I Didn't Know What I Didn't Know: The Day I Became a White Mom of Black Twins
May 31, 2025I’ll never forget the moment I got the call.
“Congratulations—you’re a mom!”
I gasped.
“Of twins.”
I gasped again.
It felt like my entire life shifted in a blink. Just like that, I went from wondering if adoption was really happening to knowing with every fiber of my being that it already had.
But nothing—nothing—could have prepared me for what came next.
I was born and raised in the Netherlands, inside a very white bubble. The history I learned in school was, of course, written by the victor. I didn’t realize until much later that this meant it was also written by the occupier, the colonizer, the supremacist.
The day I became a mother, I stepped into a role I had prayed for—and yet could never fully imagine. I thought I had some idea of what I was getting into. But when the nurse asked me if I had children already, and I said “no,” she looked at me with a knowing glance and replied:
“So you have no idea what you’re getting into, do you?”
“Nope,” I said.
And I meant it.
What I had was confidence—not arrogance, but a deep trust in my intuition. I believed in a kind of divine assignment. That God (who I imagine as a They, not a He) knew I was up for this. I had prayed for a child. They sent me two. That had to mean something, right?
What I Didn’t Know
I didn’t know my children had been exposed to drugs and violence in the womb.
I didn’t know how trauma would shape their nervous systems—or mine.
I didn’t know that the adoption agency had left out some hard, painful truths.
And I certainly didn’t know that the history I’d been taught was missing entire continents of truth.
What I knew was this:
My children looked into my eyes, and something unspoken passed between us.
My son remembers it. He told me later: “I looked at you and knew all was well.”
It felt sacred. Holy. Like we knew each other before this life.
But Love Is Not Enough
I’ve come to learn that love alone won’t prepare you for the layers of complexity in transracial parenting.
Because when you’re white and your children are Black, your love is immediately filtered through the lens of a country—and a world—that still sees color before character.
Most white parents of white kids don’t have to consider whether their children will be followed in stores, feared on sidewalks, or murdered by police. I do. Every single day.
And here’s what’s even more sobering: I didn’t know that when I started.
The Point of This Blog (and This Whole Journey)
This blog is part of a series I’m writing for white parents raising Black or Brown children—especially those who adopted, like me. I’m not here as a perfect expert. I’m here as a humble, honest traveler. And I want to say this:
You don’t know what you don’t know.
But that doesn’t mean you’re not meant to learn.
You’re not bad. You’re not broken. But you have been shaped by whiteness—just like I was.
The beautiful—and painful—part of this journey is realizing how much there is to unlearn, to sit with, and to grieve.
A Thought to Leave You With
Last month, I heard Trevor Noah say on his podcast that in all his years growing up in South Africa, he never met a single person who said they were in favor of apartheid.
And yet, apartheid (a Dutch word, no less) existed.
How can that be?
The same way the genocide of Indigenous people, the enslavement of Africans, and the ongoing marginalization of people of color can exist—because systems built on white supremacy are quiet, sneaky, and self-protecting. And we white folks are often the last to see it.
But when we do see it—we have a responsibility to respond.
Starting in our own homes.
Your Turn
If you’re a white parent raising Black or Brown children, I'd love to hear from you.
What was the moment you realized you didn’t know what you didn’t know?
Comment below, send me a message, schedule a call, or just take a breath. You’re not alone. We are walking this road together.
xox
Marion Van Namen
Founder, White Awake Parenting
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