what adoptees really say in therapy

it doesn't have to be said out loud for it to exist

If you’re an adoptee, you might be carrying thoughts or feelings that are hard to name—even in therapy. Maybe you’ve told yourself:

“It wasn’t that bad.”
”Other people have it worse.”
”I should just be grateful.”

Those thoughts can be so loud, they drown out the quiet truths underneath. Because here’s the thing: even in the most supportive, loving adoptive families, adoption can come with layers of grief, identity confusion, and emotional stress. Not because something went wrong—but because something was lost.

Sometimes, those layers don’t come out in obvious ways. They show up quietly—in the way your stomach drops when someone leaves without saying goodbye, in the pressure you feel to never mess up, or in the nagging question of why you always feel a little out of place.

You might not say any of this out loud. But it still matters. And therapy can be a place where those quiet truths finally get to breathe.

🧍‍♀️ “I don’t know where I fit in.”

You might not say that out loud, but you feel it.

When you walk into a room and instantly start scanning: Who feels safe? Who gets it?

And when someone casually asks, “Where are you from?” and you freeze—not because you don’t know, but because the answer is layered and complicated.

A lot of adoptees grow up living in-between— families, cultures, expectations, versions of themselves.
Sometimes it’s the little things, like not looking like your family.
Other times, it’s deeper: feeling like you have to shape-shift to belong.

You don’t have to say “I’m confused about who I am” for it to be true.
Just living in that in-between space already says enough.

💔 “I worry people will leave me.”

You might not name it as a fear of abandonment, but it shows up.
Overthinking texts. Shutting down when someone gets too close.
Trying to be so independent that no one can leave—because you never really let them in.

Even if you were adopted as a baby, your nervous system remembers that early separation. It doesn’t need a conscious memory to carry the imprint of loss.

You don’t have to say “I’m scared to be left.” Your body already knows.

🎯 “I feel like I have to be perfect.”

This one shows up in small, exhausting ways:

Saying yes when you want to say no.
Beating yourself up over things no one else notices.
Struggling to relax—because there’s always something to prove.

Many adoptees carry this pressure to be “the good one.” To make the people who raised you proud. To never be too much. To not be a burden.

No one may have said that to you out loud. But somehow, you feel it anyway.

You don’t have to say “I feel like I have to earn my place.”
The overthinking, burnout, and people-pleasing say it for you.

🫂 “I love my family—but sometimes I still feel ______.”

This is one of the hardest truths to name—and one of the most common.

You can love your adoptive parents. You can be genuinely grateful for your life. And you can still carry grief, loss, confusion, or complicated feelings about your adoption.

It doesn’t cancel out the love—it just means you're human.
Holding both can be messy. And valid.

You don’t have to say “I feel conflicted about my family” for it to be real.
Even naming the blank—whatever fills that space for you—is powerful.

🔍 “Sometimes, people just don’t get it.”

And honestly? You might not even try to explain anymore. It’s tiring.
You’ve seen the winces. The blank stares. The awkward, well-meaning comments like, "but look how great your life turned out!" Or the intrusive questions that leave you feeling more exposed than seen.

Adoption is complex. It’s not just a feel-good story—it’s lived experience.
There’s grief that doesn’t always have words. Questions that don’t have easy answers. Feelings that don’t make sense to people who haven’t lived it.

You don’t owe anyone an explanation. And you don’t have to carry it alone.

If you’re an adoptee and any of this sounds familiar—therapy might be a place to start.

Not because something’s wrong with you, but because you deserve to feel seen, supported, and understood.