To International Adoptees and the People Who Love Them: You Are Not Alone

I hate that I am writing this. I hate how our country is treating brown and Black people and immigrants right now (and trans people, and poor people, and disabled people, and women, and anyone who holds a marginalized identity). And I especially hate that this all feels like it could have been prevented. Yet, here we are, and I am writing this piece because it feels like a moral and human obligation.

I am a brown-skinned woman, an international adoptee, and a legally naturalized U.S. citizen. I have lived in a fluctuating state of palpable fear and anxiety since 2015, as I witnessed the unfolding of overt hatred and discrimination become normalized and emboldened. I am now witnessing my fellow international adoptees across this country move through their days with a level of fear that is igniting their past trauma and profoundly reshaping their lives. This is not hypothetical concern—it is embodied, daily, and relentless fear. Adoptees are holding their breath as they move through the world, calculating where they go, how they travel, and who they are with. They are keeping documents close to their bodies like talismans, out of desperate necessity—like armor, trying to guard against the possibility of danger.

I spent most of my childhood in Minnesota, growing up near the Twin Cities, and I’m now watching it transform into a place of unfathomable cruelty and violence. I have adoptee friends who are sheltering in place because leaving their homes is too risky. I have adoptee clients who will only travel when accompanied by white friends, hoping the proximity to whiteness might reduce scrutiny, abate suspicion, or mitigate threats. I know of adoptees working in schools who are returning to hybrid learning as a precaution, feeling both relieved for their safety and devastated for their students who are still struggling to catch up after COVID-induced remote learning. These are not irrational reactions. These are essential survival mechanisms in response to an environment that is increasingly hostile and unpredictable. And who better to understand essential survival mechanisms than transnational adoptees? Those of us who survived having our entire world turned upside down at a young age have been primed to adapt to the most unthinkable of circumstances.

These are people who were brought to the United States as children, who had no choice in their immigration story, and who trusted the governments, courts, and systems that promised safety and permanence. Many were told—directly or indirectly—that adoption meant belonging, that citizenship meant protection, that once finalized, their place here was secure. Yet we are here, watching those promises unravel in directly in front of our faces.

For adoptees, this moment is especially painful. Adoption already begins with profound loss: loss of first family, loss of country, loss of language, loss of cultural continuity. To face the stark reality that one’s belonging is conditional is nothing short of retraumatizing. It awakens an old, often implicit fear: that safety can be revoked, permanence is fragile, and being taken away is not just a memory but also a looming possibility. It is even more punishing to know that it is entirely sanctioned by those holding the highest authority in our country.

For adoptive parents, if your child—whether they are a minor or an adult—was adopted internationally, what you are witnessing is not overreaction or political anxiety. It is fear rooted in lived experience and reinforced by real-world events. Minimizing it, reframing it as “just politics,” or rushing to reassurance without listening risks deepening the sense of isolation many adoptees already carry. What adoptees need most right now is to be believed, supported, and shown through consistent action that their safety matters more than anyone else’s comfort.

None of this should be happening. Targeting brown and Black people for questioning, detention, or deportation without evidence or due process has nothing to do with public safety. It is the harsh and deliberate application of fear to control and exclude, and it is a pillar of authoritarianism. When systems begin operating outside the law while claiming to uphold it, the damage extends far beyond legalities. This level of fear is not normal, and as a psychologist, I am bracing for the impacts it will have on psychological wellbeing, interpersonal trust, and DNA for generations to come. The collective trauma produced by this period of time will be incalculable, just as it has been for all whose bones still hold the trauma their ancestors endured on this land—the Indigenous communities who suffered colonization, African-American people who were trafficked and enslaved, and Japanese families who were imprisoned in concentration camps.

With so much of the current state of our country feeling outside of our control, preparation becomes not only an act of protection, but one of sanity. When the larger world feels overwhelming, it’s crucial that we ground ourselves in the areas where we do have influence. Here are questions to ask yourself as an international adoptee, or as the parent of an internationally adopted child, and actionable steps you can take:

• Do you have an original hard copy of your Certificate of Naturalization or Certificate of Citizenship? If not, begin this process immediately: Application for Certificate of Citizenship | USCIS. You can also contact Adoptees United | Identity, Citizenship, Equality for specific support regarding documentation as an international adoptee.
• Have you confirmed that the Social Security Administration has you listed as a citizen? Remember that various government agencies do not always communicate or align, and the order of documents submitted when acquiring citizenship as an adoptee may have impacted your status, which has resulted in adoptee deportations. Confirm your citizenship status: Contact Social Security | SSA. You can work with Adoptee Rights Law Center PLLC to submit and/or verify citizenship status.
• Do you have electronic AND hard copies of your citizenship paperwork stored somewhere safe, including giving a set to people you trust to act quickly if needed?
• Do you know who to call immediately if you are stopped or detained? Save your local Rapid Response Network hotline or immigration attorneys to your contacts (they will vary by state). In Colorado, I’ve saved the Colorado Rapid Response Network to my phone.
• Do you know your rights if stopped by law enforcement? Five key phrases are Am I free to go?, I wish to remain silent, I do not consent to this search, Am I under arrest?, and I want to speak to a lawyer. Learn more at Know Your Rights When Confronted by ICE (Flyer) | Immigrant Legal Resource Center | ILRC.
• Do you understand the difference between judicial and administravie/immigration warrants? A judicial warrant is a legitimate legal document from a district court, signed by a judge that specifies the person and property that can be searched on or by a particular date, but an administrative/immigration warrant is often less specific and may indicate being subject to deportation or removal (this is not legitimate). Learn more at Immigrants’ Rights | American Civil Liberties Union.
• For an incredibly detailed and informative guide, I’d encourage you to read Intercountry Adoptee Rights and Safety Guide: What to Know in 2026 — The Ties Program.

I recognize that current enforcement practices are not always following the law, as we have increasingly witnessed in recent weeks, and I acknowledge that this can make following the law as a citizen feel futile at times. While it is true that knowing your rights does not guarantee they will be honored, not knowing them increases your vulnerability to risks, and we must remember that knowledge is a powerful form of resistance.

Like many adoptees, I am starting to explore what it might look like to move abroad, not because I want to abandon my life here, but because living in constant fear is erodes health, dignity, and agency. Resources like Expatsi and other expatriation platforms can be used to research options for relocation, work visas, and citizenship pathways. This is not an impulsive curiosity—it is an avenue of self-preservation. When a country communicates that your presence is suspect simply because of the color of your skin, it is natural seek places where your humanity will not be questioned. International adoptees did not originally choose immigration, separation from their first families, or reliance on the systems that are now failing to protect us, but as adults we deserve to live an existence free from the pressure of constantly having to prove our right to exist.

It is heartening to see the courageous, resourceful, and compassionate ways communities have stepped up to protect immigrants in our country. Yet I cannot help but feel disheartened by how often this type of outpouring seems to be a short-term reaction to crisis. I frequently wonder, Where could be we be right now if a genuine desire for equity was the catalyst for advocacy, instead of tragedy being the starting point for dismantling systems of oppression? How can we encourage meaningful and ongoing advocacy work with the goal of preventing such crises?

These questions are not meant to minimize the powerful acts of bravery and love we are witnessing in response to this administration each day, but to consider how we can work together to alleviate our collective trauma and humanize us all. At the very least, we must remain grounded in the awareness that such questions are necessary if we are to have any hope of maintaining our own humanity under the current conditions.