Fragmented Snapshots

I originally wrote this paper in 2006 for Professor John Berry in English Composition 110 at Bismarck State College. The assignment was titled “Open or Closed Records and The Right to Privacy,” and at the time I relied on the sources I had access to, the research I understood, and the personal experiences that shaped my perspective. I was in my twenties, I was a student, and I stopped researching when I felt I had enough material to earn a good grade. Looking back now, I can see that there were many works available that I never found, and much more depth I could have explored. I simply did not have the experience or the awareness then that I have now.

Twenty years have passed since that first version, and I am older, smarter, and far more capable of digging into the research that supports adoptee rights. Medical science has advanced, genetic testing has become common, and adoptee access to original birth records has become part of national conversations about identity, health, and civil rights. Yet the core problem remains unchanged. Adoptees are still denied access to their original birth records in many states, and the consequences continue to affect their lives and the lives of their children.

I have revisited and expanded this paper because the issue is still important, still unresolved, and still deeply personal for millions of people. What follows is an updated and strengthened version of my original work, supported by modern research and framed within the realities of 2026.

I also want to be clear that my support for open records comes from one specific place. When my daughter was a baby, she became seriously ill, and the doctors kept asking for medical history that I simply did not have. I did not want contact with anyone from my past, and I still do not. I wanted information for my child’s safety, not for reunion. I also understand that some adoptees fear unsafe contact and believe sealed records protect them. That concern is real, and it deserves respect. But access to medical history and identity does not require contact. Modern adoptee rights laws can separate information from interaction, allowing adoptees to receive the facts they need without forcing relationships they do not want. My position is not about opening the door to unwanted contact. It is about ensuring that adoptees and their children are not left without critical medical information that could save their lives.

Opening adoption records is no longer a niche issue or a private debate between adoptees and agencies. In 2026, it has become a matter of public health, civil rights, and basic human dignity. Medical professionals rely heavily on family medical history to assess risk for cancer, heart disease, autoimmune disorders, and hereditary conditions. Genetic testing has expanded, but it does not replace the need for accurate family history. Millions of adoptees still cannot answer the most fundamental questions about their own backgrounds because their original birth records remain sealed. As states revisit outdated adoption laws, the question is no longer whether adoptees want this information. The question is why they are still being denied it.

Doctors routinely ask patients whether certain illnesses run in their families. For most people, these questions are simple. They know if a grandparent died young, if an aunt had breast cancer, or if diabetes is common in their lineage. Adoptees cannot answer any of these questions. When a child becomes seriously ill and a doctor says, “It could be genetic,” an adoptee has nothing to offer except, “I was adopted.” That answer provides no diagnostic value. The American Academy of Pediatrics and the United States Surgeon General both emphasize that family medical history is one of the most important tools in preventive care and early diagnosis. Adoptees are systematically denied this tool, and the consequences can be life altering.

Medical information is only one part of the issue. Adoptees also deserve to know where they came from, what circumstances shaped their early lives, and why they were relinquished. These are not luxuries. They are basic human rights tied to identity, autonomy, and personal history. Yet the only link to this information remains locked away in sealed files, inaccessible to the very people whose lives those records describe.

Opponents of open records often argue that birthmothers were promised confidentiality. Denise Castellucci, in her essay “Adoption Records Should Be Opened,” explains that the right to privacy is widely misunderstood because it is not explicitly defined in the Constitution and must be interpreted by the courts. She notes that many who oppose open records are not actually invoking constitutional privacy, but rather the idea that a woman should remain permanently anonymous from her own child. Courts have repeatedly rejected this interpretation. As Castellucci states, the right to remain forever anonymous from one’s own offspring does not exist, and allowing adoptees access to their records does not violate legitimate privacy protections.

Ira Carnahan’s essay “Adoption Records Should Remain Sealed” includes an interview with an anonymous birthmother who fears that releasing confidential information would expose her past to her husband and children. Her concern is understandable, but it cannot outweigh an adoptee’s right to medical safety, identity, and truth. Whether a birthmother chooses to disclose her past to her family is her personal decision, but her preference for secrecy should not determine whether another human being is allowed access to their own origins.

