My wife and I were nervous the first Sunday we attended an African-American church. Would they welcome us? Would they stare? We should have had faith.
I tell my African-American children that they are smart and beautiful because I know that the world may tell them otherwise.
A simple hairstyle was not so simple for a dance class full of little girls with beautiful heads of black hair.
We want to start teaching our daughter about racism early on, but we have no idea where to start.
Talking with Black women about adoption became a routine part of motherhood for me, alongside diapers, homework, and the warmth I feel every time I look at my son.
The 894 pages of my daughters' foster care case history described her birth mother's hard life, scarred by poverty, drug addiction, and homelessness. I never expected to meet her—much less like her.