By Kara Rubinstein Deyerin

Without having your whole story, you cannot have autonomy. Autonomy and decision-making go hand-in-hand. Autonomy, the ability to act independently and make choices based on one’s own judgment, relies on having a comprehensive understanding of the context and factors at play. If you do not know your true origin story, your ability to exercise true autonomy becomes limited or compromised. A fragmented or partial view of who you are may lead to misinterpretations, ill-informed decisions, and potential consequences that could have been avoided if you’d had the truth.

Barbie is a perfect example of how lack of information about the fundamental building blocks of your life and who you are can lead to an identity crisis when you discover the truth. Note to the reader: if you haven’t seen the movie, know that there are spoilers here. I highly recommend you see the movie and then read this article. Even if you don’t come back to read this, go see the movie.

Barbie lives in a world based on a fundamental lie—the belief that the Barbies have solved women’s equality problems in the real world. Because Barbie is a female president, doctor, physicist, and more, she believes women in the real world have this level of power too. How Barbie sees her world and herself and how she interacts with her friends and Ken is based on this being true. When she learns the real world is very different, it throws her relationships and her sense of identity into disarray.

People often have a difficult time understanding what the big deal is when someone has a DNA surprise and they discover that one or both of their parents aren’t genetically related to them. “What’s the big deal? You’re still you?” they’re often asked. The Barbie movie is a perfect example of “what’s the big deal.” Once Barbie’s fundamental truth about who she is toppled, she has an existential crisis. She’s forced to confront the fundamental purpose, meaning, and essence of her life and her own existence.

Perhaps through Barbie you can understand the aftershocks caused by a DNA surprise: how one sees oneself and their place in the world is no longer the same. Five years ago, after spitting in a tube, I learned I wasn’t genetically related to the man I thought was my father. I’d wanted to learn where in Africa his family came from. What I discovered was I had zero African DNA and was half Jewish instead. Everything about my life and who I was had been based on a lie. Enter an existential crisis that at times I still revisit.

When you have a DNA surprise, you are untethered from your past and sense of self. Your ethnicity might be significantly different, like mine. You can feel like an imposter in the culture and family you grew up in and also in your new culture and family. Your medical history is different, so how you’ve been caring for yourself may not be appropriate for your health anymore. This can be an awkward conversation with your doctor, and your kid’s doctor.

Your familial relationships are not the same. You have new family who may or may not want to meet you. And some of the family you grew up with may decide that because you aren’t blood you’re no longer family. How you see and interpret your past interactions with your family and the world is no longer true. You find yourself editing your memories in light of this new information. Even how you see yourself in the mirror is different.

At one point, after Barbie learns the truth, she wonders if she’s still pretty. Her looks haven’t changed but the lens through which she sees herself has. I recently told a good friend that even after five years, I am still surprised by who I see in the mirror. After explaining it wasn’t because 50 is approaching but because I grew up seeing myself as multiethnic—my lens was a woman with a European mom and an African dad. Those glasses were shattered by my DNA test. My new lens now sees a Jewish woman. My nose, my eyes, my smile—they’re all very different. Even now, after therapy and years of rebuilding my sense of identity, it can be disorienting.

With Barbie’s new information about her world and who she is, she must rebuild her sense of self and how she wants to be viewed in the world. She has an identity crisis. Ironically, this term was coined by psychologist Erik Erikson when he discovered in early adulthood that the man he thought was his father was, in fact, not his genetic father. This revelation had a profound impact on his sense of identity and led him to question his true origins, cultural background, and place in the world and of course to study the topic. Enter “identity crisis” into the lexicon.

Barbie is given a choice—whether or not to go back to how things were before, even a better improved version without the lies. She decides she cannot return to her old life. After the veil is lifted, most people can’t or don’t want to pull it back down. In fact, according to a survey of 605 individuals from Facebook misattributed parentage support groups, published in the Journal of Family History, 92% of those who’ve had a DNA surprise would not prefer to have never known the truth. As you’d expect, shock is the first word people use to describe learning their foundation isn’t what they thought, but the next strongest feeling is a better understanding of who they are.

