By Eve SturgesI used to think in paragraphs, sort of dream in sentences, always in love with the way words work. In high school, Mr. Riley taught us how to string sounds together regardless of meaning. I fell in love with lilting Ls, rolling Rs, phrases like “cinnamon vanilla turquoise.” I loved speeches in the movies, and in real life, where every word packs a punch to create sentences that change the world. Annie Dillard, Joan Didion, Julio Cotazar, and David Foster Wallace served as totems while I prayed for guidance at the keyboard. Essays were a voice for me, a way to process events, both traumatic or hilarious, and create a record of my life in a world where I often felt unheard. Screenplays were a way to create images and dialogue where written words were not enough. I was getting support from people I admired. I was getting paid for pieces about all the stupid thoughts in my head about the events in my life. People asked about a book. I was looped into pitch meetings. It wasn’t always positive; hearing “no” always stung, but it meant I was putting myself out there.

And then a man called my husband, and my husband called me, to say: my whole life has been a lie. There was a convoluted story about a group of Christians in the late 1970s, betrayal, secrets, heartbreak. The man explained he was sure that I was his daughter; the man who raised me was, in fact, not my father.

As one might imagine, drama ensued. Everything stopped inside me. Paragraphs and word play were replaced with whispered phone calls, difficult emails, awkward conversations, countless questions, a million tears. Try as I might, I don’t feel like there is anything to write about because everything to write about is loaded. Secrets and shame are the throughline. My lost identity is the lede. My book proposal for a memoir about the relationship between mothers and daughters? Null and void. My mom said please don’t put this on Facebook. My dad said please just wait before putting pen to paper about any of this.

Now it’s been two years. The world outside me did not stop or wait for me to sort through the myriad feelings. There has been a job, kids, marriage, groceries, holidays, global pandemic, American facism, whatever. It all keeps happening whether I can process who my father is, or not. I insisted I was fine, kind of. And yet, the thing I was the most proud of—writing—became an idea of something I used to do. It’s a dream deferred, a sad side effect I didn’t expect.

And yet.

I woke up the other day thinking about the sound of footsteps on gravel. It’s crunchy. It’s familiar. Crunch, crunch, it kept looping, until it formed a sentence about memories, about horror movies, about a young man on the side of a road pacing back and forth with a cigarette. It’s the opening sound in a mediocre screenplay I cobbled together in my 20s. I woke up thinking about that sound, and thinking that maybe my old script should be a novel, and maybe I could write it.

Instead of pulling up that old screenplay, today I wrote this essay about how I was afraid that I might never write again. It’s an exercise in meta-reflection, which is a term I just made up. It feels good putting this all together. It’s not exactly like riding a bike, but like remembering the notes of an old song that used to be my favorite. My voice is squeaky, off-key. But present.

The most obvious thing to write about, for a person who has always written about personal experiences, is the events of the past two years. Instead, my mind keeps going back to the novel. I’m still worried about what will happen if my true story comes pouring out. My thoughts say “write, but write about this, instead.” A creative defense mechanism, of sorts.

Developing a podcast was a defense mechanism, whether I intended it to be or not. It is like the opposite of my writing; I don’t have time to massage words into beautiful sounds. It all comes out awkwardly, unedited. My words are halting; sometimes I am at a loss altogether and I sputter and repeat myself. I need it that way. Our stories are not often beautiful; they are often awkward at best. Adults who are experiencing this loss of identity are raw, and I want to capture that. By listening to others tell their truths, their own DNA discoveries, the lies they’ve uncovered, or the secrets they’ve unearthed, I am listening for my own. I am feeling relief every time I can say to a guest, “Me too.” I am using their words to fill the place where the paragraphs used to be inside me.

But since the other day, I feel a small ember of something coming alive. It’s words, slowly forming with lilting Ls and rolling Rs, it’s beautiful sounds like vanilla cinnamon turquoise. It’s hope; this part of me isn’t, actually, dead. It’s the stories inside me waiting to spill out, in a world where I otherwise often feel unseen. It’s an ember that may turn into a fire of words that upset some people and change relationships, whether I ever post on Facebook or not. It’s an ember that is my truth; it hasn’t stopped glowing. I’ll take it one step at at time, starting with the crunchy sounds of gravel.

