We were the kind of family everyone admired. My dad was a leader in the church and ran our home with strict discipline. My mom upheld holiness in everything she did. No secular music, no pants for a season, and certainly no chaos. On the outside, we were everything a good Christian family should be: polished, respectful, and seemingly perfect.

 I remember one day asking if I could go outside and play like the other kids. My dad went to check my room first. When he came back, he told me no because I had left my sock drawer open. That was the standard. Excellence was not just encouraged, it was expected. I was coached by him in basketball, and I never remember losing. I was the best because I had to be. Looking back, I believe that is where my perfectionism started. I was chasing an invisible line I thought I had to reach to be good enough. And the truth is, no matter how hard you try, you will never be perfect. But your best is enough.

 We looked whole, and maybe we were for a while. But there were things we did not see. My parents shielded us from everything: financial strain, marriage trouble, and real conversations. We had all the material things, the newest game systems, and every appearance of being the strong family. But silence was its own kind of structure, and eventually, cracks started to show.

 I was about 13 when things began to unravel. My parents separated, and we moved to Georgia. That was the first time I started to feel like something was off. I could not explain it, but I felt it. The divorce made me question where I belonged. At times I blamed myself. At times I felt like I had to choose sides to be loved. At times I felt invisible. Alone.

 I was probably around middle school age when something strange happened. My mom brought us to visit family. I remember being at my cousin’s house, in the game room, playing pool with my sister and his sister. It was just a normal day. We were laughing, being kids, and then out of nowhere, he got irritated with me. I must have said something to get on his nerves, and in the middle of that moment, he blurted something out. Something too big for a child to fully grasp. At first, I thought he was just trying to hurt my feelings. But it stuck with me.

 Later that day, I went to my mom and told her what he said. I don’t remember what her exact words were but I know that it was brushed off. Quickly dismissed. The truth was buried. Life went on.

 Then came the phone call.

 I was working at Waffle House, pregnant with my first child. It was just a regular shift and then the work phone rang. Another coworker answered and approached me and handed me the phone. 

 I answered and said, “Hello?”
 A woman’s voice said “I’m your mom.”

 It wasn’t the voice I had known all my life, the one I called Mom. This voice was unfamiliar—yet somehow, it knew me. She told me things about myself and family members to try to prove to me that she was indeed my mom. The conversation was short. I thought nothing of it and I continued my shift.

 I remember coming home and repeating the conversation to my mom. She and my dad sat me down. They told me it was all true. They told me that I had been adopted as a baby. Imagine a single phone call destroying everything you believed about yourself, your identity, and your family all while you are becoming a parent yourself. I was pregnant at the time, and while I should have been preparing for new life, I was unraveling what I thought was mine.

 The truth about who you are can change everything. It can shake your purpose. It can challenge who you trust. It can make you ask why. If you are reading this and struggling with who you are, I want you to know I see you and I have been there. For years, I lived under labels that were placed on me by other people. I did not know who I was outside of what I had been told. I was the perfect child, the military kid, the preacher’s daughter. But none of those roles answered the deeper questions I carried. Who am I really? Why was I born? Does any of this make sense?

 When I found out the truth about my birth, it shattered everything I thought I knew. But that was also the moment God began to rebuild me. He removed every false name, every lie, and every heavy expectation. In place of the confusion, He gave me clarity. He reminded me that I am not my beginning. I am not what I was born into. I am not what people tried to make me. I discovered who I was by going back to the One who created me.

 God showed me that I am chosen. That I have purpose. That I am loved. That I matter. I learned how to forgive the people who kept the truth from me, not because they deserved it, but because I deserved to be free. I stopped performing to be accepted and started showing up as who God made me to be.

 This story is not just about where I came from. It is about who I became. And the same can be true for you. You are not your environment. You are not your family history. You are not what your mom or dad called you. You are not the hurt, the rejection, or the silence. You are God’s idea. You were made with purpose. And your future is still unfolding.