
By Emma Stone
Some of you may have seen my name published in the bylines of articles. My name is Emma Stone, and I am a journalist for Lincoln Parish Journal.
But I haven’t always been a journalist and my name hasn’t always been what you see today.
In 2002, I was born in St. Petersburg, Russia as Yana Valeriyevna Dreyer.
My birth mother, for unknown reasons, gave me up for adoption at 27 years old. I spent the next two and half years of my life in Baby Home #1, St. Petersburg.
When people ask me for a fun fact, I say I was raised by babushkas, old Russian women, who ran the orphanage.

It wasn’t until June 23, 2004, that my adoptive parents had taken me home to Carlyss, Louisiana through a rigorous adoption process.
Finally, I thought, “Did I find home?”
Home was an image in my mind of comfort and home was what I begged for when I woke up one night complaining of a knot behind my ear.
Little did I know, this knot was a swollen lympnode. I was rushed to the emergency room where I underwent multiple tests and scans.
The doctors informed me that the lympnode grew to the size of a golf ball. I was six-years-old then.
St. Jude’s Hospital in Houston, Texas was the closest hospital that could diagnose and treat me accordingly.
A surgeon was able to remove the lympnode and I was forced to wear a head bandage to stop the drainage.
I was mortified! This was the end of my six-year-old reputation on the playground.
Due to the bandage and fragility of the pipe inserted behind my ear, I was not allowed to play outside during recess or complete any demanding physical activity.
The solution: to be stuck in the front office with a pencil and a composition notebook.
That was the moment my love for writing began. I would draw puzzles and write stories from my wildest imaginations.
I learned to keep to myself, observe, and most importantly I learned how to live.
Living had taken on a whole new meaning. Living meant making the most of a singular breath.
We moved to Madison, Mississippi in 2010, where I had lived up until leaving for college.
Throughout that time, I would create “books of questions” where I would write down any question that popped into my head.
It was a lengthy book.
My notebooks were filled with pages and pages of rhyming poems and small essays. It was there where I could be a superhero flying or a flower blowing in the wind.
That was my newfound home.
I graduated high school in 2020, during COVID-19 and applied to Louisiana Tech University for a degree in psychology.
Then, I changed it to business administration. It was safe to say, I didn’t have a clue what I wanted to do.
When visiting my grandmother later that year, she had pulled out all my old poems. I remember thinking, “Why did this stop?”
Whether it was life sweeping me away or busy days, I had given up on the ink. I had given up on home.
I changed my major to English with a concentration in Creative Writing. That lasted about a couple months when I took an editorial writing course for an elective.
By the end of Spring 2021, I was now a Communications major with a concentration in journalism. And I can proudly say it hasn’t changed.
Well, sort of.
When I changed to communications, I was left with a lot of English credits, enough for a minor. So, I added an English minor.
But it looked like I was too on track for graduation. I wanted the most out of college.
I added a Gender Studies minor which was a new curriculum that had very little students completing it.
You see, throughout this article, I have made one thing very clear: I am ambitious and indecisive.
I added another major, Interdisciplinary Studies. This degree allows me to choose three subjects. I kept English and Gender Studies but added Computer Information Systems.
One of my favorite things my friends joke about is the hodge-podge mess of a transcript I have. But it’s uniquely me.
I couldn’t see myself being any different, and life is always showing me that a home can change and grow.
Home is more than the people in it; it is the self that defines it so.
Once you get comfortable in your own presence and accept that your life can get messy, change and be scary, you learn to live.
Home is laughing at yourself and picking up the pieces. Home is connection, but most importantly, connection with yourself.
My name is Emma Stone, the Russian adoptee, the avid reader, the lymphadenopathy survivor, the indecisive mistake-maker, the curious questioner, the notebook filler, and the journalist.




















