When it comes to my hands, I’ve always struggled with insecurity. My fingers are short and thick. Each knuckle shows off every crease; a display of grooves and indents that seem to overtake any ounce of femininity my hands may have had. They vary between dry and cracked or clammy and cold, rarely an in between. I’ve found myself comparing their shape to my female counterparts, wishing that somehow mine would morph into something similar.
But, as I grasped my biological grandmas hands within mine, I saw the incredible amount of beauty my hands possessed. The intertwined fingers were identical; sign of age, the only marker of difference between them. Side by side, they are a glimpse into the past and future.
My hands are beautiful, a representation of who I am and where I come from.
As an adoptee, I hold tightly to these seemingly small similarities and differences. Adoptees often miss out on hearing that we look like a relative; having our father’s eyes or mother’s smile. We don’t always have the ability to hold up a picture from our parent’s childhood along with our own, comparing and contrasting the smallest of details. When these moments come along, we often hold great value even to the smallest of similarities.
Now, as I glance at my hands, I am no longer filled with the urge to hide them within my sleeves. I look at them with pride; a part of me that connects me to my roots. My hands are crafted to share the look of my family, my biological family.
And, that, is what makes them the most beautiful.