Sofia Nordgren on Adoption, Identity, and Searching for Biological Truth

How did Sofia Nordgren’s childhood experiences shape her search for biological family and adoption truth?

Sofia Nordgren is an international speaker, author, moderator, transformation coach, entrepreneur, and advocate for adoptee rights, identity, family reunification, and social justice, with more than 30 years of professional experience in health, wellbeing, leadership, coaching, and personal development.

With a professional background in nursing, coaching, leadership, and personal development, she has spent more than three decades supporting people facing trauma, grief, stress-related conditions, mental health challenges, identity issues, major life transitions, and personal growth. Her experience spans primary healthcare, mental health services, occupational health, elder care, health promotion, education, leadership, and coaching. She is trained as an ICC-certified coach and NLP Practitioner and has pursued continued professional development in areas including ACT, trauma, resilience, communication, attachment, belonging, identity, and psychological wellbeing.

Nordgren is the founder and CEO of Lifestyle+ in Sweden. Through speaking, coaching, writing, facilitation, moderation, and education, she supports individuals and organizations in navigating change, adversity, identity challenges, leadership development, wellbeing, and personal transformation.

She has spoken internationally in Sweden, New York, and Belgrade, moderated events at Stockholm City Hall, appeared in television programs, podcasts, interviews, documentaries, and media productions, and participated in international conferences and leadership forums focused on health, identity, human rights, resilience, and social change.

Born in Bangladesh and adopted to Sweden as a young child, Nordgren spent decades searching for her biological roots while confronting missing records, contradictory information, institutional silence, and unresolved questions surrounding her origins. In 2025, after decades of uncertainty, DNA testing confirmed her biological relationship with her mother and relatives in Bangladesh, leading to a long-awaited family reunification.

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Her personal journey—from orphanage records and missing documentation to DNA-confirmed family reunification—has positioned her as a unique voice in international conversations about adoption, identity, truth, family separation, emotional healing, and justice.

Scott Douglas Jacobsen interviews Sofia Nordgren about her childhood realization of difference, racism in Sweden, and the long search for her biological origins in Bangladesh. Nordgren describes missing records, uncertain names, questionable adoption documents, and the emotional burden of unanswered questions. The conversation traces her first trip to Bangladesh, later DNA-confirmed reunion with her biological mother, and continuing struggle for truth, identity, documentation, family reconnection, and accountability across borders, institutions, memory, and enduring loss.

Scott Douglas Jacobsen: Now I would like to focus on the personal side of the story. Within the context of the speech you gave at the Congress, walk us through your own experience. Take us from the point where you were simply a young girl growing up to the moment you first realized that something about your personal history or your family situation felt different or out of place. I am interested in the timeline, from being a regular child growing up to the first realization that something was different.

Sofia Nordgren: I do not have one specific memory or defining moment. Instead, there were many experiences throughout my childhood that gradually shaped my understanding of being different.

For many years, I believed these experiences began around second or third grade. However, when I later revisited childhood diaries and notes, I discovered entries from before first grade, even from kindergarten. Some children used racist words to describe me. At the time, I did not fully understand what those words meant, but I understood that I was being treated differently from the other children.

Jacobsen: What were those words in the original language, and what would they mean in English? I think that is important context.

Nordgren: In Swedish, one example was the word “negerboll,” a term that was commonly used at the time for a chocolate confection but which contains a racial reference that many people today consider offensive. Some children also commented on my appearance, saying that I had “big Black lips” or referring to me as a Black person in a derogatory way.

The specific words mattered less than the message they conveyed. They pointed out that I looked different. As a child, I began to wonder, “What is happening? Why am I different?” People were identifying something about me that I did not yet understand. It made me feel separate from the other children.

I also remember incidents in elementary school, perhaps around third grade, when one boy repeatedly bullied me because of my skin colour and used racist insults. Those experiences reinforced the feeling that I was somehow different from everyone else.

At the same time, I still do not have one clear memory of when I first understood that I was adopted or what adoption truly meant. This is something many adoptees discuss among themselves. There is often no single defining moment. Instead, there is a gradual awareness that develops over time through many small experiences, questions, and observations.

People respond to these experiences in different ways. Some turn inward, cry in private, see themselves as victims, and remain silent. Others cry openly. Some become angry and fight back. In my case, I tried to stand up for myself.

I remember one incident at school when a boy was bullying me with racist comments. When I defended myself, he began to cry and went to the teacher, trying to portray me as the one who had behaved badly. Fortunately, another girl in the class told the teacher what had actually happened and explained that he had been bullying me because of my ethnicity and appearance.

There were many situations like that throughout my childhood. Over time, they made it increasingly clear to me that I was different. I realized that I was not ethnically Swedish and that I came from somewhere else. Eventually, I came to understand that I was adopted, and those early experiences became part of what motivated me to search for answers about my origins and identity.

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Jacobsen: As you grew up and began investigating your background, what were your first steps?

