Mirella Stoyanova's Story

I was adopted from Sofia, Bulgaria, to Seattle, Washington (USA) at five years old after witnessing the murder-suicide of my birth parents a year and a half before.

It was December 1993. The country where I was born was newly democratic, and my grandmother, who herself adopted my birth mother as a baby, was dying of cancer.

She wanted me to come to the United States, where I could be raised and be given every chance of success. To do this, she bypassed laws about my being offered to any Bulgarian families and my own paternal family, who are from Iraq and wanted to adopt me.

I grew up in a highly dysfunctional, white, upper-middle-class family and a community that was very image-focused and lacking any real diversity.

My new mother told my new father that she could not “compete with an angel” when it came to my grief, so I buried much of my sadness over the profound loss I had faced of my first mother, with whom I had been inseparable.

I knew little about my Iraqi heritage, and after 9/11, I was told by my parents not to tell anyone at school where I was from. Of course, this didn't keep those who knew from calling me derogatory names.

Still, I did what I could to try to fit in. I felt so different from anyone I knew. It took many years to realize that I was worthy as is.

Like many here, I never stopped searching for answers about my past. I routinely pored over the 30 or so pictures I had from my life before America and my adoption documents, which were kept in a red, three-ringed binder in the bottom right-hand corner of our family's den. Usually, I did this when no one else was home.

My grandmother died a month to the date after I arrived, so I did not grow up with access to anyone from my life before. I had only my memories, my photos, my questions, and what I was told about myself by my adoptive family and those who helped them.

In college, I studied the Near and Middle East for no other reason than to come to peace with my past and develop a more holistic view of the many identities I hold.

Then, in the summer between my first and second year of graduate school, I found my paternal family on Facebook and reconnected with them after nearly twenty years. They thought I had been stolen and sold on the black market for parts, as was not uncommon in Eastern Europe at that time.

I am a therapist now and a writer, and through my work, I explore themes of trauma, identity, belonging, and the complexities of adoption. You are always welcome to contact me on Facebook, but I am more active on Instagram @mirellastoyanova. To learn more about my writing work, you can visit my website at mirellastoyanova.com.

Biggest thank you to Alex, who started this page, and to you all for reading just a snippet of my story.

With gratitude,

Mirella Stoyanova