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I was born a tiny premature baby on the 9th of January 2000 at King’s College Hospital in London. I later found out that I came into the world high on heroin and alcohol. I had to be readmitted to hospital after I was placed in foster care because I suffered from Neonatal Abstinence Syndrome. Not the easiest start.
My birth mother left me at eleven days old. I don’t know the details—just that she struggled with heroin and that there was some kind of incident and she wasn’t allowed back. My birth father? I have a name and nothing else. I’m really good at finding people online, but this man might as well not exist.
I stayed in foster care until I was six months old and then I was adopted. The foster family didn’t want contact afterwards, so that chapter was closed too.
I look very similar to my adoptive Mum – we have the same gap in our teeth and the same eyes. So, she could have probably gone her whole life without telling me I was adopted. In fact, I feel like I knew from a very early age. There was never a big “reveal”. Although, when I was about twelve, I remember sitting in my room looking through a box of papers and letters from my birth family. I shut my bedroom door and just sat there with it all. That was the first time it hit me what being adopted really meant — not as a fact but as a feeling. It was really hard.
Like all kids, I just wanted a normal life. But I felt I didn’t belong anywhere. Like I was floating slightly outside the picture.
I used to prefer adults to kids my age and people always said I was “so mature”. Maybe it was because I wasn’t carefree like other children? I was a really angry kid which probably had a lot to do with the fact I didn’t see myself in anyone around me. Luckily, I’m fine on my own.
My parents split when I was six and I always say I had two childhoods. With my mum, things were stable. She tried hard and we’re close. It was a different story with my Dad. He remarried quickly, had a biological child, and it messed with my head. My Dad’s love language was giving me cool stuff: BMX bikes, scooters, anything to make me feel included. To give him his due, he could see that I was very much a tomboy and encouraged me to wear what I wanted, climb trees and play football. As I got older, I realised that I was non-binary, so it all makes sense. Things were very different with my Mum. I think she’d always had a fantasy of having a daughter who was a “girly” girl.
When I was 14 there was a female teacher that I completely fixated on. Suddenly I was in a whole new world of emotions that I’d never felt before. For the first time I realised I was attracted to women. Instead of anger, I was full of happiness and excitement. Unfortunately, those feelings become so overwhelming that I started having panic attacks and had to be removed from her class. I just couldn’t be around her, which was really difficult. Anxiety became a big challenge for me. Fortunately, I’d always kept diaries and written poetry. Plus I started playing the guitar when I was about three. That crush inspired me to combine those two things and I started writing songs. By the time I was 19, I was working with a producer and had a song that did really well. But that scared me, so I ran away from music entirely.
From 14 to 19 year old I had agoraphobia and could only really cope with being at home or in school. Despite that, at 19 I booked a trip around Europe and went off travelling on my own. Apparently my coping mechanism is: “If it terrifies me, I do it anyway!”.
When I left school everyone was asking “what do you want to do with your life?” Other people my age would talk about following in their parent’s footsteps. The fact that I knew so little about my biological roots was another reminder that I wasn’t really like anyone around me. I did know that my birth Mum really liked poetry and writing. Which gave me a sense of connection that grew stronger when I read her case files for the first time. I’d never “blamed” my birth mother for what happened to me. But when I found out what she’d been through – absolute hell, basically – I really felt for her.
I’ve often wondered whether I have a kind of survivor’s guilt about being adopted. My whole birth family struggled with very chaotic lives. Things worked out differently for me and I’ve been lucky in lots of ways. But I also hate the idea that I should be grateful for being adopted. I’m not grateful that I was abandoned. I’m not grateful that my birth mum was addicted to heroin. I’m not grateful that my parents divorced, my stepmother didn’t treat me well and I barely speak to half my family now.
Yes, I am grateful I’ve had stability, a good home and a decent education. But adoption isn’t a fairy tale ending—it’s the beginning of a whole other story with its own traumas.
When I finally met my birth sister in 2020, we took a little video together. Even in 30 seconds you could see how similar we were—our posture, our reactions, everything. Strangers asked if we were sisters. I could suddenly see myself in someone else. It was comforting and infuriating all at once. I was angry and wondered “why did I have to wait so long for this?”. We’re not in touch anymore. We’re too similar—both with BPD, both intense, both cutting people off at the first sign of hurt. Eventually, we clashed hard and I had to protect myself. But I’m glad I met her.
Being adopted can give you a real insight into yourself and other people. Maybe that’s why I’ve always been the friend that people come to with their problems. Every therapist I’ve had has said “you should be a therapist you have a really good understanding of yourself”. Turning 25 this year was a big deal for me and it felt like time to sort out some of my own stuff. I’ve made a lot of positive changes in my life, including getting sober which is the best thing I’ve ever done. I think more clearly. I regulate my emotions. I don’t lose my temper. My friends say I’m a completely different person.
I’ve also started playing music again and working with an amazing producer who really “gets me”. We’re making the music I always wanted to make, including queer Country songs. Some people say “people who listen to Country music aren’t going to like you singing about other women or non-binary people”. But I’m writing songs for that one queer kid who needs to hear them.
Studio days are crazy as I have to travel from London to Bournemouth and back. I’m up at 4am so that we can work from 10 until 5 and it ends up being an 18 hour day. But it’s absolutely worth it. We have a creative partnership that really works – I’m so happy in the studio. It’s fantastic to have that outlet in my life again. When I have feelings or ideas that I struggle to express, they find their way into songs.
Life is pretty good at the moment. I’ve got my own place which I share with my cat, Oscar (very much the love of my life). I also work part-time as a restaurant manager and I realise that I’m really good at dealing with high pressure situations. The other day I had to sort out a drunken woman who cracked her head open on the floor. Recently there was an old lady who fell over outside my house and I went to hospital with her.
My friends say:
“Clem, you’re always around chaos, but you’re so calm”.
It’s true. I can deal with being shouted at in a restaurant because someone’s table isn’t ready. I can cope with organising 300 covers a day. Put me in front of someone I’m romantically interested in? I will actually pass out. Vulnerability is harder for me than chaos. Maybe that’s an adopted-kid thing. Maybe not. But intimacy terrifies me. Friendship is fine. Love? Not yet.
Listen to Clementine’s music here