A Bowl of Soup and Belonging: My Conversation with Kim Miller

Sitting across from Kim Miller, I'm struck by her infectious smile and grounded presence. As she shares her story of being adopted from South Korea as an infant, there's no trace of heaviness or trauma that people often assume comes with adoption stories. Instead, there's a profound sense of gratitude and clarity about who she is and where she belongs.

"I never knew I could be loved like that," Kim tells me, recounting her first trip back to Korea in her twenties. She wasn't searching for birth parents or seeking to fill some void - she simply wanted to experience the culture she came from. This decision was fully supported by her family, particularly her father, whose response captures the essence of their relationship: "Kimberly, I've always known there would be a time in your life when you would have to make this decision, and it is yours alone to make."

Kim's journey begins even before her own story. Her older brother came from Vietnam through Operation Baby Airlift in the mid-1970s, a program she explains was fraught with complexity. "They were spreading rumors that the Viet Cong was coming to harm babies, convincing mothers to put their children on planes with promises of return after the war," she explains. "Meanwhile, they were facilitating permanent adoptions in the US." Her voice carries no judgment, just a clear-eyed understanding of how political circumstances shaped so many families' stories, including her own.

The tale of her Korea trip unfolds like a heartwarming movie. A chance meeting with a Korean-American businessman on her delayed flight led to unexpected kindness - he gave up his business class seat to sit with her in coach and helped her navigate Seoul's complex street system. At her guesthouse, she met Mrs. Lee, a formidable woman who spoke three languages and treated Kim with fierce protectiveness, monitoring her comings and goings like a vigilant aunt.

When Kim fell ill, Mrs. Lee directed her to a special restaurant serving medicinal duck soup. There, a transformative moment occurred. "I told a businessman at the next table that I was adopted and had returned to experience my culture," Kim recalls. "He started crying, grabbed my hand, and said, 'Thank you for coming back. It was such a difficult time for our country, and we lost so many of you.'" As she shares this memory, the impact of that moment still resonates in her voice.

What strikes me most about Kim's perspective is her practical approach to identity and belonging. She's crafted her own narrative about adoption, one that centers on love rather than loss. "I think the biggest misconception is that you were given up for adoption because you weren't wanted," she says. "Giving a child up for adoption is the greatest act of love, the biggest sacrifice you can make for another person in hopes of them having a better life."

This perspective has shaped her entire worldview. While she acknowledges the challenges of navigating life as a Korean-American adoptee - from playground taunts to ongoing microaggressions - she maintains a remarkable sense of self-assurance. "I tell myself a narrative and I stick to it and that's my truth," she explains. "We just keep moving forward."

Kim's story challenges common assumptions about adoption, identity, and belonging. She knows with certainty that her parents wanted her - they chose her, fought for her, and created space in their lives specifically for her. This knowledge forms the foundation of her identity, stronger than any cultural or biological ties.

As our conversation winds down, I'm left thinking about how Kim's experience illuminates larger truths about family and belonging. Sometimes family looks like a white couple in Portland raising Korean and Vietnamese children. Sometimes it looks like a protective Korean guesthouse owner wielding a whisk broom. And sometimes it looks like a stranger crying happy tears into a bowl of duck soup, welcoming home someone he never knew he lost.

In Kim's world, happiness is a choice, and belonging is something you create rather than something you find. It's a perspective that's served her well, allowing her to embrace all parts of her identity while maintaining a clear sense of who she is. As she puts it, with that infectious smile returning, "I'm just trying to get by, doing the best I can to make myself a better person." Given the wisdom and warmth she radiates, I'd say she's doing pretty damn well at that goal.