Lisa Kininger's Story

I am adopted, and I am still searching. I don’t know my real birthday. Every year I celebrate anyway, but quietly I know the date isn’t my true beginning. For adoptees, missing details aren’t small things. They are anchors.

I was adopted from Thailand and brought to the U.S. in 1975. By the time I was somewhere between 18 months and 2 years old, I was severely malnourished and dying. I weighed 13 pounds.

One document says I was from Sadao, Thailand, the youngest of seven children in a fatherless family. A sibling had already died of starvation. Another document, my birth certificate, contradicts all of it.

I grew up as the only Asian person in my family, moved every few years, changed schools constantly, and faced racism early. I was often told to “just be happy” and “feel lucky.” But adoptees already know that.

As an adult, I searched. I followed conflicting records, traveled to Thailand, believed I had found my family, and lived under an identity that wasn’t mine. When DNA became available, the truth came back: zero matches. Everything I thought I had found collapsed.

I took a break. Then I kept going.

Today I’m 53, a Thai adoptee, wife, mother of three, and grandmother. I have helped and continue to help other adoptees search, even while my own answers remain incomplete. Finding my hurt became finding my purpose.

I belong to myself. And that is enough.