Hello, and thank you for stopping by. My name is Scott, and I am a proud gay U.S. Navy veteran. I currently call Minnesota home, but my story begins in Michigan.

For most of my life, I carried a truth I never fully understood. When I was 15, I stumbled upon my adoption papers. Seeing them in black and white shook me, but I never asked my mother about them. Maybe I wasn’t ready for the answer. Maybe, deep down, I already knew. So, I buried it.

It wasn’t until three years ago that I finally found the courage to bring it up. I had returned home to help my mother through a difficult situation—one that, as it turned out, she had lied to me about. In that moment, something in me cracked. After all those years of silence, I finally asked her about my adoption. That’s when she told me the truth: she had put me up for adoption because she "had to think about it."

I still don’t know what was worse—hearing those words or realizing how easily she said them.

Looking back, pieces of my past started falling into place. I had been told—though I’ll never know if it’s true—that my grandparents made her take me back. Not out of love, but because, to them, bloodline mattered. My mother’s sister had been adopted. My mother’s brother was only my half-uncle. But my mother? She was their only biological daughter. And that made me their only biological grandson.

It’s a strange feeling, realizing you were kept not because you were wanted, but because you were a piece of someone else’s legacy.

For a long time, I struggled with that knowledge. But I’ve learned that our past does not define us—it shapes us, but it does not determine who we become. I choose to stand tall, to embrace who I am, and to share my story, not for pity, but for connection. Because I know I am not alone.