by April Dinwoodie
Eleven years ago, I sat down around the Fourth of July to write about what freedom and independence meant to me as a transracially adopted person. Looking back at that 2015 piece, I smile remembering images of my childhood; riding my bike down our big hill with no hands, body surfing in the ocean waves, tending to our farm animals, and swinging on a homemade swing. To my younger self, that was the ultimate definition of freedom: simple, joyful, wholesome, and entirely untethered from the heavy realities of the broader world.
I also remember the flipside of that.
Outside my parents’ altruistic, colorblind corner of the world lay a different reality, one that made my journey of belonging anything but simple or free. While they lived in a world of “we don’t see color” and “we will love any child like our own,” I lived in one that reminded me every single day that I was different. Whether it was my skin tone, my kinky/curly hair, or the fact that I didn’t look like my family, I simply didn’t fit. While other children around me had the freedom of shared connection with their original families, their heritage, and the truth of their beginnings, I wondered what my original mother and father looked like and whether or not I had other siblings in the world.
Right next to an existence of love, connections to nature, and simple goodness sat the hard realities of navigating deep complexities of identity development; complexities that were usually left completely unattended to without access to essential information, understanding, and support.
In my twenties, I walked into a vital records office and was shattered. I was told that while my original birth certificate existed, it was legally sealed away from me. I remember asking myself: How can a nation celebrate its collective independence while legally denying an individual the right to her own origins, medical history, and foundational truth?
Propelled by those questions, I stood at the podium at the City Club of Cleveland in 2016 to deliver a speech titled “Adoption in America Today: The Good the Bad and the Path to Reform.” In that forum, surrounded by advocates like Betsie Norris of Adoption Network Cleveland, I spoke about a critical turning point in our community: the reality that we can no longer simply, and only transactionally, celebrate adoption. I argued then, as I do now, that truly honoring adoption means we must recognize the deep complexity inherent in the experience and look at all parts of the lifelong journey with an evolved sensibility and a passion for reform.
Now, in 2026, I find myself looking at freedom through a much wider, more seasoned lens, combining the personal reflections of 2015 with the systemic call to action I issued in 2016.
Some things, unfortunately, remain stubbornly the same. The adoption system at large still leans too heavily on the transaction rather than embracing the lifelong, intergenerational transformation it actually is. With the exception of Kansas and Alaska, most states are still sealing original birth certificates and issuing amended ones with adoptive parents listed, and less than half of states (16 in total) allow adopted adults unrestricted access to their original birth certificates. With this as the legal foundation of adoption, the structural barriers for adopted people seeking their truth remain a heavy reality. This is true even with advances in social connectivity and DNA platforms.
For me, freedom for adopted persons must begin with a legal construct built entirely on openness, where states finally stop sealing original birth certificates. From this foundational place, our policies and practices need true uniformity. We must shift the national awareness to fully encompass the diverse experiences and realities of adopted persons themselves and then create quality, accessible systems of support.
In 2015, my exploration of identity was still deeply focused on finding the missing pieces and coping with the gut-wrenching rejections that came with searching. Today, at this stage of my life, freedom is no longer about waiting for a system to hand me a piece of paper, nor is it defined by who accepts or rejects me.
True freedom, I’ve learned, is the sovereign right to explore, question, and expand my identity on my own terms. It is the realization that my narrative and my names don’t belong to a courthouse, a bureaucracy, or a single story. They all belong to me and all of who I am.
Looking back at the core principles I shared on that Cleveland stage a decade ago, the path to true freedom becomes undeniable:
- Adoption is not a one-time transaction: We must continually break down the societal habit of freezing adoption in a single, commodified moment of finalization. True freedom is acknowledging it as a lifelong, evolving reality.
- We must recognize the basic human rights of everyone in the extended family of adoption: A system cannot claim to honor family while legally severing an individual’s right to their own genetic history, original documentation, and identity.
- Children are not commodities: Our practices, imagery, and public narratives must respect the inherent dignity of every child, moving away from public marketing and toward deep, protective care. This is especially vital for children of color.
- Adoption in America Lacks Uniformity: The fragmented, state-by-state patchwork of laws creates a lottery on basic identity access based on zip code. True equity demands systemic, national uniformity.
- There will be no Reform Without Education: We cannot build an open, truthful framework if professionals and parents are not trained to understand the profound nuances of family separation and differences of race, culture, and socio economics.
As an adopted person, society still pressures me to choose and to live in the either/or. But my human identity doesn’t work that way. I am a woman whose life began when I was born, not when I was adopted. I am built from multiple histories, diverse cultures, and two distinct realities connected to my parents of origin and my parents of experience. I now know that it was the unique combination of my constitution, my upbringing, and my origins that ultimately brings me to each moment of my life.
For me in 2026, freedom is about moving from the isolation of individual survival into the profound power of community. I see this freedom flourishing when adult adopted persons and youth come together. I see this with parents of origin finding space in togetherness. I see it when adoptive parents willingly enter spaces to learn directly from the lived realities of adult adopted persons. These spaces are essential acts of resilience, resistance, and joy in a complex world. When we gather, we create something that systems never intended; our own systems of care, visibility, and connection while we wait for the world to catch up.
Bringing this vision to life means intentionally using my own journey to educate parents, educators, professionals, and child welfare advocates who hold the keys to systemic change. My lived experience is a framework to teach professionals how to adapt their practices, understand the trauma of family separation, and honor differences in race and culture. It is a guide to inspire adoptive parents to push past discomfort and truly love and protect the children entrusted to them through adoption. Ultimately, this work is about creating a world where every adopted person feels completely seen, validated, protected and free to be exactly who they are with uncompromised, unconditional access to all that is theirs.
I will always cherish that childhood memory of flying down the hill with my hands in the air and that pure, simple feeling of absolute freedom. But as an adult adopted person and advocate, I know that true freedom requires an intentional foundation of truth, uniform justice, and lifelong education.
April Dinwoodie is a transracially adopted person, advocate, and the creator of the podcasts Born in June, Raised in April, and Calendar Conversations. She is the founder of Adoptment, a mentoring program for adopted youth, and the Executive Director at Together on the Journey family camp for transracial adoptive families. April provides specialized consulting and coaching for adoptive parents, educators, and child welfare professionals navigating the complexities of identity, race, and culture. To learn more about her coaching or to book a consultation, visit her website.