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Libby Copeland is an award-winning journalist, former Washington Post staff author and editor, and author of The Lost Family: How DNA Testing is Upending Who We Are, published in March 2020 by Abrams Press.How long did you spend researching and writing The Lost Family?

Altogether, about three years. I first wrote about Alice Collins Plebuch’s fascinating genetic detective story in The Washington Post in early 2017. The response to that story, which was hundreds of emails from other consumers sharing intimate and moving DNA testing stories, convinced me the topic needed to be a book, and I started researching for the proposal soon afterward. But the bulk of the work was done during 2018 and 2019. In The Lost Family, I revisit Alice’s story and tell it much more fully. I was able to travel to Washington State and spend time with her, as well as do historical research going back a hundred years to illuminate her family’s astonishing story. And as I follow her story, I also tell many other tales from people I Interviewed—wrenching, moving stories of how this technology is changing how we see ourselves and how we talk to one another, not to mention how we think about truth and the past.

What so intrigued you initially that you were willing to devote so much time and attention to this issue? Did you realize early on how complex the subject would be?

I was really intrigued by the idea that questions about genetic origins and family could lead individuals, families, and the culture at large to deep explorations of essential human questions about identity, what makes a family, and how we define ethnicity. The science was indeed quite complex, and so were the experiences of people affected by this technology. I got to interview a lot of genetic genealogists about their techniques and the history of the field, and to tour a DNA testing lab and speak with a number of scientists and historians about human genetics and autosomal DNA testing. But really, it was the deeply human stories that moved me most. The emails from readers and the stories I heard from other people I interviewed sometimes moved me to tears. There were stories of adoptees searching for family, of donor-conceived individuals defining and building relationships with half-siblings and donor fathers, of people discovering NPEs and struggling to incorporate that news with everything they’d known before. I was really interested in the idea that this technology was touching the most intimate parts of people’s lives and changing them forever. I was intrigued, too, by the idea that the past is not really over. It’s still very present in people’s lives, and DNA testing—and all that it can uncover—is prompting people to reassess what they thought they knew about things that happened 50, 60, 70 years ago.

Of all the seekers you spoke with, what story touched you most?

There are so many stories! It’s hard to pick one. There’s a very moving story in the book about a foundling who was left on a doorstep in the 1960s and adopted. Years later, she went looking for her biological family in order to know where she’d come from and to understand the context for having been given up. Her name is Jacqui. The genetic genealogist CeCe Moore helped Jacqui and suggested I interview her because she thought Jacqui’s story was so poignant and because she wanted people to see the range of ways that DNA testing stories can play out. Jacqui’s story is reflective of the fact that, as one mental health counselor put it to me, reunions aren’t always “happy” ones, even though those tend to be predominant in news stories.

Jacqui’s sisters on both sides have largely declined to have relationships with her; one set of sisters even decided they don’t believe that she’s their relative, despite clear evidence from DNA results. There are certainly happy reunion stories, and I write about a number of them in the book. But Jacqui’s story is equally important for people to read because she expresses her desire for connection with her siblings in a heartfelt, evocative, and relatable way. And yet, her truth is so threatening to her siblings that they decline and even deny the connection. There’s no easy solution to this kind of problem, and the complexity of it—and the way genetic relations who are essentially strangers can feel themselves to have hugely different interests from one another—illustrates how much we need to grapple with the legacy of what DNA testing is uncovering. I would argue there needs to be vastly better support for the millions of Americans trying to navigate these situations.

As you talk to people about DNA testing (consumers and potential consumers) what have you found to be most misunderstood?