I know Barbie felt this way too as she chose to move to the real world. Her first act of real autonomy—visiting her gynecologist. We must have access to the truth about our origins from birth. People have the right to their full story to develop a sense of self and their place in the world based on true information. You cannot have really autonomy if your life is based on lie.

The next time someone tells me they don’t understand why my DNA surprise rocked my world, I’m going to tell them to watch Barbie. If they can understand why it was impossible for Barbie to go back to who she was before, maybe they can understand why I can’t either.

Kara Rubinstein Deyerin is a non-practicing attorney and passionate advocate with almost a decade of dedicated nonprofit work. Her personal journey and professional expertise have positioned her as a prominent voice in the realm of DNA surprises, genetic identity and continuity, misattributed parentage, adoption, assisted reproduction, and non-paternal events (NPE). In 2018, her life took an unexpected turn when an over-the-counter DNA test revealed that she had zero African DNA and was half Jewish, which meant the man on her birth certificate could not be her genetic parent. This life-altering discovery sent Deyerin on an emotional rollercoaster, causing a profound loss of her assumed ethnic identity and leading her to question her roots and sense of self. Because there were few resources for people with misattributed parentage and a lack of legal rights, she co-founded Right to Know. She’s appeared on many podcasts, in multiple television interviews and articles, and is a frequent speaker and writer on her DNA surprise, the right to know, and the complex intersection of genetic information, identity, and family dynamics. Her dedication to empowering others and fostering societal understanding of these issues has made her a leading advocate for genetic identity rights and a powerful force in promoting truth and transparency in family building.

By Michèle Dawson Haber

I’m a step adoptee. I was raised by my mother and a stepfather who legally adopted me. For a long time, I didn’t identify as a step adoptee, but now I talk about it a lot. Why? It’s probably easiest to explain by telling my full story. After all, stories are the connective tissue that bind so much of our fragmentary experience in the world. In my experience, there were things I didn’t understand or accept about myself until I reached my fifties, when I started to explore how my step adoption impacted my identity. I was so blown away by what I discovered that I wanted to share it with others so that they too would understand how important it is to have a complete story of one’s origins.¹

My father died when I was a baby, and my mother subsequently remarried. Two years after they married, my stepfather legally adopted me. An adoption decree ordered that my last name be changed, my birth certificate be altered, and that I henceforth be considered “born as the issue of the marriage between” my mother and my adoptive stepfather. I was five, about to start school, and had a new half-brother. I never asked my parents why I needed to be adopted, but I can guess now at some of their motivations: my stepfather had known me my whole life, we had as secure a connection as anyone could hope for, they wanted to be a complete family unit that wasn’t divided along last names and past history, and they wanted to spare me the awkwardness of answering questions about my different last name once I started school. All reasonable motivations. But when they decided not to give me anything more than the most rudimentary information about the father I was genetically tied to, when they urged me to forget about the past and be grateful that my stepfather loved me enough to adopt me, when curiosity about my father was met with tears, tension, and refusal—they created an environment that encouraged me to deny the existence of any longing I might have.

Would anything have been different for me if my stepfather had not adopted me? Is my mid-life search for details about my father simply a delayed mourning for the loss of a parent that I never knew? Yes and no. There are lots of similarities between my experience and those who have lost a parent very young. But what step adoption does is legally switch one parent for another, thereby facilitating the erasure from history of that former parent through name change and document amendments. I can’t know for sure, and I can’t ask them now, but it seems that this was my parents’ objective, and it was buttressed by their refusal to provide me with any narrative history of my father. I learned not to ask; I got the message that it didn’t matter.

