What Happens After Placement? Adoption and Black Life

By: Rian Martin

For a long time, I thought being adopted was so unusual that I could never meet someone like me. I was adopted when I was two years old, after being taken from my biological mother at birth. I was young enough that I have no memory of being in the system. In some ways, that made it easier. I grew up knowing that I was adopted, but I didn’t grow up thinking of myself as someone who was still waiting to be placed somewhere internally. I had a home, a family, and a mother. When people talk about foster care and adoption, I understand why the story often seems to end up there. The child gets adopted. The child has a family. Everyone is to move on now. But growing up has a way of bringing old questions back. 

As I got older, I realized that being adopted was not something that only belonged in my childhood. It followed me into every stage of my life. It showed up in questions about where I came from, who I looked most like, what parts of me came from my birth family, and, of course, what it meant to grow up knowing that another family had once made decisions about my life before I was old enough to understand them. Being a Black adoptee definitely added another layer. There are parts of my identity that I cannot separate from. Mainly, that I am Black and adopted. People sometimes assume that being adopted means you should simply be grateful. I want to be very clear: I am beyond grateful for the family that raised me. I can say this and still acknowledge that adoption came with loss as well. 

That is one of the hardest things to explain about adoption. People want the story to have a clear and simple ending. Sure, they want to know that the child is safe, loved, and okay. But being safe does not mean you stop having questions. Being loved does not erase loss, and getting older does not automatically make everything okay. For me, adulthood has made some of those questions louder. I have started thinking more about the parts of my story that happened before I could remember them. I have always wanted to understand more about my birth family and where I really came from. 

RELATED: Combating colorism: All Black children are worth defending

Then there is grief. My birth mother died when I was seventeen. We had a relationship, but it was limited and complicated. She would call me frequently, and if I am being honest, there were times when I found myself annoyed by her calls or simply did not want to answer. I carried resentment that I did not fully understand at the time. When she became hospitalized, I knew she was there, but I never went to visit her. About a week later, I learned through a text message that she had passed away. 

There is something difficult about looking back on those moments, knowing that the conversations I avoided were conversations I would never have the opportunity to have again. I was grieving for someone I knew, but never truly got the chance to know. And perhaps one of the most complicated parts of that grief was realizing that I could miss someone while still carrying the hurt and resentment I had felt toward them. I could not go back and have the conversations I might have wanted to have. Or ask the questions I’ve always wanted to know. And that made me realize something: sometimes the loss in adoption is not only about what happened when you were a child. Sometimes you grieve the possibilities you never had the choice to experience. That is the part of adoption conversations I don’t think we talk about enough. 

We talk about getting children into loving homes. We talk about permanency. We talk about stability. Those things matter, yes. But what happens when the child becomes a teenager? What happens when they become adults? What happens when they start asking questions about their identity, their family, their history, and the parts of themselves they cannot fully explain? Who is there then? For Black adoptees and former foster youth, those questions can become even more complicated. 

For me, being a Black adoptee has meant understanding that knowing who I am and knowing where I come from are two different things. I have always known that I am Black, but that does not mean I have always understood every part of my identity. I sometimes wonder about my biological family’s traditions, their experiences, and the parts of myself that may have come from them. Being adopted has also taught me that belonging is complicated. I can love and appreciate the family that raised me while still feeling a connection to a family I never fully got to know. I can be proud of being a Black woman while still having questions about my own history. Sometimes, I feel like people expect adoptees to choose between being grateful for the life they have and being curious about the life they came from, when both feelings can exist at the same time. That is why I have become interested in what happens beyond placement.

RELATED: Looking to the Blues as record of Black folks’ loss and longing

I don’t want to take away from the importance of children finding safe and loving families. I want us to expand what we mean when we say a child is “okay.” Maybe being okay should not just mean that a child has been placed. Maybe it should mean that they have somewhere to go when they have questions. Someone to talk to when they are struggling with their identity. I was adopted into a Black family, and although I grew up surrounded by love and a sense of cultural belonging, there were still parts of my identity that I struggled to understand. I attended therapy growing up, but I never had the opportunity to connect with other adoptees through support groups or communities. 

In fact, for a long time, I did not even realize how many people shared experiences similar to mine or that adoptee communities were something I could seek out. Looking back, I wonder how different certain moments might have felt if I had been able to talk to someone who understood those experiences firsthand. They need access to mental health support that understands the complexity of adoption and race. Sometimes, they just need people who will listen when they say that they are grateful and hurting at the same time.

Placement should not be the finish line. It should be the beginning of continued support. I am nineteen now, and I am still figuring out what my story means. I don’t have every single answer. I probably never will. But I have learned that not having all the answers does not make my questions less important. For a long time, I thought my story was about where I ended up. Now I think it is also about everything that happened after I got there. And I think Black adoptees deserve the space to tell those stories, too.

Bio: Rian Jataya Martin is a 19-year-old psychology student at Oklahoma State University, aspiring pediatric psychologist, and mental health advocate from Oklahoma City, Oklahoma. As a Black adoptee and former foster youth, she is passionate about amplifying the voices of individuals impacted by foster care and adoption, particularly those navigating identity, belonging, grief, and mental health beyond placement. Rian works to encourage conversations about the lifelong experiences of Black adoptees and the importance of culturally responsive mental health support. She hopes to use her education, lived experiences, and advocacy to create meaningful change for future generations.