A child does not choose to be adopted, nor do they choose to become someone’s lifelong secret. Whatever circumstances led to the pregnancy are not the child’s fault. Yet adoptees are told that everything explaining who they are, their ancestry, their medical risks, and their biological connections, is a secret they are not permitted to know. Privacy is an important value, but as Castellucci writes, “adoption should never ask any human being to trade their dignity, self determination, and the most basic right to know the true facts of their birth” simply to preserve an unwritten promise of anonymity.

Arthur Sorosky, Annette Baran, and Reuben Pannor’s book The Adoption Triangle includes letters from birthmothers both for and against open records. Many who oppose openness describe their pregnancy as a past mistake and fear losing their current families if the adoption becomes known. Over ninety percent of these women believe that allowing adoptees access to their records would disrupt their lives. Their fear is real, but it cannot be the foundation of public policy. Ethical rights cannot be built on the avoidance of hypothetical discomfort.

The stakes become clear when considering real situations. A mother and father sit beside their daughter, Anna, in a hospital while doctors search for the cause of her severe illness. The father lists every condition that runs in his family. The mother can only say, “I was adopted.” That statement offers no guidance, no clues, and no help to the child lying sick in the hospital bed. Anna recovered, but countless children do not. They are the most urgent reason adoption records must be opened.

Modern adoptee rights research supports this need. The Evan B. Donaldson Adoption Institute’s report For the Records: Restoring a Right to Adult Adoptees concludes that open records improve mental health, identity formation, and medical outcomes. Legal scholar Elizabeth J. Samuels documents that sealed records were never intended to protect birthmothers, but to shield adoptive parents from stigma. International human rights standards, including the United Nations Convention on the Rights of the Child, affirm that every person has a right to identity and family connections.

In 2026, adoptees are increasingly speaking out, lawmakers are reconsidering sealed record statutes, and public awareness of genetic health has never been higher. The debate is no longer about secrecy. It is about safety, equality, and human dignity. As Castellucci writes, “The interest or disinterest in the adult adoptee’s records should be a personal decision made only by the person it involves and not by the government or any other individual.” Adoptees deserve the same rights as non adopted people. When those rights are denied, the consequences ripple across generations, affecting their children, grandchildren, and every descendant who inherits unknown medical risks.

Opening adoption records does not erase the past. It simply returns to adoptees what has always been theirs. The truth.

by Lori Ann Hantke

Works Cited

American Academy of Pediatrics. “Use of Family History Information in Pediatric Care.” Pediatrics, vol. 114, no. 1, 2004.

Carnahan, Ira. “Adoption Records Should Remain Sealed.” Opposing Views Resource Center, 22 Nov. 2006.

Castellucci, Denise. “Adoption Records Should Be Opened.” Opposing Views Resource Center, 22 Nov. 2006.

Evan B. Donaldson Adoption Institute. For the Records: Restoring a Right to Adult Adoptees. 2007.

Samuels, Elizabeth J. “The Idea of Adoption.” Rutgers Law Review, vol. 53, 2001.

Sorosky, Arthur, Annette Baran, and Reuben Pannor. The Adoption Triangle. Anchor Press, 1978.

United States Department of Health and Human Services. “Surgeon General’s Family Health History Initiative.” 2004.

You keep saying they deserted you.

Like the word itself is a wound you can hold up to the light and say, “Look what they did to me.”

But you never ask what you did to them.

You talk about feeding them, raising them, loving them, worrying about them, like the basics of survival are the same thing as safety.

You list the things you did like a receipt, like proof, like love is a transaction and they owe you change.

You call it abandonment. You call it cruelty. You call it disrespect. You call it “rewriting the story.”

But you never ask why the story needed rewriting in the first place.

You never ask why your child learned silence before they learned speech. Why they flinched before they answered. Why they walked away with shaking hands and a heart full of things they tried to tell you but you refused to hear.

You say, “They left for no reason.”

But people don’t leave for no reason.

People leave when staying hurts. People leave when the door only opens one way. People leave when the house is full of noise but empty of listening. People leave when the love you swear you gave them never felt like love at all.

You call them disposable. You call them dramatic. You call them ungrateful. You call them liars.

But you never call yourself responsible.

You never call yourself curious. Open. Willing. Human.

You never ask, “What did I miss?” “What did I ignore?” “What did I refuse to see?” “What did they carry alone?” “What part of their pain has my name on it?”

