The Thorn of Belonging

National Adoption Awareness Month has always been complicated for me.

November rolls around, carrying Thanksgiving on its back, and then December follows with Christmas, and suddenly we’re deep in “family season.” You know what I mean. The time of year when everyone’s posting their matching pajama pictures, their beautifully set tables with three generations gathered around, their traditions that go back decades. The time when families get together and belong to each other in ways that look so effortless, so natural, so complete.

And if you’ve ever felt like you don’t quite belong anywhere, these months can feel like you’re showing up to a party you weren’t really invited to.

You’re there in body, but your spirit? Your spirit is somewhere else. Wondering. Longing. Aching for a place you’ve never been able to name.

In 2 Corinthians 12:7-9, Paul talks about a “thorn in the flesh.” Something God allowed to remain in his life to keep him humble, to remind him that grace is sufficient even when healing doesn’t come the way we want it to. Paul never named his thorn. It’s left ambiguous, mysterious, open for interpretation.

But I’m choosing to name mine.

Because I believe that when we name our pain, we give ourselves permission to heal. Not by removing the thorn, but by learning to live with it, to maneuver around it, to let God’s grace be sufficient in the tender places where it pierces us.

My thorn is belonging. Or rather, the absence of it.

For as long as I can remember, I have carried this deep, persistent ache of not fitting anywhere. Not with my adoptive family, even though I was legally theirs from age eight. Not with the maternal side of my biological family, even after I knew who they were from age 15 and had opportunities to be with them. My birth mother died when I was pregnant with my son, so she was never there, but her siblings were. My cousins were. And I tried to fit myself into those spaces. But something always felt like it was missing.

I spent years searching for my biological father’s family because I just knew that if I found them, everything would click into place. The thorn would finally be removed. I would finally be healed. I would finally belong.

And when I met them? Oh, when I met the paternal side of my family in North Carolina, I felt it. That sense of belonging I’d been searching for my entire life.

But they’re all the way in North Carolina. And I’m all the way in Connecticut.

So there are still holidays I miss. Picnics. Family reunions. Funerals. Baby showers. Moments where family is being family, and I’m hundreds of miles away, seeing it through FaceTime and text messages and photo albums sent with love but still at a distance.

They try. They really do. They send me invitations so I know what’s happening. They FaceTime me in. They make space for me even when I can’t physically be there. And I am grateful. So, so grateful.

But the thorn is still there.

This morning I was watching a sermon by Rev. Jamal Bryant, and something he said landed in my spirit like a stone dropping into still water, sending ripples through everything I’ve been feeling this month.

He said, “The byproduct of your pain will be your accomplishments. People don’t know or understand your motivation or the source of the intensity of your efforts because they have no idea how your pain has pushed you. People don’t have a clue that you work so hard because you know firsthand how things can be taken away easily.”

He was talking about Bartimaeus, the blind beggar who refused to be quiet when Jesus passed by. Who shouted louder when people told him to be still. Who knew that this might be his only chance.

And Rev. Bryant said: “They don’t know why you feel deeply due to the fact that neglect and abandonment was a way of life growing up. You don’t take friendship lightly because of how many seasons you had to masquerade as if you weren’t lonely.”

I felt that in my bones.

The depth of my longing for family isn’t dramatic. It’s not me being ungrateful for what I have. It’s the byproduct of a childhood spent not knowing where I belonged. It’s why I’ve worked so hard to build Unashamed Inc. To create spaces where young people know they belong, where they’re seen, where they don’t have to masquerade as anything other than who they are.

It’s why this Thanksgiving matters so much to me.

This year, for the first time, Joshua and I are hosting Thanksgiving. In our new home.

And I know that might not sound like a big deal to some of you. You’ve been hosting for years. Your family has traditions that go back generations. You know exactly how your grandmother made the dressing and which aunt brings the mac and cheese and where everyone sits at the table.

But for me? This feels like everything.

Because this year, the family that Joshua and I have built will gather here. Our children, 17 and 23. Our grandson. Our granddaughter. My in-laws. My god family. Extended family and friends. Even my adopted family. All coming to our home. All sitting around our table.

And I won’t be wishing I was somewhere else. I won’t be showing up in body but not in spirit.

I’ll be fully present. Fully here. Fully belonging to the family I’ve created and the families that have made space for me.

I need to be honest about something. I think my own struggle with belonging has, in some ways, kept my children from fully experiencing what family can be. When you grow up feeling isolated from your own family, you sometimes isolate others without meaning to. You don’t know how to create what you never had.

But that ends now.

My kids will be here. My grandchildren will be here. And we’ll play games and laugh and create memories and build traditions that they can carry forward. They’ll experience family in a way I’m still learning how to receive.

But even as I say all of this, I have to tell you: the thorn is still there.

Because there’s someone who won’t be at our table this Thanksgiving. My twin brother.

We haven’t been able to spend many holidays together throughout the years because he’s been in and out of prison. And this year, once again, he’s incarcerated. So there will be an empty space at our table. An absence that aches.

I long for the day when he can be home with us. When his daughter can sit at our table too. When our family can feel even more complete.

But until then, I carry this thorn. I maneuver around it. I let God’s grace be sufficient in the places where it still pierces me.

Here’s what I’m learning, Family is literally what you make of it.

It’s not just blood, though blood matters. It’s not just paperwork, though adoption is beautiful and legal and real. It’s not just geography, though being close enough to show up matters too.

Family is covenant. Family is choice. Family is showing up, in body and spirit, for the people you love and who love you back.

You can honor all your families. Biological, adopted, chosen, foster, in-law. You don’t have to choose. You don’t have to force yourself to fit into spaces that were never shaped for you. You can create something new.

You can carry the thorn and still build something beautiful.

If you’re reading this and you’ve ever felt like you don’t quite belong anywhere, whether you’re an adoptee, a foster youth, someone estranged from family, someone who lost the family you had, or someone who just never felt like you fit, I want you to hear this:

Your longing is not a weakness. Your depth of feeling is not drama. Your intense efforts to create and maintain connection are not too much.

They are the byproduct of your pain. And that pain has made you who you are.

This Thanksgiving, wherever you are, whatever your table looks like, I want to encourage you, Be present. Be as fully there as you can be. Time is fleeting. We are losing people at a pace that should terrify us into gratitude.

Be thankful for the family you’re building, even if it doesn’t look like what you thought it would. Even if it’s smaller than you hoped. Even if there are empty chairs.

Be grateful for the people who show up. The ones who FaceTime you in. The ones who send you pictures. The ones who make space for you even when you can’t be there.

And if you’re able to create something, a table, a tradition, a moment where people can belong, do it. Build it. Invite people in. Let your pain produce something beautiful.

Paul’s thorn never went away. God didn’t remove it. Instead, God said, “My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness.”

My thorn of belonging is still here. Some days it hurts more than others. Some holidays it pierces deeper than I expect.

But I’m learning that healing doesn’t always mean removal. Sometimes it means learning to live with grace in the tender places. Sometimes it means building something new while carrying something old. Sometimes it means being vulnerable enough to say, “This still hurts, and I’m still here anyway.”

This Thanksgiving, I’m choosing to be fully present for the family I’m building. I’m choosing to be grateful for every person who will be at our table, and to hold space in my heart for the ones who can’t be there.

I’m choosing to let the byproduct of my pain be something life-giving.

And I’m inviting you to do the same.

Family is what you make it. So let’s make it beautiful. Let’s make it full of grace. Let’s make it a place where people belong, thorns and all.