I think if it hasn’t happened to you, it can be difficult to understand just how disorienting it is to discover that your own genetic origins are not what you long believed. From my interviews with people over months and sometimes years, I’ve come to understand that these revelations are not rapidly processed and incorporated into a person’s reality; indeed, the process of understanding a profound surprise go on for years, perhaps for a lifetime. A DNA surprise can pose questions about a consumer’s relationship with her parents, her understanding of her childhood, her sense of where she belongs, and her orientation on the world. These revelations can be traumatic, even if people are ultimately glad to know the truth about themselves. Those two things—experiencing pain as a result of a revelation yet not wishing to un-know it—might appear to be in conflict with one another, but they’re not.

On the other hand, the perspectives of those being sought out—I refer to them as “seekees”—are not told nearly as much, and are not as well understood. Those who don’t want contact with genetic kin and don’t want these revelations uncovered are much less likely to want to tell their stories. There can be happy reunions between parents and children or between siblings, but sometimes there’s a painful clash of interests. A seeker approaching her genetic father may be seen as threatening by that father, or by that father’s wife, or by the children he raised. There may be shame, guilt, and embarrassment on the part of the genetic father or mother. The decision not to have a relationship with a child or to even speak about having had a child may have been made fifty, sixty years ago, in far different and perhaps desperate circumstances. These are such sad and difficult situations for everyone. In a perfect world, there would be family mediators to help with those initial conversations, and mental health counselors to help everyone—those discovering family secrets, and the keepers of those family secrets. I am heartened to see a growing community of mental health professionals specializing in DNA surprises.

See our review of The Lost Family.BEFORE YOU GO…

Look on our home page for more articles about the search and reunion, NPEs, adoptees, and genetic genealogy.

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By Jodi Klugman-Rabb, LMFTThe DNA discovery situation is unique in several ways. It’s unique to our time because of our access to science, and it’s unique in mental health because of the combination of issues triggered throughout the experience. Those who experience an unexpected DNA discovery may include adoptees, NPEs (not parent expected), and donor conceived individuals. Although they take different paths to their DNA discoveries, the emotional issues they experience along the way are quite related and, in some cases, identical. Yet, the mental health community isn’t at all well-prepared to deal with the DNA discovery experience.

Astonishingly, there are practicing therapists who cannot engage their empathy when facing a DNA discovery client. I hear stories of NPEs leaving sessions feeling worse than they did going in because the therapists dismissed their pain, just as their known families did. After seeking help to sort out their feelings and cope with their confusion, these clients leave with guilt added to the cornucopia of emotional turmoil, being told by therapists “he’s still your dad” or “it really hasn’t changed anything about you.”

In fact, much has changed for NPEs, but as in any case of grief, it often isn’t apparent to the outside observer. I counsel as many bereaved clients on how to engage support from loved ones as I do NPEs, and that’s because we as a species are not good at dealing with emotional pain. We want it to go away, to be as short lived as possible and be something someone else deals with. The DNA discovery experience rivals most traumas—with sudden grief and loss, unwanted changes in family dynamics, and profound identity confusion, all condensed in a short period of time.

As a licensed marriage and family therapist, I’m trained in all the areas triggered by the DNA discovery so I know to treat the discovery as a trauma that’s complicated with grief, identity crises, and the breakdown of interpersonal relationships. As a therapist, I’m skilled at the techniques and have the ability to recognize when something has crossed the threshold of normal to become clinically significant, and I have cultivated empathy as a general rule in the art of my field, because that’s the most important quality.

I recognized the need for a curriculum to organize how mental health professionals would respond to our fast-growing DNA discovery population, to help them access the skills they already had but didn’t know how to combine, so I created Parental Identity Discovery,™ a first of its kind treatment protocol dedicated to DNA discoveries. In more than 18 years of clinical practice, I’ve cultivated expertise needed for informed treatment of DNA discoveries: EMDR for trauma, grief counseling, and family systems and cognitive-behavioral theories. Living through the NPE discovery showed me how little I knew about identity, so I’ve set out to research everything my field has to offer and include it in the protocol, finding space for me to contribute to filling the gaps. Each aspect of the treatment relies on proven techniques to inform a new way of addressing generally individual issues.