Nordgren: My first step was trying to talk to my adoptive mother about my adoption. Interestingly, I do not remember having similar conversations with my adoptive father. I think my mother was more directly involved in the adoption process and the paperwork.

I asked her whether there was any additional information about me or whether there were adoption documents that I could review. She told me there was no point in looking into it and that I would not find any more information. She essentially tried to discourage me from pursuing the matter.

I do not remember exactly how long I let the issue rest, but eventually I raised it again. After some years, I was finally able to see an adoption document. It contained the name of the orphanage and stated that a man named Mr. Mohamed was claimed to be my father. It also stated that my mother was deceased.

That was the first adoption document I was able to examine closely. Although I was young, I did not fully understand its significance. Some aspects of it did not make sense to me. If this man was my father, why was the language so uncertain? Why was the information presented in that way? I was too young to understand the implications, and I could not get clear answers from my adoptive mother.

Jacobsen: What did you ultimately discover about your biological family and your family history? Conversely, what aspects may remain mysteries forever simply because of the limitations of historical records and documentation?

Nordgren: My first major effort was contacting the Swedish Adoption Centre, the adoption organization involved in my case, to ask whether they had additional information.

They told me they had no further documents. I was shocked and did not understand how that could be possible. To me, it felt as though information was missing.

Their explanation was that I belonged to one of the first generations of international adoptees in Sweden. International adoptions expanded significantly during the late 1960s and 1970s, and they said record-keeping and archiving practices were not as organized as they are today. According to them, all the available documents had been sent directly from Bangladesh to my adoptive parents.

I found that difficult to understand because I had already reviewed the documents my adoptive parents possessed, and there was very little information there.

After that, I began reaching out to Bangladeshi networks and forums. I connected with another Bangladeshi adoptee, and through those contacts I gradually met other people who were familiar with Bangladesh and might be able to help.

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Eventually, an acquaintance was planning a trip to Bangladesh, and that encouraged me to consider going myself. In 1999, I decided to travel there for the first time.

At that point, I had only a few pieces of information: the name of the orphanage, a document stating that a man named Mohamed was believed to be my father, and a statement that my mother was deceased. At that point, I had only a few pieces of information: the name of the orphanage, a document stating that a man named Mohamed was believed to be my father, and a statement that my mother was deceased. That was essentially all I had to work with. 

Despite the limited information, I decided to go. I did not speak the language. I had no local contacts or cultural familiarity. Bangladesh felt very far away from Sweden in every sense, geographically, culturally, and religiously. Nevertheless, I felt compelled to make the journey and continue searching for answers.

Bangladesh is predominantly Muslim, whereas I grew up in a Christian context in Sweden. At that point, however, none of that mattered to me. I simply wanted to find out whatever I could about my origins.

I traveled there alone as a woman without fully understanding the practical consequences, risks, or challenges involved. Looking back, perhaps I was naïve. But my need to search for answers was much stronger than any concerns about danger or uncertainty.

In 1999, I traveled to Bangladesh and visited both the orphanage and the Swedish embassy. With the help of a translator, I was able to communicate with people at the orphanage and obtain one additional document. That was the only new information I received during that visit. 

This was the beginning of my investigation. I was conducting it entirely on my own. I had noconnections with government authorities, social ministries, or other officials. I had no institutional support.

Using the limited information I possessed, we traveled to the village identified in the documents. The paperwork contained the name of a region and a village. I had no way of knowing whether the information was accurate, but it was the only lead available to me, so I followed it.

As I shared during the Congress, when we arrived, I was told that my father was dead. Then a woman was brought to me and identified as my mother. At that moment, I became deeply confused. I did not understand what was happening or how I was supposed to interpret the situation. 

What frustrates me, even today, is that no one had prepared me for the possibility of illegal adoptions, false documentation, or inconsistencies in adoption records. I was shocked. I did not understand what I was seeing or how to interpret it.

When I returned to Sweden, I did not know what to do with the information I had gathered.

Years later, when I returned to Bangladesh in 2025, the situation was very different. By then, I had spent years building contacts. I had connections within the Ministry of Social Affairs, senior personnel within BRAC, journalists, and other individuals working at higher levels of government and civil society.

This time, I was able to obtain my original adoption file from the Ministry of Social Affairs. That file contained a significant amount of additional information and documentation. However, many of the documents still raised serious questions.

Some records could not be verified. There were no signatures on certain documents. One document stated that my mother was deceased, while another listed a mother’s name. Other documents contained no name at all.

In my adult life, I eventually met my biological mother and completed a DNA test. Through that process, I learned that the name listed in the adoption documents was incorrect.

The DNA results provided important answers, but they also raised new questions. Instead of resolving the inconsistencies in my records, they highlighted how many contradictions existed within the documentation. The deeper I investigated, the more difficult it became to determine which information could be trusted.

As a result, I concluded that parts of the documentation were false or inaccurate. Somewhere within the adoption process, from the orphanage onward, documents appear to have been created, altered, or recorded in ways that allowed the adoption to proceed as legally valid.

