Intricate wooden patterns mirror my existence. I always begin nesting the smallest piece first, guiding the orphaned doll seamlessly into the hollow body of its next beholder. As the figures grow in size, I take each completion as a cue to begin twirling the two halves around one another, determined to replicate the starting foundation. This Matryoshka nesting doll’s story represents international adoptees like myself, who carve their identity into the mold around them when the unshakable feeling of not belonging lingers in the distance.

At the age of 12, I discovered a word that still horrifies me to this day. Heredity.  This was not your average Wisconsin morning. My footsteps echoed the hallway that led to the “Secret Science Revealing”—the biggest project announcement of the year. A flailing backpack pulled me in all directions, yet no obstacle could dishevel my level of determination. Anxiously waiting behind my peers, I peeked at the packets poorly picked through on the desk ahead. Inherited Family Tree Trait Project. All background noise broke into silence, and there's only one word I can find to describe this cruel sensation—molded.

I was molded into an identity I grew to feel secure in (although it was a lie): an American-born daughter. Needless to say, I never sat down with my parents that night like my classmates. How could I fathom asking about my family's heredity to calculate nothing but more of my unknown past? Instead, I hid from the truth. My written project reflected a fake birth family where I shared a mother’s green eyes and dirty blonde hair instead of embracing the real, gentle brown features that never forget to say “I love you” each night. Ashamed of my Russian heritage, the ability to mirror my Matryoshka doll was nearly destroyed.

At the age of 14, I resented a truth that still aches curiosity to this day. Adoption. The most common responses once I reveal my past are “How much did you cost?”, “Do you ever want to go back?”, and my personal favorite, ”Who are your REAL parents?”. These questions change from day to day, but my response has never altered. I don’t know. Something I do know is one stranger holds the ability to strip my identity in just one question, molding my fear of mentioning my authentic past in conversation. As I left those interactions with a bitter taste on my tongue, I regretted my failure to represent what it meant to mirror my Matryoshka doll.

On my last day of being 15, I learned the truth, which generated a new understanding of myself. Lineage. March 29th—I sat with my mom on the tulip-filled patio, flipping through dust-covered scrapbooks labeled with each year spent with my adoptive family. The binding of my past and present life in a single object helped me appreciate the growth of this experience. These pages were filled with milestones—photos of every missed birthday that still got a party, my dad holding me on the first flight home as a family, and my sister and I nesting Matryoshka dolls together in the grass. This fusion of lineage enriches my sense of self and allows me to take one step closer to accepting my cultural identity.

Intricate wooden patterns mirror my existence. I always begin unraveling the largest piece first, exposing the doll beneath the surface. This welcomes the past and molds my future to how important it is to treasure the guidance of a support system. This story was a reminder that embracing one’s roots doesn’t mean forsaking the love that still lingers in the distance. This is my story, which nests together the carvings of my past and present, creating a Matryoshka doll that’s uniquely my own.