Peer support is important in our large cohort to help people feel less alone and provide a more tolerant ear. But some people need more than peer support can offer, and for them, therapy can make all the difference. But it requires proper training and licensure. Finding a good therapist is harder than it needs to be, but they’re out there, and hopefully those who get adequate training specifically in the needs of NPEs will combine that special knowledge with the skills they most likely already have so they can truly be of service to people affected by DNA discoveries.Jodi Klugman-Rabb, LMFT practices in California. She writes about the NPE experience in the “Finding Family” blog for Psychology Today and hosts and produces the “Sex, Lies & the Truth” podcast. For more information on her work with DNA discovery go to her website or register for the training through Eventbrite.BEFORE YOU GO…

Look on our home page https://severancemag.comfor more articles about the experience of NPEs, adoptees, and donor-conceived individuals.

• Please leave a comment below and share your thoughts.
• Let us know what you want to see in Severance. Send a message tobkjax@icloud.com
• Tell us your stories. See guidelines athttps://severancemag.com/submission-guidelines/
• If you’re an NPE, adoptee, or donor conceived person; a sibling of someone in one of these groups; or a helping professional (for example, a therapist or genetic genealogist) you’re welcome to join our private Facebook group athttps://www.facebook.com/groups/402792990448461
• And like us on Facebook athttps://www.facebook.com/severancemag and follow us on Twitter and Instagram @Severancemag

By Billie BakhshiMy dad is my dad. I said what I said. You can’t change my mind.

My therapist has tried to—or at least tried to change the words I use to describe my father.

Over my lifetime, I’ve called my father daddy. I’ve referred to him as my father or Steve.

But he was my dad.

My dad was an NPE (not parent expected). He grew up with a drunk mother and without ever knowing his own biological father. He bore his stepfather’s surname and wasn’t welcome at the stepfather’s family homestead over the holidays, unlike his two half brothers—his stepfather’s sons.

I find it interesting that my dad referred to his own missing biological parent as his “sire.” He seemed to be a stickler for labels and calling things by their proper names, although I suspect, in his case, his choice of label was heavily peppered with anger and resentment.

He never knew his father. Or why he left. Or why none of his father’s family sought him out.

But my dad—he was my dad until I was almost four years old.

But then he abandoned me.

My therapist thinks that because he left me, and because he never resurfaced, his title should be nothing more than sperm donor. She thinks by calling him dad I give him too much power and influence over me.

There is language in NPE, adoption, and donor conceived circles to describe family members and relationship roles, but it’s complicated. Words and roles—like dad, father, donor—just aren’t simply defined anymore, and I’ve had trouble unpacking the roles and titles in my life.

The dictionary is useless on this topic.

I had a great conversation with a friend I met in an NPE Facebook group. Our very first conversation was on the topic of fathers. She was donor conceived but was absolutely adamant that this man—the donor—was her father. So I asked her about my conundrum.

When I explained myself she said, “If your dad had died in a car wreck when you were four years old, would his title be changed to sperm donor because he wasn’t there for you anymore?”

I certainly don’t recall seeing “beloved sperm donor” etched on anyone’s gravestone in the history of ever.

My dad was my dad.

Period.

Even if it was for just short of four years.

He was mine. My dad.

You can’t change my mind.Billie Bakhshi is now a fatherless daughter, a second generation NPE whose maternal grandmother was illegally adopted. Her mother was impounded at Booth Maternity Home for Unwed Mothers in Philadelphia, where Bakhshi’s sister, Donna, was given up for adoption through Catholic Charities. Bakhshi has half a dozen (maybe more) half siblings from her father. Where are they all? She’d love to know, too. Bakhshi lives in Las Vegas, Nevada with her husband, four children, a cockatoo, tuxedo cat, and neurotic chihuahua mix. You can follow her on Facebook and read more of her writing at The Family Caretaker. See her previous essay here and here.Do you have a story to share? We want to hear from you. Find our submission guidelines here.

Please return to our home page to see more articles about genetic identity. And if you’re an NPE, adoptee, donor-conceived individual, helping professional or genetic genealogist, join Severance’s private facebook group.

