Adopted Black Girl

The first time I realized I loved writing was in fourth grade.

I was having a really tough time at school, and honestly, the only place I felt safe was coming home, going to my little corner, pulling out that diary with the lock, and just… writing.

And I remember thinking, wow… my words can just keep going onto the page.

I could write it all out.

And if I wanted to, I could rip the page up and throw it away.

For a long time, that felt like enough.

Like, if I got the feelings out, then maybe they didn’t need to be talked about.

But as I got older, I realized that’s not really how it works.

Writing helped me release things, yes… but eventually, my words also needed to show up in conversations with people I trusted—so I could actually get the help I needed.

The reason I fell in love with writing was because it was simple.

It was something I could control.

I could control how my words came out.

And that sense of control gave me hope, because in kinship care… so much is out of your control.

You can’t control the stories people tell you about your parents.

You can’t control when you’ll see them.

You can’t control visitations.

You can’t control so many things.

And being one of the youngest, with all of us split up, I remember deciding I didn’t want to be a burden…

But I also didn’t want to lose myself.

Now, you might be thinking, that’s a lot for a fourth grader to hold.

But what happened was… writing turned into poetry.

Poetry turned into this blog.

And now you’re here reading it today.

As I grew up, my writing grew up too.

I learned that writing is a tool—because if I can keep a pen on paper, I can give words to what I’m feeling.

And it gives me pride.

Because even when I can’t control life, I can create a space of peace.

I can create a space of adventure.

All that to say… even in kinship care, loneliness can visit you.

But joy can visit you too.

It’s such a complicated thing.

Especially in Black households, where kinship care is stigmatized.

You hear so many different narratives, and it becomes your job to find the truth.

Your job to say, I want to know my story. I want to know my siblings. I want to build something real.

And there’s so much power in that.

If I hadn’t started writing in fourth grade, I don’t know if I would appreciate the pen the way I do now in my 30s.

I don’t know where I would’ve gone without it.

But I will say this:

Writing helped me understand myself.

So I want to ask you…

What is something you used to do as a child that brought you back to yourself?

I posted the other day on this app called Spill (it’s a Black-owned app, and it’s pretty cool), and I said:

I need to visit my childhood. There are answers there.

And for the first time, I’m excited about that.

Not out of pain…

But out of curiosity.

Out of understanding.

So I’ll leave you with this:

What are you doing to understand yourself?

I’ll see you in the next blog.

From my writing corner,

Teish