My Adoption Story

You know that I am a survivor. But do you know why I survived? Who made me become a survivor, not a victim?

It was the Summer of 2013. My biological family and I lived out of our van while my biological father was either looking for work or had a job in Louisville; I can’t fully remember that part. My biological father received a call about an opportunity to fill in for a pastor in Frankfort while he was on vacation. They set up a time and place to meet, the Cracker Barrel in Shelbyville, for lunch. The pastor invited all of our family, and my biological parents told me to put on the best clothes I had and “try and look pretty.” I was told ahead of time that I was not to order any food, just water, so the pastor didn’t think I was a glutton.

We walked into the Cracker Barrel, and that was when I met him. The man who would save my life.

I don’t know if I have ever told him what my first impression of him was, but I thought he was kind of comical. I would be lying if I didn’t say that the first thing I noticed was his shiny head. He had a pair of glasses on his head, and another hanging from his pocket. He had eyes that sparkled with humor, but also had the ache of sadness in them. Immediately, he felt like someone I wanted to trust, although I still am not sure how to trust men sometimes.

What I noticed the most was that he seemed to see me. Hear me. I am not sure, but I think he somehow knew that I had not eaten in a few days, and he made sure to pressure all of us to order food.

When he found out we were living in our van, he decided to let us stay in their house while he and his family were on vacation. Not long after, we headed to their house to stay.

When we arrived at their house, we were greeted by a few of their sons outside. He brought us in, and that was when I met her, the woman that would save my life.

She was busily trying to pack up their camper for them and their sons for the next couple of weeks, but she stopped and wanted to get to know us a little.

The first thing I noticed about her was her accent. She is from Michigan, and I am from Tennessee. Both very different accents. She had beautiful dark hair and a smile that could light up the nation.

It amazed me that she saw me and heard me, too. We stood in her kitchen for a few minutes, and I remember thinking how beautiful it was and how I would love to have one like it someday. I think she read my mind. She found out that I liked baking and decorating cakes and offered to bake with me after their vacation.

After they got back, they told us that we could stay in their camper while we looked for housing. I spent most days over at their house, with my brother and sisters, learning from “Mrs. Kelly” and “Mr. Jeff,” as I called them back then. They became my parents without even realizing it. If I were struggling and needed fatherly council, I would talk to “Mr. Jeff.” When I needed someone to lean on for motherly advice and affection, I went to “Mrs. Kelly.” There are no two people in the world I trust more than them. They are the reason I stayed alive while I lived through my abuse. They fought for me to have the things I needed.

Shortly after we started living with them, I had to throw away my shoes because they had so many holes in them, it was better to walk barefoot. One of them saw this and insisted that I get new shoes, in whatever style I like. It was the first time I got to pick something I owned, just for myself. I picked the most impractical pair of Converse tennis shoes I could find. Looking at them now, I have no idea why I loved them. They were three shades of gray, with a red stripe and studs. I still love them and will never throw them away.

They kept fighting for me throughout the years.

In 2018, I was finally kicked out by my abuser. Again, they let me come live in their camper. A few months later, I had my car wreck, I started having nightmares and flashbacks; they still stayed by me. I tried to overdose, they stayed by me. She took me to doctors and made sure I was in therapy. I had flashbacks and tried to run out the door, he fought me to make sure I stayed inside and safe.

Eventually, I told my story. They stood with me. He went to interviews with me. She held me as I cried afterward. I told them how my abuser used my name as ownership, how I didn’t want to carry that name anymore. On Christmas of 2019, they gave me adoption papers and asked me to be their daughter.

The title of “father” and “mother” are not titles of ownership. They are titles of love.

My Dad and my Momma are the two most loving and caring people on this earth. They have adopted and fostered children for over 20 years. They have loved churches and communities without restraint. They serve our schools with strength and humility.

While I have only officially carried the name “Douglas” for a little over a year, I know it was planned for me before the beginning of time. Jeff and Kelly Douglas have been my Dad and Momma before they knew I existed. They are the reasons I survived.