Our mission is to help every adoptee find their way home.

I was born on 10 August 1991, in Sebeș, Alba County, Romania. My life began not in a family home, but in a hospital ward where my mother disappeared before I ever opened my eyes. That sentence from my case file became the foundation of my identity — not because it defined me, but because I refused to let it be the end of my story.

Growing up in the system

My childhood unfolded inside Romania's institutional network — leagăne, placement centers, and family-type homes: Leagănul de copii Alba Iulia, Casa de copii cu Grădiniță Ajutătoare Sîncrai, Centrul de Plasament Stremț, Centrul de Plasament Obreja, and Centrul de Plasament de Tip Familial Almașu Mare. One report described me as “un copil rezistent fizic, cu mari posibilități de adaptare la situații noi.” Adaptation wasn't a skill — it was survival.

I learned to read adults' moods before I learned to read words. I learned to be quiet, invisible, or charming depending on what the moment required. I learned that no one was coming for me.

Adoption and a new identity

In 2002, the Alba County authorities declared me legally abandoned. That ruling made me adoptable. Later that year, I was adopted by an American family and given a new name: Michael Vandergraaf. A new name, a new passport, a new country — but the same unanswered question: who was my mother, and why did she leave me?

The search for my origins

As a teenager and young adult, I began searching. My file gave me fragments — her name, her birthdate, a last-known address, a note that she lived “fără forme legale”, and a statement that she had never visited me, not once, in any institution. One official document even stated: “părinții nu figurează în evidentele noastre.” That phrase — “the parents do not appear in our records” — became the wall I hit again and again.

I contacted local mayors, civil registries, county archives, child protection offices, police stations, former social workers, neighbors — anyone who might remember a woman named Elena who vanished in 1991. I learned Romanian law, adoption law, international law, and administrative procedure because no one else would help me. I learned that “we cannot find her” often meant “we do not want to look.”

Persistence against a system designed to forget

My case file described me as “abandonat imediat după naștere,” “niciodată vizitat de părinți,” and “fără date despre mamă.” But I refused to accept that “unknown” was the end of my story. I reconstructed timelines. I cross-referenced documents. I challenged contradictions. I pushed through silence, indifference, and bureaucratic walls. I persisted because identity is not a luxury — it is a right.

The breakthrough — September 2017

After years of searching, I finally found her. In September 2017, I stood face-to-face with the woman whose absence shaped my entire life. My case file summarizes it in one line: “Case researched and resolved September 2017 by adoptee .” Behind that sentence is a lifetime of searching, hoping, and refusing to give up.

Our reunion was not simple. It was not a fairy tale. It was human — complicated, painful, healing, and real. I learned truths that only a mother can tell. I learned about poverty, fear, shame, and the impossible choices women faced in post-communist Romania. I learned that abandonment is rarely abandonment of love — often it is abandonment of hope.

Why I founded Heartline Romania

My story is not unique. Tens of thousands of Romanian adoptees — especially those adopted internationally — are still searching for their origins, their families, their medical histories, their truth, their identity. Many face the same barriers I did: lost archives, contradictory records, administrative refusal, institutional indifference, trauma minimized or ignored.

I founded Heartline Romania because no adoptee should have to fight alone. Heartline Romania is built on a core, uncompromising principle: we do not refuse or close a case simply because a government agency claims “no records exist.”

If the state says “nu există date,” “nu figurează în evidențe,” or “nu putem confirma” — we do not stop. We research. We analyze. We reconstruct. We challenge. We demand lawful access. We invoke fundamental rights. Because every adoptee has the right to identity, origin, family, truth, access to personal data, correction of state errors, and dignity. These are not optional. These are not negotiable. These are fundamental rights under Romanian, European, and international law.

Heartline Romania stands where institutions fail. We do not accept “lost files,” “missing archives,” “no record found,” or “not our responsibility.” We know these phrases. We know what they really mean. We know how to challenge them — legally, procedurally, and strategically. If the state does not provide answers, we will pursue them until the law is respected.

What drives me today

I am not defined by abandonment — I am defined by resilience. I am not defined by missing records — I am defined by the truth I fought to uncover. I am not defined by the system that failed me — I am defined by the system I am now working to change.

Heartline Romania is more than an organization. It is a promise: no adoptee will be left alone in the dark. No story will remain unfinished. No identity will remain lost. My journey began in an institution that forgot my name. It continues in a movement that refuses to let others be forgotten.