You say silence is a weapon. But sometimes silence is the last safe place a child has.

Sometimes silence is the only boundary they can afford. Sometimes silence is the only way to stop the bleeding.

You say they erased you. But maybe they erased the version of you that erased them first.

You say they abandoned you. But maybe they abandoned the hope that you would ever listen.

You say they walked away. But maybe they crawled. Maybe they limped. Maybe they broke in half on the way out the door.

Maybe leaving wasn’t strength. Maybe leaving was survival.

And maybe just maybe the kids you call cruel, the kids you call heartless, the kids you call ungrateful, the kids you call liars,

are the kids who begged you for years to hear them.

And you never did.

I keep moving through my days like someone waiting for something bad to happen. Not a specific thing, just… something. My body is always tight, like I’m holding myself together with muscles I didn’t even know could clench. My jaw aches. My shoulders stay lifted like I’m bracing for impact. Even when nothing is wrong, my nerves act like everything is.

My mind never shuts up. It replays old conversations I can’t change, invents new disasters I can’t prevent, and fills in every quiet moment with the worst possible version of the future. I don’t even need a reason anymore. My brain just runs on fear by default, like it’s convinced that if I stop worrying, that’s the exact moment everything will fall apart.

People talk about “relaxing” like it’s a skill I forgot to practice. Like I can just breathe deeper, or think calmer, or magically stop imagining every way my life could go wrong. But I don’t know how to exist without tension. I don’t know how to rest without guilt. I don’t know how to stop preparing for problems that might not even be real.

There’s a kind of exhaustion that comes from doing nothing but thinking. From holding yourself upright while your mind whispers that something is wrong, even when you can’t point to anything. From trying to look normal while your whole body is buzzing with a fear you can’t explain.

I’m tired of being a person who is always bracing. Tired of waking up already anxious, already clenched, already convinced I’ve forgotten something important or ruined something I haven’t even started. I’m tired of feeling like if I stop holding myself together for one second, everything inside me will spill out.

I’m not trying to inspire anyone. I’m not trying to fix anything. I just want to say it out loud: this is what it feels like. This constant tension. This constant fear. This constant sense that I’m one breath away from unraveling.

And maybe someone out there feels it too.

I keep seeing these posts. You know the ones. The ones where the parent is always the wounded hero, and the adult child is always the villain who “just walked away.”

They talk about “healing the family.” They talk about “rebuilding trust.” They talk about “kids hurting their parents.” They talk and talk and talk. But they never ask why the kid left in the first place.

There’s a whole side of the story they pretend doesn’t exist. A side that doesn’t fit neatly into their inspirational‑quote graphics or their “family is everything” sermons.

They never say: sometimes the parent was the one who caused the damage. sometimes the child grew up in a war zone disguised as a home. sometimes walking away wasn’t rebellion, it was survival.

But that part gets edited out. Too messy. Too uncomfortable. Too real.

Instead, the narrative becomes: the parent is hurting. the parent misses you. the parent wants you back. And if you don’t return, you’re the problem. You’re the “ungrateful” one. You’re the “bratty adult child.”

Funny how the people writing these posts the coaches, the counselors, the “healing experts” never mention abuse. Never mention trauma. Never mention the years you spent trying to fix something that was never yours to fix.

They talk about reconciliation like it’s a moral obligation. Like you owe your abuser access to your life simply because they held the title of “parent.”

They don’t talk about the nights you cried yourself to sleep. They don’t talk about the fear that lived in your body. They don’t talk about the moment you realized you were allowed to leave.

They don’t talk about the cost of staying.

They only talk about the cost to the parent when you finally walked away.

And maybe that’s why these posts feel like a punch to the gut. Because they erase the truth: sometimes no contact isn’t cruelty. It’s clarity. It’s protection. It’s the first breath of air after years underwater.

I didn’t walk away because I’m dramatic. Or petty. Or rebellious. I walked away because I had to. Because staying would have broken me in ways I’m still trying to unlearn.

But that part never makes it into the "estrangement" posts. It doesn’t fit the narrative. It doesn’t sell the workshop. It doesn’t comfort the parents who want their children back without ever asking what they did to lose them.

