I was not abandoned.
I was given without consent, without understanding, and without protection.
As a child, my father gave me to his own sister. I was promised a better life, but that promise proved fragile. Two years after my adoption, my adopting mother passed away. Suddenly, I was left without a stable home. My second father, a pastor, was busy caring for his congregation. My sister was immersed in seminary studies. My brother was absorbed in work. The very people who had taken me in could not fully care for me. And so I was sent back to my biological family.
The real struggle began there.
Being a girl in a society that demanded constant proof of worth, I found myself at the bottom of every hierarchy. My youngest brother was given priority in every decision. I had to study harder, work harder, and constantly prove my existence. Every achievement became a way to claim space, a way to survive, and a way to assert that I mattered.
From the outside, my life may have looked ordinary. I had relatives. I had a home. I carried a family name. But inside, every day was a quiet test of resilience and identity. I had to navigate the expectations of family, society, and myself, all while wrestling with the question, “Who am I allowed to be?”
In Pakistan, adoption laws are almost nonexistent. There are no mandatory checks on the psychological or financial capacity of adopting families. There is no structured monitoring of a child’s well-being. There is no legal clarity, inheritance protection, or counseling support to help children navigate these transitions. Children like me, especially girls, are left vulnerable, shuffled from home to home, and expected to survive in silence.
From early on, I learned that love could feel conditional. I had to earn it. I had to justify it. Mistakes were never forgiven easily. I had to be quiet when I wanted to speak, accomplished when I wanted to rest, and perfect when I wanted to make a mistake. And yet, in these trials, I discovered resilience I did not know I possessed. Every challenge became a lesson in endurance. Every hardship forced me to find the strength I did not know I had. In the midst of it all, I discovered who I truly was.
Today, I am a psychologist. I help others navigate the emotional and psychological struggles I once endured. I save lives, nurture identities, and advocate for children whose voices are silenced by circumstance.
But my story is bigger than me. It is the story of many children, particularly girls, adopted informally in Pakistan and other contexts where legal and systemic protections are missing. Adoption, when ethical and regulated, can transform lives. But love alone is not enough. Safeguards, legal protections, and child-centered frameworks are essential. Without them, adoption can become a silent risk.
A girl child is already navigating gender inequality. An adopted child is already navigating identity complexity. When these realities intersect in a system without protection, vulnerability multiplies. Survival alone should not be the measure of a child’s worth.
I share this story to advocate for reform, for formalized adoption frameworks, legal clarity, financial and psychological assessment of adopting families, child welfare monitoring, and counseling services. Children should not rely solely on the kindness of adults. They should rely on their rights.
To policymakers, children are not informal arrangements. They are human beings with rights.
To society, adoption is not charity. It is a responsibility.
To every adopted child, your existence is not a favour. You are not a burden. You are not temporary. You are not secondary. You are whole. Your voice matters.
Today, I choose to use mine to turn survival into advocacy, uncertainty into insight, and struggle into change.