Yet despite their efforts and hopes, my origins could not be erased, especially because I looked like no one else in my family. I was the only dark haired, olive-complexioned child in my family of six, and, for most of my growing up years, I felt like an alien amongst them. I knew there was a past that I was connected to that no one was willing to talk about. While home life was mostly harmonious and I did my best to look toward the future, my parents’ withholding of information about my own history had an impact. Their silence created a narrative hole that left me feeling like a floater, and I didn’t consider myself as belonging wholly anywhere—not in my family, not in my social circles, and not even with myself (whoever that was). I adapted by trying to please everyone and doing what I thought was expected of me.

I didn’t understand any of this until recently. My “coming out of the fog”² event occurred when I heard the sound of my father’s voice decades after his death from an old tape reel recorded in 1963. Until that moment, I believed I wasn’t affected by my step adoption, and I didn’t think my pre-step adoption history was relevant. But hearing my father’s voice when I was fifty-three years old changed everything. I thought I understood about how my life had unfolded and how I became the person I am today. I suddenly realized I knew nothing about my early history and wanted to know more about this enigma of a man who made up half of my DNA. I embarked on a quest to uncover the details of his life and write the first chapter of mine.

My quest took three years. I was fortunate that the information I sought was discoverable. When I first filled in the gaps of my personal history, I experienced feelings of anger and loss—finally understanding the full import of what had happened and all that could have been that had not. But after a while, something more powerful overtook the negative emotions: a feeling of calm contentment. I finally had my origin story and, with it, a feeling of wholeness and self-acceptance that until that moment had eluded me. Although the loss will never go away, I now have a sense of continuity and belonging. The story I can tell of myself has some coherence where before it was disjointed and incomplete.

After this experience of searching and filling in my personal history, I started to wonder if there were other step adoptees out there like me who don’t know anything about one of their parents or who don’t even think that knowing might be important. I went looking for data on step adoptees and found very little information.

In the U.S., government reports do not track step adoption as a separate category,³ so whatever is known about step adoptees comes primarily from the few national surveys that identify step adoptees.⁴ According to these studies, it’s estimated that 23% to 25% of all adopted children are step adoptees. (One study conducted by the National Council for Adoption put the number as high as 50% based on data from nine states and the District of Columbia where the number of step adoptions is tracked.)⁵

Researchers who have studied step adoption posit that step adoptees are most likely to be a result of a birth outside of marriage rather than a divorce. In other words, a single mother gets married, and her new spouse adopts her child.⁶ Researchers further suggest that when the child is a product of a previous marriage, adoption by stepfathers of their stepchildren is most likely to occur when the first father is out of the picture for some reason, for example because of death, desertion, or having stopped visiting and paying child support.⁷ This makes intuitive sense since the process of getting the agreement or terminating the parental rights of a non-resident parent who is still in the child’s life after a divorce is viewed as neither easy nor desirable. The statistics within stepfamilies back this up: only 5% to 8% of all stepchildren are adopted by a stepparent.⁸

So, with these statistics and assumptions in hand, what can we say about the likelihood that these step adoptees are in the same position as I am of not having met and/or knowing very little about one of their natural parents? How many of these step adoptees grew up in families where the first father was a secret or never spoken about? How many of these step adoptees grew up with big gaps in their origin stories? I sure wish I knew—no such research exists.

While I may not know how many, I do know there are step adoptees out there who can answer “yes” to these questions. It is for them that I write about my experience. As it was for me, they may not even know they are called step adoptees. They may have never explored their feelings of disconnectedness and may have repressed their desire to learn anything about their absent fathers or personal histories. My hope is that my writing and these conversations will reach step adoptees who are, unknowingly, still in the fog. I want them to know that uncovering their origin stories, if possible, can be transformational. Even just acknowledging that each of us has a pre-step adoption history that rightfully belongs to us and is part of our personal narrative can subtly change a person’s perspective of themselves and how they carve out a space in the world.

