Romantic relationships are a reflection of the attachment model with which we relate to others. As I mentioned before, this model is based on how our parents, or those who raised us, showed or taught us to connect with them. That's why, first and foremost, it's important to put my story in context. It's also important to remember that this is only my personal experience and not the absolute truth. And even though I've shared stories with other adopted people, finding many common points between their stories and mine, I repeat, this is only mine. My story, my experience.

This is a sensitive topic for me, and it’s difficult to know where to begin.

Maybe I can start with the question itself: How did all of this affect my partner? This is a question I’m often asked by partners of adopted people. Worried about how they can help, or how they can contribute to the healing of such a deep wound, they show great interest in knowing how my partner handled it at the time. Was he able to bear my painful search process? Was he there to support me through everything? And what happened to love and romance in the midst of such a profound task of healing?

I’ll try to be as fair and impartial as possible, out of respect for all the support and love I received, which, honestly, wasn’t little.

My partner of many years, who accompanied me through most of this search, is the one I referred to in previous chapters as John. The relationship ended abruptly and traumatically at the beginning of 2019, but for the first 10 years of the 13 we spent together, it was the most beautiful and healthy relationship I’ve ever had. John was the one who insisted from the beginning that I needed to search for my roots. He saw that emptiness inside me, and perhaps, because he subconsciously thought—just like many partners of adopted people—that if I found my biological origins, my wounds would heal, and I would be able to give him all the love he needed, he supported me in taking the necessary steps in my search.

He was the one who always said it didn’t matter whether I was the child of the disappeared or not; that a tragedy had occurred at the start of my life regardless of who my biological parents were. It took me a long time to understand this, as in my mind, my mother had given me up and discarded me because I was an inconvenience in her life. But if I had been the child of the disappeared, the message reality conveyed to me was exactly the opposite.

For John, it was clear that in most cases, a mother doesn’t want to let go of her baby, and that it must take very complicated circumstances for that to happen. He truly got involved in the search, traveled with me to Argentina, accompanied me to the Argentine embassy to submit the DNA, and stood by my side when I received the results. He learned to stroke my hair when I had panic attacks and even bought a smoothie machine when the anxiety from the search left me unable to swallow solid food, and I could only consume liquids. John was my best friend. He was one of those partners who helped with everything he could—from the logistics of buying the plane tickets to Argentina to enduring hurtful comments from my family and defending me when he saw that I didn’t even react to them anymore. In the course of the making of the  documentary, he, Simon, and I were a team. Each one of us had a role. The three of us were moving forward, slowly but surely.

But as with everything in life, things must follow their own course, and the breakup of this relationship was inevitable. Maybe it was because he met me when he was 20, and it was time to explore other horizons, or perhaps because the search was like a dark cloud that overshadowed everything and eventually consumed the love he had for me. I remember in October 2015, after I had been called by the Argentine embassy in Stockholm to submit my DNA, I noticed his love for me slowly fading. I started to feel desperate, but I could understand him. Inside, a voice told me: “Who would want to be with someone like me? With this baggage, with so much trauma, with this constant exhaustion?”

Of course, I tried to compensate by going to every possible therapy, so I could delegate the need for support and comfort to my self-help groups, and not have everything fall on him. I tried to maintain a positive attitude, to give him space so that my search didn’t take up all the room in our relationship, and most of all, I never really told him everything that was happening inside me, to avoid overwhelming him. My number one priority was to protect him as much as possible from what was happening inside me, so he wouldn’t get tired and leave me. Yes, I know, it sounds very toxic and self-destructive, but don’t forget what I’ve already shared. The codependency that adopted people have toward our partners is, I’d say, our hallmark. Breakups aren’t our thing. And being left, even less so.

Often, the comment I received from people who knew about my search was something like: "You're so lucky to have John!" which only made me even more desperate. That "you're so lucky" implied to me that I didn’t deserve him. It made me feel like the days of our relationship were numbered. Almost as if they were saying, "You're lucky he puts up with you! I wouldn't!" As if John was doing me a favor or providing a service by staying by my side.

I always told him that the search weighed on him too, that he should seek help, go to therapy, find a place to talk and seek support. He did for a while, but nothing too serious or deep. And how could my search not weigh on him? Seeing my pain and anxiety? It’s important to remember that we are human beings, and it’s normal to feel with and for each other, and it doesn’t even have to be a great love to feel empathy. Although in this case, it was—a great, great love. This, I can say with certainty: 

For those who accompany us in the search, the search is happening as well. Even if they are in the co-pilot's seat, they are traveling the journey alongside us.