Even today, there are important questions that remain unanswered. I do not have a verified birth certificate. I do not know my exact date of birth. Even my original birth name remains uncertain.

I have tried to ask my biological mother these questions. However, she is elderly and struggles with her memory. Communication is also difficult because we do not share a language, so every conversation must be conducted through interpreters or relatives.

I have asked simple questions, such as whether I was born during the winter or the summer. I have tried to establish basic facts about my life and understand the historical context of my birth. Yet even something as fundamental as my date of birth remains uncertain.

A cousin tried to help by providing information about my early life, but this created additional confusion. At different times, I was given different names and explanations. I was told that one name may have been my birth name and another a nickname. The same situation appeared to apply to my mother, who seemed to be known by different names in different contexts.

I kept asking for clarification. Was one a nickname and the other a legal name? Was one used within the family and another on official documents? The explanations were difficult to follow, and because documentation was limited, it was often impossible to verify the information independently.

Compounding the problem, many people in the area lacked formal documentation. My family lived in extreme poverty. Even in 2025, I was never shown any identification card belonging to my mother. As a result, I still do not have definitive proof regarding her name.

As a result, I still do not know exactly how I disappeared from my family or what truly happened. My biological mother tried to explain the events to me, but we do not speak the same language. Everything had to be translated through other people. Because of that, I do not know whether I was hearing her account directly or a version filtered through relatives who were trying to reconstruct the story.

The account they provided was that my parents were divorced. According to them, my father took me from my mother. They said that my father and some of his relatives wanted me and my younger brother to visit them. I was apparently staying with my father and members of his family for a period of time.

Then, when my mother came to retrieve me, I was gone. The details remain vague. One question I have always struggled with is how long I was supposedly staying there. Some relatives say it was a few weeks, but that raises further questions for me. As a mother, would someone leave a child that long without checking on them? The timeline remains unclear. I do not know whether people genuinely do not remember or whether parts of the story have been altered over time.

According to the account I was given, when my mother came to pick me up, she asked my father where I was. At that point, no one could provide a clear answer.

They also told me that my birth name may have been Priya. At other times, they referred to me as Jasmine, which they described as a nickname. I still do not know with certainty whether I had one name, two names, or a formal name and a nickname.

The story I was told is that my father took me somewhere and sold me. However, none of this has been independently confirmed. My father is dead, so I cannot ask him directly.

One of my regrets is that when I first visited Bangladesh in 1999, I did not stay longer or return sooner. Perhaps some of my father’s relatives, his brothers or even grandparents, were still alive then. I feel that I may have missed an opportunity to learn more.

Because of that, I may never know the full truth about what happened to me. Much of what remains consists of assumptions, incomplete memories, and fragmented accounts.

There was also a woman on my father’s side of the family whom I learned about later. I did not have time to discuss this during the Congress.

A cousin on my mother’s side told me that if I gave this woman some money, she might be willing to share more information. She was poor, elderly, and unwell. According to my relatives, she had cared for me while I was staying with my father and his family. She apparently looked after me for a short period and therefore had some memories of me and of what was happening at the time.

I decided to provide her with some financial support in the hope of learning more about my early life.

Jacobsen: In many ways, that is one of the clearest tests of caregiving. Someone who invests time and effort in caring for a child develops a meaningful connection to that child. Whether the caregiving lasts for a few days or many years, that person often becomes an important part of the child’s story.

In my view, caregiving is one of the strongest indicators of a parental or guardian relationship. Someone who invests time and effort into caring for a child develops a meaningful connection, whether that care lasts a few days or many years.

Nordgren:  That was essentially what my cousin was trying to explain. This woman had cared for me while I was staying with my father’s family. According to my relatives, she washed me, changed my diapers, and looked after me when I was very young.

Because of that, she claimed to have some knowledge about what happened to me. She believed that I disappeared after my father took me away, or possibly sold me, but even that remains unconfirmed.

To answer your earlier question, I am still frustrated because there are so many things I do not know. I still do not know my exact date of birth. I still do not know precisely what happened or how everything unfolded because nobody seems to know for certain. Much of the information remains incomplete, vague, or contradictory.

I do not even know my biological mother’s exact age. I have had to ask relatives on my mother’s side to estimate it because there are no reliable birth records. They do not know exactly when she was born, just as they do not know exactly when I was born.

What makes the situation even more painful is that my story remains incomplete. There are still many unanswered questions and gaps in my history. At times, I have felt abandoned all over again because I have had to rely on relatives and other intermediaries to obtain information about my own childhood, identity, and family history.

Looking back, I sometimes feel that I have had to overcome obstacles that should never have existed. Other adoptees have told me that I should not have had to spend years searching, negotiating, and paying for information about my own life and origins. In an ideal system, that information should have been documented, preserved, and accessible from the beginning.

Jacobsen: Thank you very much for the opportunity and your time, Sofia.