BEFORE YOU GO…

• Please leave a comment below and share your thoughts.
• Let us know what you want to see in Severance. Send a message to bkjax@icloud.com
• Tell us your stories. See guidelines at https://severancemag.com/submission-guidelines/
• If you’re an NPE, adoptee, or donor conceived person; a sibling of someone in one of these groups; or a helping professional (for example, a therapist or genetic genealogist) you’re welcome to join our private Facebook group at https://www.facebook.com/groups/402792990448461
• And like us on Facebook at https://www.facebook.com/severancemag andfollow us on Twitter and Instagram @Severancemag

By Michelle HensleyLight, water, love.

What a plant needs to thrive, to grow. Common needs for humans. But what if you didn’t get what you needed to grow? Would you somehow persevere?

I didn’t have what I needed to grow. I had the basics: food, shelter, clothing. They were fragile, not always in quantities that would lead to a secure sense of comfort. Clothing was mostly from garage sales or purchased with credit cards that would later have to be cut up. Shelter was a house that was mortgaged several times over to pay for a gambling addiction. Food was portioned, and we filled our bellies with bread and butter because maybe we were still hungry and that’s all we had left on the table.

Love was hard earned. It was conditional to behavior. Feelings of animosity and jealousy led to separation—physical and emotional. My adult self recognizes the disfunction, the probable mental illness, the absurdity of the accusations. I did not feel loved.

I moved out three weeks after high school graduation, and I was given a tree a short time after that. A houseplant ficus tree. I cared for that tree. I gave it light, water, love. I made sure it had a sunny window in every rented apartment and basement space. As it grew, so did I.

Finally, when I was living in a house to call home after I married, the tree thrived, and so did I. It grew so big and tall that it had to be replanted, cut back, split, and repotted many times over 30-plus years. It became a member of the family, fondly known as “the tree.” It stood in as a Christmas tree more than once. The tree lived at a trusted friend’s house when it got too tall.

Eventually, it made its way back and had to be hacked once again to fit into the space available. Leaves would drop in protest to the jarring change of space and severing. And then, as if by magic, new shoots would emerge, with new starts of a branch. I showered it with light, water, love.

It was a constant reminder that with light, water, and love, anything could thrive.

In a particularly tough patch in my life, I started to resent the tree. It had been a gift from a person who did not give me what I needed—love. I did not get the care and compassion that was essential to grow as a human being. I began to see the tree as a painful reminder of that person and I made plans to kill the tree. Yes, kill it, as in take it out back and hack it up with a hand saw, a hatchet, or whatever sharp tool I could get my hands on. I envisioned a scene like the one depicted in the movie “Mommy Dearest,” where Joan Crawford, in a fit of anger, chops down a prized ornamental tree.

I didn’t kill the tree. Instead, I made arrangements for it to live at the library. I gave up that tree. I now know that it will live in infamy in a space that was despised by the one who failed to give me what I needed. The thought of the tree getting to bear witness to all the growth and knowledge that’s nurtured in that building—everything I was denied—gives me peace.

The tree also produced a stub, a leftover of the last replanting. It was nothing more than a stump in a big pot. It had been unceremoniously shoved in a dark corner, away from light. It had been ignored, forgotten. There was no light, no water, no love, nothing.

A side glance one day brought shock when a flash of green caught my eye. From behind a chair, nestled deep in the corner, there was life. The tree had not given up. The tree had sprouted a new start, from deep beneath the soil, an offshoot, perhaps, of the stump. The tree had used its reserves, its inner strength, to show that it could persevere.

The new branchtree appears strong. It mockingly showed up, despite the lack of light, water, and love. It is here to grow. Its inner strength pushed through. It’s a survivor. It will not be killed. It has become the new tree, the courageous self-sufficient being that emerged. It’s now being given light, water, and love. It sits in the sun. It is growing. It will know that despite its beginnings, it alone pushed above the soil to emerge victoriously.

I am the new tree.Michelle Hensley was adopted as an infant and is in reunion with members of her birth families. She’s a mentor and facilitator at Encompass Adoptees, Transracial Journeys family camp, and Adoption Network Cleveland. Follow her on Facebook and find her on Twitter @Michell99944793.