Looking back, what hurt me the most about how everything ended wasn’t so much the fact that he and one of my best friends and confidantes ended up together, or that it took them six months to tell me, even though I had already ended the relationship. What hurt more was that, consciously or unconsciously, they both tried to blame me and convince me that the reason they didn’t tell me was because they didn’t think I could handle it. That I, with my search, my pain, and my past, was the reason they chose not to tell me anything until much later. From their point of view, I was sick, and they did me the favor of lying to me.

And maybe this wouldn’t have been so destructive or made such an impact on me, if it hadn’t been for the fact that I believed them. I was the problem; I was the one burdening people. It was a "truth" that had resonated with me since the beginning of my life. The ghosts from my past were being confirmed by the two people who knew me best. My deepest fears were laid bare in front of me in the most perfect way.It was the perfect storm.

It's impossible to separate the relational patterns from our childhood from how we relate as adults. With that same identity—the one that tells me I am a burden to others, the one I've been trying to distance myself from for so long—I entered my next relationship. And, of course, the result was very similar. With him, I tried to hide everything, and he always complained that I didn't share anything with him. But as soon as I did share something, it overwhelmed him, and he would become desperate. Then, he would use what I had told him against me, blaming me for the problems we had in our relationship.

And I believed him, because once again, he was confirming a truth I had carried within me for so long.

Romantic relationships are a reflection of the image projected by our inner mirror. We see ourselves through the eyes of our inner child, who tells us a story every day about what we deserve to receive. It’s often said that true love comes from allowing yourself to be seen for who you truly are, and being accepted in both strengths and weaknesses. It takes  courage to be vulnerable, to show your flaws and virtues. They say true love comes from loving yourself first, that you have to be whole before letting someone else in. That you need to be whole, to have integrated every part of yourself and forgiven every darkness, in order to love and be loved. It totally makes sense.

So, does that mean I’m a lost case? And that romantic relationships just aren’t for me?

Returning to the original question: "How did this affect my relationship?" Perhaps the more accurate question is, how did this affect me?

Throughout my life, I've often walked through spaces of pain and loss. After the loss of my relationship with Joh in particular, weighed down by guilt, I chose to stay quiet, to isolate myself, and not rely on anyone. I stopped expecting from my partner what everyone says you should expect in a relationship. I learned to run, to not be emotionally present, and, if possible, to never trust or depend on anyone again.

As my psychologist would say, the way that relationship ended confirmed what I had always believed about myself—that I am a burden.

Since childhood, I learned to protect my family from my pain because they could never handle it. The adults around me had the emotional maturity of small children. I understood long ago that the best way to avoid being abandoned was to live a double life, where, in close relationships, I only show a version of pain that is organized and manageable, minimizing the chaos. It was confirmed to me so many times that when things get really bad and my world is burning to the ground, I’ll be alone, fire extinguisher in hand.

My best solution became solitude and silence, also known as dissociation.

As I’ve said before, my story is mine alone, and just because this is how I’ve related to my partners doesn’t mean that all adopted people relate this way. Nor does it mean this is how I’ll always relate. Everything changes, even my trauma.

Every so often, I find myself explaining to friends who are in relationships with adopted people what that emptiness and pain they see in their partner’s eyes is about. Why we sometimes appear so needy for validation, why we are extremely loyal, why we struggle to let go, feel eternally alone, and have a hard time setting boundaries. Or perhaps why we flee from relationships, can’t commit, and avoid people and true intimacy. One day, I even found myself telling a friend, whose heart had been broken by his adopted girlfriend—who behaved strangely during that breakup—something like, “See? You should avoid us adopted people!”  

Are we hopelessly wounded, and therefore should we be avoided?

This line of thinking can feel like a trap—believing that unless we're perfectly healed, we’re unworthy of love. Love doesn’t always wait for perfection. It thrives in imperfection, in the messy parts of us that are still healing. You may be struggling with the idea that you're "too much" or "not enough," but that doesn’t mean you’re not worthy of love. We all deserve love, even while we're in the process of healing.

So no. We shouldn’t be avoided. But it might be helpful to try to understand that some things are harder for us than for others. Carrying such a deep wound, like any human wound, requires a little patience. And above all, therapy helps. That emptiness—no one else can heal, but us. Others can’t save us, but they can embrace us and stand by our side, even if they never fully understand what we’re going through. And of course, adoption trauma is not an excuse to justify any kind of mistreatment; rather, it’s an explanation to help others understand where certain behaviors come from.

On my part, I’ll continue trying to find a new path and stop being ashamed of my wounds and weaknesses. To know myself, recognize myself, study myself, and accept myself.

I refuse to surrender to the internal message that tries to convince me that I wasn’t meant to be loved, that love is there for other people. One day at a time, a much more beautiful message will gain ground within me.

And after all, what doesn’t kill me makes me stronger… even if it takes endless hours of therapy.