So I’ll say the thing they won’t:

Sometimes the healthiest, safest, most honest choice is to close the door. Even if the parent cries on the other side of it. Even if strangers call you heartless. Even if the world refuses to understand.

I didn’t go no contact to hurt anyone. I went no contact because I was already hurting and no one cared.

I’ve been noticing something about myself.

My emotional bandwidth is small. Smaller than I ever admit. Some days it feels like a thin thread pulled too tight.

I don’t absorb long stories well. I lose the thread fast. My mind skims. My heart steps back. It’s automatic.

It’s not a lack of care. It’s a lack of space. My own life fills the room before anything else can get in.

I get overwhelmed quickly. I get drained even faster. And when I’m empty, there’s nothing left to offer.

The guilt shows up anyway. Like I should be able to hold more, feel more, respond more, be more.

But I can’t. Not right now. Maybe not ever in the way I imagine.

My capacity is what it is. My energy is what it is. My reach is short.

I show up in small ways. A few lines. A quiet presence. A piece of art when words won’t come.

It’s not dramatic. It’s not impressive. It’s just where I am.

Memory gets weird after trauma. Some moments are bright. Others are missing. Whole years feel fuzzy. Tiny details feel huge.

I start doubting myself. Did it happen like that. Was it really that bad. Why can’t I remember more.

Silence stepped in early. I learned not to ask. I learned not to tell. I learned to stay small.

Silence felt safer. It kept things calm. It kept people comfortable. It kept the story unfinished.

But silence has a cost. It protects the wrong people. It hides the real harm. It keeps me carrying it.

The past doesn’t vanish. It waits under the surface. It seeps through in flashes. In nightmares. In patterns.

I was told “let it go.” I was told “move on.” I was told “don’t ruin it.” I believed them, for years.

But hiding doesn’t heal. It just stores everything. Still there. Still heavy. Still mine to hold.

Maybe healing starts small. One truth spoken aloud. One memory honored gently. One “that happened” whispered.

Not to blame myself. Not to rip everything open. But to stop disappearing. From my own life.

I deserve clear stories. I deserve my own voice. I deserve more than silence.

My End of Year Reflection

I didn’t spend all of 2025 writing, but the part I did spend has shaped the way I’m walking into 2026. This wasn’t a year of big declarations or dramatic breakthroughs. It was a year of fragments, small thoughts, half‑finished posts, quiet realizations that showed up when I wasn’t looking for them.

And honestly, that feels right.

This year, I learned that healing doesn’t always arrive in full paragraphs. Sometimes it comes in scattered sentences, in the things I almost said in therapy, in the drafts I didn’t finish, in the moments I caught myself avoiding something and finally admitted, “Yeah… I’m not ready for that yet.”

I wrote about avoidance, about circling around trauma topics instead of diving into them. I wrote about how memories don’t line up neatly, and how writing in pieces is sometimes the only way to tell the truth. I wrote about the push‑pull of wanting to move forward while still feeling stuck in old patterns. And I wrote about the strange comfort of realizing I’m not alone in any of it.

If there’s a theme to the last few months, it’s this: I’m learning to pay attention to myself without judgment. Not perfectly. Not consistently. But more than before.

I’m learning that fragments still count. That progress can be quiet. That writing can be a bridge when talking feels impossible. That healing doesn’t need to be loud to be real.

And maybe the biggest shift: I’m starting to imagine that someday, the things I’m working through might help someone else. Not because I have answers, but because I understand what it feels like to be sorting through the pieces.

So as 2025 closes, I’m not tying everything up with a bow. I’m not pretending I’ve figured it all out. I’m just acknowledging the truth of this year: I showed up for myself in small, honest ways. And that’s enough.

Here’s to 2026! Whatever shape it takes, whatever fragments it brings, and whatever I learn from them next.

I apologized for existing. She accepted the apology like it was owed. Like I’d spilled something. Like I’d broken the silence. Like I’d asked for too much air.

I learned to whisper my joy. To tuck my needs under the rug. To smile like I hadn’t cried in the bathroom. To say “I’m fine” with a voice that begged not to be punished.

Praise made me flinch. Peace made me panic. Kindness felt like bait.

I watched her love my siblings in full color. I was grayscale. I was static. I was the one who ruined the picture.

I learned to scan the room before I spoke. To rehearse my sentences. To shrink my hunger. To disappear politely.

