out the truth about me and of her past.  I confessed to Carolyn shortly after that it made me feel like a dirty little secret.  

When I think about this journey, I realize that it has left me with probably more pain than healing, and more sadness than joy.  Yes, there have been tiny triumphs along the way, shakily outlined with silver and gold trim.  And if I squint I can see that they resemble happiness and peace, but the more I take a step back to see the bigger picture in context, I notice the smudges and smeared colors, the lack of definition and clarity.  The picture is messy and only part of it is complete.  Some small areas are vibrant in color, but most are gray and dull.  Do I regret searching for her?  I'm not sure.  I don't think so, but I can't say that I'm fulfilled by doing so either.  If anything, I think I am left with more questions now than I had when I first set out to search for her.  Having the answer to one question leaves me with ten more.  

I have examined parts of myself that went unexplored for the better part of my life.  I've turned over rocks to challenge my fears and worries.  I do feel stronger, but I certainly don't feel happier.  I feel like I've sprinted only to hang in limbo for an indeterminate amount of time.  I have no power to change it, the course of action, the gaining of momentum to move the needle.  I can push and push, but there's no guarantee it'll give.  There is little I can do at this point except hope one day she will respond.  After eight months, I'd be lying if I said I still have hope.  

I've wrestled with guilt, feeling like I disturbed her life and caused her more stress.  I've contemplated whether it's been worth it.  If this journey was worth the heartache and pain that's been wrung out of me like a tired, worn-out rag.  I wonder if not knowing anything is easier than knowing a little bit.  It's excruciating to know I have half-sisters I'll never be able to know.  Or that my biological father may still be out there and the only link I have to finding him has seemingly evaporated into the wind.  

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"I guess, if I had to like...paint a scene of how this all feels..." I began to explain to Carolyn.  She was always encouraging me to visualize feelings since I have such a difficult time vocalizing them.  

"It's like I've spent my whole life searching for a house.  And I finally found it and built up enough courage to walk up the sidewalk and knock on the front door.  Somebody answers, not my birth mother, but someone else.  She calls to my birth mother and so she comes to see who is at the door, says hello, and we exchange a few words.  From the porch I can see into the house...I can see my sisters in one room talking to each other, and in another room I can see memories that I missed out on, family gatherings, holidays...celebrations.  It's like a series of flashbacks, but I'm not in any of them.  They're not my own memories.  I keep waiting for her to invite me in, but she never does.  And before I know it, the door has closed and I'm left standing on the porch with nowhere to go.  My family is inside, but...I'm on the outside.  I'm not welcome."  

I gasped for air through the tears and tried to take a deep breath to calm myself down.  

"I don't...I don't feel like I can do anything else," I said as I shrugged my shoulders in defeat.

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I didn't set out on this journey to find happiness.  Nor did I expect to have all of my questions answered.  I believe I have explored a corridor.  I've carefully walked down hallways and slowly opened doors to peek inside.  I've lifted drafty linens covering the furniture to release the dust that has settled over the years.  I've wiped off the broken mirrors with my arm sleeve and seen glimpses of myself through prism-like reflections.  I've stumbled and bruised.  I've stepped on nails and scraped my hands against sharp corners.  I've been scared and I've hid under tables until I can see the morning light.  I've been brave and I've dug my toes into the rugs to find a steady grounding.  This is not the end of my journey.  This is the winding road to self.

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As I drove to CVS, tears fell from my face.  I was on my way to buy another pregnancy test because I was terrified that the one I had taken ten minutes ago at home was false, yet I couldn't help but feel like something was already different inside of me.  There was a baby growing inside of me.  And it was mine.  

Overwhelmed with joy, I began to think about this baby and how it would be a part of me, and I, a part of him or her.  We would be connected.  We would be related.  I cried and I cried, thanking God for His grace.  And the only thing I kept thinking was, "I'm not alone in this anymore."