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The first time I held my original birth certificate, I was in my 50s. I’d spent a lifetime knowing that I was adopted. I was loved, supported and grateful for my family, but still missing the first page of my own story. That small piece of paper held answers that had always been out of reach: my birth time, my birth mother’s name and many other small details that finally connected me to the beginning of my life.

For decades, adoptees such as me in Illinois were denied access to that most basic document. We could vote, buy a house or raise children of our own, but not see our own birth certificates. For years, the state sealed those records, citing outdated privacy laws that had long since outlived their purpose. That injustice became my missio

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