When Family Doesn't See Your Family
Jun 01, 2025I’ve learned there are two kinds of pain:
The pain you expect, and the pain that catches you off guard.
The pain I expected? Sleepless nights. Toddler tantrums. The challenge of parenting children with trauma-impacted nervous systems.
The pain I didn’t expect?
That came from family.
The Obituary That Left My Children Out
When my father died, my children were three years old. And yet…
they were not mentioned in the obituary.
No acknowledgment. No names. No sign that his youngest grandchildren—two beautiful, Black twins—had even entered the family.
I still remember how that silence thundered. How it echoed louder than any statement could have. How it wasn’t just an oversight—it was erasure.
And when you are raising Black children in a white family, erasure is not just personal.
It’s generational. Historical. Soul-deep.
Love That Misses the Mark
When I told my best friend back in Holland that I was adopting, she paused.
And then she said something that stung like a slap:
“You’ll never have the energetic connection with an adopted child that you would have for your own.”
I froze. And then I crumbled.
She didn’t mean harm. I know that. And we’ve had conversations since. We’ve forgiven each other and still love each other deeply. But that comment wasn’t just painful—it was revealing. It told me what she believed about blood. About belonging. About which children are “real.”
It’s hard to blame someone for what they don’t know. But it's even harder when they still don’t see—even after you’ve tried to explain it.
The Messy Middle of Trying to Stay in Relationship
These conversations are hard.
There is anger. There is grief. There is performative pride—someone saying “I’m so proud of what you’re doing!” without acknowledging what it costs.
There’s resentment—because I gave up privilege, and let’s be honest, that’s hard for some people to accept.
There’s distance—and a loneliness I can’t always name.
And yet—I stay in it.
Because I believe in repair.
Because I believe in truth-telling.
Because I believe in messy love.
That Complicated Cocktail
This road I’m walking? It’s muddy.
It’s like a complicated cocktail of emotion—equal parts sorrow, fury, forgiveness, awareness, isolation, and just enough love to keep trying.
You can’t even see the cherry at the bottom of this murky drink. But it’s there.
And that’s the road I’m inviting you to walk with me.
To My Family (Yes, Even You)
I’m fully aware that some of my relatives read these posts.
Like the cousin who introduced my kids to her daughter as “Marion’s children” rather than their "your cousins". Or the sister who’s a doctor and—because she once got an A in psychiatry—has offered me too much unasked-for advice about trauma and parenting.
I don’t want this to be a stab under the table.
But I have been stabbed. So many times.
And I’m learning to speak the truth in a way that doesn’t bleed—but does open hearts.
Why I Write This
I write because I know I’m not the only one navigating love and loss under the same roof.
I write because I know there are white parents out there—like me—raising Black children in families that don’t always see them, or worse, don’t believe they need to.
I write because silence has never saved us.
And if telling the truth is messy… well, that’s what this blog is for.
To those walking this muddy road with me:
You are not alone. The cocktail may be bitter, but we can toast to the fact that we’re still here. Still loving. Still speaking.
And somewhere down there, at the bottom of it all, is the cherry of truth.
Let’s not stop reaching for it.
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