I thought I was bad at being loved. Turns out I was just good at surviving.

this holiday was never simple for me. the word "family" carries too many shadows, too many rooms where silence was punishment, too many tables where love was conditional.

so I choose distance. I choose quiet. I choose safety.

but not alone because my children, now grown, are the center of my universe. they were the reason I kept breathing when the weight of trauma pressed me flat. they were the laughter in small apartments, the warmth in empty cupboards, the reminder that even broken mothers can still give love that matters.

I am most thankful for them for the way they became my world, for the way they survived alongside me, for the way they still let me call them mine.

and then there are the few, the friends who stayed. not the ones who vanished when it got hard, but the ones who saw me unravel and did not flinch. they carried pieces of me when I could not hold myself. they reminded me that care does not have to be earned with perfection. they never left. they never wavered.

so this thanksgiving is not about tradition, not about turkey or crowded tables, not about pretending the past was kind.

it is about survival. it is about gratitude that is sharper, truer, born from scarcity and struggle.

I give thanks for my children my world, my proof that love endures. I give thanks for the friends who stayed my chosen family, my steady light.

this is my thanksgiving: fragmented, resilient, real.... with pie.

I don’t have to know my purpose to be living it.

It isn’t always loud. It isn’t always a calling or a cause or a name I can wear like armor. Sometimes it’s the quiet act of staying. Of breathing through the fog. Of choosing not to vanish even when I don’t know why I’m still here.

There is a kind of sacred defiance in that.

The ache I carry that hollow tug in my chest when I wonder what I’m meant for isn’t proof that I’ve failed. It’s proof that I long. And longing is a kind of compass. It points toward something even if I can’t see the shape of it yet.

I am not broken for asking. I am not lost for not knowing. I am becoming.

The flicker is real. The ache is real. And together, they mean I’m still reaching. Still open. Still becoming.

I am not purposeless. I am in the middle of the sentence. The ink hasn’t dried yet.

So I stay. Even when I don’t know why. Even when it hurts. Even when the ache feels louder than the flicker.

I stay. Because I am still here.

Maybe my purpose is not a single thing, but a series of small kindnesses. A breath taken when it hurts. A word offered when someone else is drowning. A poem written in the dark that helps someone else find their light.

Maybe my purpose is to be a witness. To be a soft place. To be the one who stays.

Maybe my purpose is still unfolding, like a letter I haven’t opened yet. And every time I choose to stay, I write another line.

I don’t have to know the ending. I just have to keep writing.

i keep thinking it’s my fault. not just the big things the little ones too. the silence in a room. the way someone sighs. the way i forget to reply.

i learned to scan for danger in the shape of my own shadow. if something breaks, i assume i bumped it. if someone’s upset, i assume i caused it.

even when i know better. even when i know better.

i apologize for things i didn’t do because it feels safer than waiting to be blamed.

i take responsibility for pain that isn’t mine because it feels familiar to carry it.

i rewrite my memories to make myself the villain because at least then the story makes sense.

gaslighting doesn’t just twist the truth it teaches you to doubt your own kindness. your own softness. your own worth.

and even now, when i write this, i wonder if it’s too much. too dramatic. too selfish.

but maybe it’s not.

My mind doesn’t walk; it sprints. It loops and leaps and ricochets from one thought to the next so fast I can’t catch a single one. It’s like trying to grab fireflies in a windstorm. Blink, and they’re gone.

People ask me what I’m thinking about, and I freeze. Not because I’m hiding anything, but because there’s no single answer. There’s everything and nothing, all at once. Thoughts flicker in and out before I can name them. It’s like trying to read a book where every page turns itself before I can focus on a word.

The only way I’ve found to slow it down is by keeping busy doing things that absorb my focus and give my mind something to hold onto. Systems I can build, puzzles I can solve, worlds I can organize. Sometimes that means playing games. Not to escape, but to engage; strategically, creatively, intentionally. They don’t just distract me; they anchor me.

But then the guilt creeps in. The world wakes up, goes to work, checks boxes, earns paychecks. And I’m here, keeping busy to survive my own brain. It feels indulgent, even though I know it’s not. It feels like I’m failing, even though I’m doing the only thing that works.

