Adopted Black Girl

I always come back to this moment in Hamilton—when they reference the Ten Dual Commandments (it’s one of the songs) and one of the duel rules is to write to your next of kin. The idea of writing to your next of kin… explaining your soul, your choices, your why- hits a chord with me.

And every time I hear it, I pause.

Because “next of kin” means everything… and yet, for so many of us, it doesn’t always mean trust. It doesn’t always mean home. And it should.

And that got me thinking about my own kinship care experience—how it shaped me, how it still shapes me, and how, if I’m honest, not all of it landed in harmful ways.

Some of it… was grounding. And there are way more pros than cons.

Let me tell you what I mean.

First—

I grew up knowing that one day, I would understand my story.

My birth parents weren’t a mystery locked away forever. Even if we weren’t close, there was access. There were threads I could follow. And for a lot of adoptees, that kind of access doesn’t exist. It should, but it doesn’t.

Second—

I didn’t grow up in the same household as my siblings… but I grew up close enough.

Same area. Same holidays. Same rooms sometimes.

We didn’t just hear stories about each other—we lived some of them together. And now, as adults, we get to reflect on shared memories, not just imagined ones.

That matters more than people realize.

Third—

I’m still rooted in family.

Aunts, cousins, relatives across states—North Carolina, Atlanta, Arizona, even beyond the country.

I wasn’t disconnected. I was… extended.

There’s something powerful about still being claimed, even when your path looks different. Because at our root, to be chosen is to feel known and to be known is to feel seen.

Fourth—

I learned empathy early.

Not the soft, romanticized version—but the kind that comes from observing, adjusting, understanding what is, not just what you wish it could be.

I was raised by my cousin and her parents which made them my mom and my grandparent. Love was there, but it didn’t always look like softness.

It looked like structure. It looked like survival. I’ve gained so much wisdom from them.

I had to learn how to feel deeply in spaces that didn’t always express emotion openly.

That shaped how I see people and how I hold people today.

And fifth—

I was allowed to grow into the woman my mother asked for. And I’m still growing.

There is something sacred about being entrusted to your next of kin… and them actually honoring that assignment.

That’s not small. That’s legacy work. That’s work that is seen in habits and choices.

In Black families, kinship care often isn’t paperwork and systems—it’s instinct. It’s “we got her.” It’s “she’s staying with us.” It’s village.

And somehow… that same thing that has sustained us for generations gets labeled, questioned, stigmatized.

I wonder where that stigma comes from. Like anything-who is telling our stories? While being Black is not a monolith- classism, sexism and assumptions are still prevalent in our community. That leads to certain topics being stigmatized.

From where I’m standing there’s complexity, yes.

there’s grief, yes.

but there’s also continuity.

there’s care.

there’s culture being preserved in real time.

So maybe the real question is—

what would it look like if we told fuller stories about kinship care and how does my platform play a part in that?

Not just the pain… but the power too.

From my writing corner with love,

Teish