There isn't an exact moment where I remember my parents telling me I was adopted. I can just remember always knowing that I was. It rarely made me feel different or out of place with my family. My sister wasn't adopted, but I received the same unconditional love growing up alongside her. My parents treated us the same, and I am thankful for that, and for them not keeping my past a secret from me. We became a full family like any other, just with a little twist.

My sister and I were your typical siblings growing up—fighting, playing, crying, laughing, a couple punching fights here or there, (ones I never won because she was five years older than me and a lot larger), and I was always that annoying little sister that wanted to be with her doing all the things she was doing. As we grew up, we became closer and closer. She went off to college, and I found myself being the only child in the house during the time she was away. She would call home occasionally, or we would go visit, and I would be so excited to see her. It was always bittersweet because I wanted to stay with her. Going home saddened me, thoughts of not seeing her for a couple more weeks would sink in, and I found myself missing her the second we drove away. She was my big sister and we may not be sisters by blood, but our bond was growing stronger every day. Now that we are both a lot older, we continue to grow even closer and make more memories together. We see each other a lot more now, and we have our little moments of bonding and being sisters. She has three little furry babies that I love with all my heart and a wonderful husband. She will always be my big sister, and we will always look to one another for everything until we are old ladies sitting in rocking chairs in a nursing home together.

My adoptive parents have always been my family. Family has a different meaning to me growing up as an adopted child. I realized rather quick that being adopted doesn't mean anything bad, and that my parents loved me so much, they decided to fly across the world to bring me home as their other little girl. As I got older, I felt more regarding my past and my present. I realized that although my adoptive mother didn't give birth to me, she was just as much of a mother to me as my biological mother was. I always seemed to have a strong bond with my dad and he treated me as I was his biological daughter like my sister was. I never felt as though they treated me different—they accepted me as I was. They chose me and I chose them.

As people found out I was adopted, I seemed to never be able to avoid the never ending questions about who I was, where I came from, and what I want to do about it:

Where were you adopted?

How old were you & when did your parents tell you?

Is your sister adopted?

Do you know your birth parents?

Do you want to know them?

Will you ever go back to find them?

The list of questions could go on for miles. As I was a young girl or even a teenager, when someone asked me about my past, some questions seemed cruel in a way. Not in the way of them saying something mean, or showing judgement, but I never seemed to be ready to know the answers they were asking. I had never really asked my parents questions about my past and who my biological parents were, hadn't thought about traveling across the world to find them, or when I would do such a thing—or even if I wanted to. A part of me always felt that if I mentioned wanting to know more, then I would offend my parents or they would be angry with me. I kept those thoughts to myself and pushed them down into my heart, thinking one day when I'm older, maybe I would revisit the idea. Now that I'm in my 20s and no longer a young girl or a teen, a lot of things have changed, and I found myself once again feeling the need to know more. So I went out and did just that.