Lighthouses

By Hannah Andrews
First things first.

As 2024 draws to a close, I want to express my gratitude to our guest bloggers. Your essays and poetry are a generous and precious gift to our community. Words matter. Stories change lives. Hearing a short piece of memoir from a Baby Scoop Era first mother jump-started my own search and eventually led me here.

My thanks don’t end with the bloggers, of course.
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I continue to learn from so many in the community. Since beginning my mother of origin search six years ago, my journey “through the fog” and toward “adoption consciousness” has been, well, bumpy at best. It seems every time I think I have this whole adoption thing figured out, I don’t. I’ll read an essay or memoir, click into a conference or peer support group and BAM! Another a-ha moment smacks me right in the face.  An “Oh, I never thought about it that way,” self-realization or a, “Wow, yeah, that happened to me too” bubbles up from my memory.  

There’s a seemingly never-ending list of “stuff” I buried or brushed off, thinking, “Oh that’s just me.” Now, I just shake my head and sigh, “yeah, that’s probably adoption-related.”  

I’m so thankful for AKA and the adoption community at large. For every constellation member out there telling your stories, speaking your truths, and offering awareness and support through conventions and peer support groups, I thank you. You are making a difference, touching lives.  

I thought adoption was a one-time event. Turns out it’s a lifelong journey.  

It's smooth sailing at times, or at least it seems, but those still waters and blue skies can turn in an instant. Before we know it, we’re lost in a turbulent storm, trying to traverse through a torrential downpour with a broken compass. By we, I mean me, but for those of you that feel similarly, I really mean “we.”  

It’s terrifying.  

Perhaps we can be each other’s lighthouses.  

That’s my not-so-subtle segue into this month’s theme, “Navigating the Holidays.” It’s rough seas for many of us during the holidays. I’m one of those people.  

I don’t like holidays. I’m not a total Scrooge, but I’m definitely Scrooge-adjacent. That said, for all my bah-humbugging, one of my favorite things is decorating for the holidays. I’m complicated. It’s part of my charm. Or, maybe its adoption.  

In my family, we celebrated both the birth of the baby Jesus and the arrival of jolly old Saint Nick. Despite the double-the-fun of Santa and the son of God, Christmas has always left me a little disappointed. 

There’s an inherent surprise-ness to holidays. Wrapped presents and such. 

I hate surprises.  

I equate it to my first big surprise in life. You know the one. Hearing one voice in the womb and then never again. The pre-verbal shock of a new family. A lovely one, fortunately, but one my lost and screaming infant self wasn’t expecting. I didn’t see that connection to hating surprises until recently, of course. It was just another thing I thought was “just me.”  

Anticipation irks me. Little kid me learned to appease anxiety, probably in many ways I still haven’t realized, but especially at Christmas. As a child, to protect myself from disappointing surprises, I came up with a masterful plan. 

Peeking.  

Once I was sure the entire household was asleep, I’d make the short leap from bedtop to door. This was crucial as I was sure monsters lived under my bed. I had to avoid them, but also jump softly as my brothers bedrooms were below mine. Then, I’d scamper, quiet as a mouse, to the Christmas tree. I’d find my tagged gifts, unpeel Scotch tape from one end, spy on the contents, then retape. On Christmas Eve, I’d hit my stocking up too. Santa supposedly filled at the last minute. I didn’t even trust that magic man not to disappoint.   

Of course, my plan backfired. If not immediately, eventually. 

Whether it was something bland from Sears or something I’d pined for like the Mork and Mindy rainbow suspenders (likely also from Sears) there was always a letdown. If a gift was too nice, I felt guilty. I knew my parents weren’t wealthy and surely even Santa had some sort of budget what with a whole world of kids to buy and build for.   

Not enough. Too much. Never a happy medium it seemed.  

And either way, I’d ruined my own surprise. Again, I didn’t like surprises, but I also didn’t like ruined surprises.  

The holidays weren’t all bad though. I have a trove of happy memories: 
Christmas plays at church and school, playing the piano while friends and family sang along, the traditional reading of “T’was the Night Before Christmas.” My mother’s amazing cooking and baking. And my Dad’s homemade pink coconut fudge. I don’t remember why it was pink. It was likely just food coloring, something to make it look fun and different. Something he probably did just for my amazement.  

Which brings me to my latest iteration of Scrooginess.  

My family is gone. My adoptive father died in 2003 and my mother in 2017. In 2020, I found my first mother, but she’d already passed away as well. (Yet another surprise I didn’t like.) My brothers live on the other side of the country. We talk occasionally but visit each other rarely.  

I’d give most anything to go back to one of those ruined surprises, to have my family at Christmas, to maybe meet my first mom and see how she spent Christmas, have her join in my adoptive family sing-a-long. Or at least tell her about it.  

It’s a bitter mix of memories and regret. 

The other day, I was spiraling down rabbit holes of my own pasts and currents. Why did I insist on ruining my own Christmas surprises? Did I really hate holidays? Do I hate them now? What made that fudge pink anyway?  

And then I decided, who cares why the fudge was pink? It was delicious. I don’t want to make it. It wouldn’t taste like his anyway. I just want to remember the scene. Him standing over the stove, me handing him the candy thermometer, folding in coconut. I can’t go back. I can’t change the past. But maybe, I don’t need to constantly dissect it.  

I can dislike holidays, but still hold good memories alongside.  

For me, both things can be true.  

Last night we held our final board meeting of 2024. Stacey Gatlin, who also heads up the Board Relations committee invited us each to share a few words on navigating the holidays. She opened the discussion with her resolve to concentrate on “sitting in stillness.” Other members (our board is comprised of adoptees and parents) said they’ve begun instituting new traditions, claimed friends as their chosen family. One member mentioned the joy she finds in cooking for any and all who wish to gather. Another said she has learned to let go of strict logistics of who has to attend what and where. If she wants to watch holiday movies and no one else wants to, she’ll watch alone. Finally, there was this: Learning to embrace time and those we care about, for it is fleeting. That one hit me hardest of all.  

I don’t profess to speak for anyone but myself. I’m not a therapist. I’m just a woman trying to figure out this crazy crapshoot called adoption. Baby me was forced into it. Adolescent me buried it. Adult me ignored it. Fastly approaching old lady me is finally dealing with it.  

And it is A LOT. At times I want to run back into that adoption fog. Bury it all again.  

Then, without fail, thank goodness, I catch sight of another lighthouse.   

If you’re lonely, or alone, I can to share that I have been there. Many times. 

I’m still there often. 

I’ve had (and continue to have) many lonely days, especially those deemed “holidays.” I find comfort and compassion in this community, through peer support groups, books, documentaries. Even when I don’t meet the artist behind the art, knowing we share a smidge of story makes me feel so much less alone. 

I also take breaks from writing and learning when I feel I need to. I came to this community late, at age 50, and at times I feel so behind, like I’m playing catch up, but I remind myself that I can take breaks.  

Adoption will still be there after all. I won’t wake up not adopted tomorrow.  

So, again, thank you everyone for being a part of my journey and for letting me be a small part of yours.  

On the holidays and all the days, I am so grateful for this community.  

On the holidays and all the days, I wish you peace.  

Thanks for reading, 


Hannah Andrews is a domestic infant adoptee from the Baby Scoop Era. She lives and writes in San Diego. Her adoption themed essay,”Classic Vinyl” was recently published in “Shaking the Tree Volume 6:What Just Happened,”  and her adoption/generational trauma themed essay “The State of Grace,” was selected for the 2025 print anthology Gold Man Review Literary Magazine. She writes for several publications on Medium. Hannah serves on AKAs Board of Directors and is our blog editor.  
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