I wish it were easier to explain. I wish people could see the blur behind my eyes the speed, the chaos, the need for something that slows it all down. I’m not lazy. I’m not avoiding life. I’m just trying to find a way to live with a mind that never stops moving.

some mornings you wake up already tired from the work of holding yourself together in dreams

you sip coffee like it’s armor and scroll past headlines that feel like warnings but you’re too busy trying to remember how to breathe without bracing

the world asks for productivity but you’re busy keeping a tiny flame alive with whatever scraps you can find

a half-laughed joke a text from someone who still remembers your name a moment where the sky doesn’t feel like it’s pressing down

this isn’t weakness this is survival in its most unphotogenic form

you carry the weight no one sees and still you show up to the day like it’s a promise you haven’t broken yet

hope isn’t light it’s heavy and stubborn and sacred and you are still here still holding it even when your hands are shaking

it’s not just the grief it’s the body that won’t sleep the gut that won’t settle the ache that won’t explain itself

it’s not just the memory it’s the migraine the muscle tension the skin that flinches at nothing

it’s not just the past it’s the present that keeps misfiring in your joints your digestion your breath

and it’s not just exhausting it’s daily it’s invisible it’s dismissed

“have you tried yoga?” “maybe it’s stress?” “you look fine though”

fine is a costume stitched from survival and silence and the need to be believed

some days the battle is entirely internal no bruises no fever just a brain that won’t stop clawing at itself

some days it’s not the world that’s cruel it’s the voice in your head that won’t let you rest won’t let you eat won’t let you believe you deserve ease

and then you try to explain to someone who thinks you’re just moody just tired just dramatic

but this isn’t just this is a siege this is survival this is a mind trying to outrun itself

they say it’s in your head but it’s your spine that locks up your stomach that revolts your sleep that disappears

they say it’s imagined but it’s your blood pressure your cortisol your immune system that keeps the receipts

they say you’re overreacting but they don’t see the hours lost to managing symptoms the days spent pretending you’re not in pain

they say it’s not real because they don’t want it to be because if trauma lives in the body then they’d have to care then they’d have to change

they could understand if they wanted to if they listened if they let go of their need for tidy explanations

but they don’t because your pain is inconvenient because your truth is too loud because if they believed you they’d have to change they’d have to care

so they choose disbelief and call it logic they choose dismissal and call it kindness they choose silence and call it support

but you know the difference between ignorance and avoidance between not knowing and refusing to know

and it hurts to be erased by people who look you in the eye and chose not to see

you showed up you smiled you answered the phone so they think you’re fine

but functioning isn’t thriving it’s surviving with a mask on it’s holding your breath through every conversation because panic lives in your lungs

it’s brushing your teeth while your brain tells you you don’t deserve to exist

it’s making dinner with hands that shake from meds and memories

it’s replying to texts so no one worries even though you haven’t felt anything in weeks

they say “i get anxious too” “i get sad sometimes” “but i still go to work”

as if your illness is just a lack of will as if showing up means you’re okay

they don’t see the hours lost to dissociation the days spent in bed because gravity feels personal the way your body forgets how to breathe when the past walks in uninvited

they see the surface they call it strength but they never ask what it costs

“i get depressed sometimes too and i still work.”

that sentence has teeth. it bites down hard. not in solidarity but in dismissal.

people love to measure your collapse against their inconvenience. they had a bad week once. they cried after a breakup. they got nervous before a speech.

and now they think they understand the architecture of your undoing.

but depression isn’t a mood. ptsd isn’t a phase. anxiety isn’t just nerves.

these things live in your bones. they steal your mornings. they hollow your memory. they make the phone ring like a threat.

you don’t get to compare your rainstorm to someone else’s flood especially when you had an umbrella. especially when they’re still drowning.

i hope you’re okay not just getting through the day but finding something that feels like yours even if it’s quiet even if no one else notices

i hope you feel safe in your own skin in your own space in the choices you’ve made and the ones you’re still figuring out

i hope you know you don’t have to be perfect or cheerful or strong all the time to be loved

i hope you feel it not in big speeches but in the way i’ve always tried to make room for you as you are

you don’t owe me updates or explanations but if you ever need to come home in any sense of the word you are always welcome

no questions no judgment just love and maybe something warm on the stove because that’s what i do and who i am and you are mine in the best way forever