For as long as I can remember, my adoption story was never a secret. Adopted into a loving family who, for reasons of their own, couldn’t have biological children, I was their ray of hope. Their joy. Their long-awaited son. And they celebrated it. Every chance they got, my parents reminded me of how special our bond was – how the Lord chose us for each other.
But here’s the thing about the Lord’s will: sometimes he writes a script that’s hard to read. While my family reveled in the joy of having “their own” son through adoption, I was navigating a profound internal conflict. On the surface, I had every reason to feel fortunate. I had a family who adored me, who provided for me, and who never once made me feel different.
Yet, amidst all this love, a nagging feeling persisted. While others saw adoption as a blessing, I felt taken. Taken from a life I’d never known, taken from roots I couldn’t trace, taken from a story that was incomplete.
Identity is a fickle thing. For many, it’s solid, grounded in genetic history and familiar stories. But for me, it felt like trying to hold onto water. The more I grasped for clarity, the more it seemed to slip through my fingers.
It took almost three decades for that water to solidify, for me to truly understand and be at peace with who I am. But those years weren’t wasted; they were filled with self-discovery, introspection, and a relentless quest for answers.
A pivotal moment arrived in my mid-20s. Through a combination of determination, luck, and perhaps a touch of that same destiny, I was able to locate my biological family on both sides. It was a whirlwind of emotions – joy, apprehension, relief, and a thousand others. But among these swirling feelings, one thing stood out like a beacon: the discovery of my biological father’s identity, and the name that would have continued.
In a move to acknowledge this newfound part of my identity and to make it a permanent part of my story, I added my father’s last name, “Johnson,” to mine. Thus, “Johnson-Brower” was born – a testament to both my past and the present, a bridge between two worlds.
The hyphen in Johnson-Brower is more than just punctuation; it’s a symbol of my journey. It represents the gap I felt growing up, the connection I yearned for, and the eventual union of two parts of myself. It stands for every adopted child’s struggle with identity, the push and pull of two families, and the eventual realization that we are the sum of all our parts.
To all those grappling with their identity, whether you’re adopted or just feeling adrift, remember that it’s okay to feel lost. But also know that with time, patience, and a fair bit of courage, you can find your way back to yourself. I did, one hyphen at a time.
