Our Stories Deserve to be Remembered: Reflections from USKRG and the Ties Program's Truths Day Tour
By Kari Barrows Romano
For Korean adoptees, returning to Korea can stir questions of identity, belonging, loss, and truth. From September 6 to September 13, 2026, USKRG and Ties Program returned to Korea for the 5th Annual Adoption Truth Day International Conference and Korean cultural activities meant to bring those experiences forward—to be heard, to seek accountability, and to stand together. For this highly personal essay series, we have asked some of our tour participants to reflect on what their experiences of returning to Korea with us have meant to them and how it has become a part of their ongoing journey — one that continues to uncover difficult truths, deepen ones understanding of what was lost, and shape what it means to reclaim our place as a Korean adoptee.
I attended the Adoption Truth Conference without fully realizing what I had signed up for, as this was my first time attending. I went to Korea with my husband, hoping the experience would help him understand the words and feelings that I, as a Korean adoptee, have not always been able to express.
For the first time, I think he began to understand more deeply who I am and where I come from. DNA is more than biology, just as identity is more than nurture. There are all these little facets and nuances of who I am—parts of me that are undeniably Korean, even though I was raised in a loving home in Minnesota. Being loved by my adoptive family and being Korean are not opposing truths. They are both parts of my story.
Attending the conference and meeting with the Truth and Reconciliation Commission was an honor. To me, it meant that we, Korean adoptees, are important too. It meant that our stories matter, our histories matter, and the truth about what happened to us matters. At times, the words being spoken may not yet align with the actions we are seeing. But people are listening. And as more of us come together, our collective voices become harder to ignore as we seek truths that, for far too many adoptees, have been inaccessible for decades.
I realized that no matter where I am in my own journey, I am not alone.
I met fellow adoptees whose stories reflected parts of my own. I heard stories that were astonishing, stories that broke my heart, and stories that made me cry. Yet somehow, I left with hope. I realized that no matter where I am in my own journey, I am not alone.
There are people who genuinely care—people willing to support you, offer advice, provide guidance and access to resources, or simply give you a smile, a hug, a word of encouragement, or friendship. There is something profoundly comforting about finding kindred souls who understand parts of you that sometimes require no explanation at all.
Will there ever be a day when someone stands in front of a memorial to the children?
In March 2026, I went to the DMZ with my oldest daughter and saw a statue honoring the “comfort women.” I stood in front of it filled with profound sadness, and one thought stayed with me: Will there ever be a day when someone stands in front of a memorial to the children?
The children who were sent away from Korea. The children whose identities, histories, families, and sometimes even names were altered or lost. The children whose adoptions became part of an international system that brought money into a country rebuilding itself and seeking its place in the modern world.
I truly hope that day comes.
It may not happen in my lifetime. As several people said during the conference, time is running out. Records disappear. Memories fade. People who hold pieces of our histories grow older. And with each passing year, recovering the truth becomes more difficult.
Some adoptees may choose not to become involved, and everyone has the right to navigate this deeply personal journey in their own way. But for those of us who can, there is still work to do.
Our lives are busy. Some adoptees may choose not to become involved, and everyone has the right to navigate this deeply personal journey in their own way. But for those of us who can, there is still work to do.
We need one another. We need to support the effort to uncover and preserve the truth so that our histories and identities are not erased or forgotten. So that our pain is acknowledged, but also our happiness, our resilience, our families, and the complicated fullness of our lives. Most of all, I hope future generations of Korean adoptees will not have to search quite as hard as we have for the truth of who they are and where they came from.
Our stories deserve to be remembered. And we deserve to know them.
