He grew up watching his last name light up headlines while his own story remained dimmed, a quiet ache behind the public mythology. Discovering his adoption through a sibling’s words, instead of a parent’s trust, split his childhood in two: before he knew, and after. When he later disclosed the sexual abuse he had endured, the shame seemed to confirm his deepest fear—that he was tolerated, not treasured, even in a family idolized by millions.

But the narrative bent, not at the podium, but in the private work of healing. By naming the abuse, he stole its secrecy; by embracing his faith, he began to see himself as “twice adopted,” chosen both by a human family and by God. He learned to honor his father without erasing the distance between them, allowing both love and disappointment to coexist. In transforming his pain into advocacy, he showed that legacy is less about the name you’re given and more about the story you dare to rewrite.