I also hope to reach those who have been impacted by other types of severance from their genetic identities. Although each of our experiences are different in important ways, there is also overlap. Step adoptees who have never known one of their first parents and/or have little or no information about them can understand how it feels to have an identity formed by a deficient life narrative. I believe step adoptees can make meaningful contributions to conversations happening in the MPE community. More importantly, step adoptees, by virtue of their overlapping experience, are natural allies in the fight for legislative and societal reform. We need more voices to join the movement against secrecy, obstruction, and the denial of everyone’s right to know their genealogical origins.

And so, with these objectives in mind, I will continue to write about my experience and hope more research will be done on step adoption. If you’re a step adoptee or know a step adoptee, send me an email, I’d love to hear from you!

Notes

1. I am indebted to Michael Grand for first introducing me to the ideas of narrative theory (The Adoption Constellation: New Ways of Thinking About and Practicing Adoption). In addition to Dr. Grand’s writing, there is a solid amount of scholarship devoted to using narrative theory to examine the adoptee experience. I have written about this elsewhere in a little bit more detail—click here to read more.

2. “Coming out of the FOG” is both an expression and an acronym formed by the words fear, obligation and guilt. Amanda Medina of This Adoptee Life website and podcast provides a great definition: “…the process by which adoptees who have considered themselves unaffected by adoption, start looking to their past, their background, their origin and as a result start shifting their view on adoption, their own and in general, as well as the effects it may have had on their life.” The AdopteesOn episode with Lesli A. Johnson also has a great discussion of this expression.

3. Adoption researchers have mostly ignored step adoptees because of this lack of data. Step adoptees, if they are not tracked separately by states, are included in the category of “relative or kin adoption.” Step adoption is thought to comprise the largest group within this category. (From Susan D. Stewart, “The Characteristics and Well-Being of Adopted Stepchildren,” Family Relations 59 (December 2010): 558-571.)

4. In the three published academic papers that I could find on step adoptees (unfortunately all dated), the following survey instrument were used: The 2002 National Survey of America’s Families (NSAF), The 2007 National Survey of Adoptive Parents (NSAP) in combination with the 2007 National Survey of Children’s Health (NSCH).

5. National Council for Adoption, “Adoption by the Numbers, 2019-2020,” 2022.

6. Although step adoptions by stepmothers do exist, they are vastly outnumbered by stepfather adoptions. This is a function of mothers being 83% more likely (2004 data) to be awarded custody of children after a divorce. (Matthew D. Bramlett, (2010). “When Stepparents Adopt: Demographic, Health and Health Care Characteristics of Adopted Children, Stepchildren, and Adopted Stepchildren,” Adoption Quarterly, 13:305, 248-267.)

7. Susan D. Stewart, “Stepchildren Adopted by their Stepparents: Where do they fit?” Iowa State University, 2007. Susan D. Stewart, “The Characteristics and Well-Being of Adopted Stepchildren,” Family Relations 59 (December 2010): 558-571. It should also be noted that in the U.S., a child is not allowed to have more than two legal parents.

8. Stewart, 2007; Stewart, 2010, Bramlett, 2010.Michèle Dawson Haber is a Canadian writer, potter, and union advocate. She lives in Toronto and is working on a memoir about family secrets, identity, and step adoption. She interviews memoirists for Hippocampus Magazine, and her writing has appeared Salon.com, Oldster Magazine, The Brevity Blog, and the Modern Love column of The New York Times.

By Kara Rubinstein Deyerin

People with misattributed parentage, DNA surprises, and unknown origins have a lot in common. Many of us learn about being misattributed because we are byproducts of the direct-to-consumer DNA testing phenomenon. We bought into the commercial enticing us to learn more about our roots, or perhaps we were gifted a test, and then we received the shock of our lives—we are not genetically related to one or both of our parents. Some of us grow up knowing we have a different genetic parent(s) out there, somewhere, but aren’t interested in knowing them. However we get there, when we start the process of reunion, we all end up in a very similar emotional space.

One thing I continue to hear as I speak with people experiencing these new discoveries is “I felt all alone.” I can completely identify with this sentiment. While each of our stories is unique,  many common themes flow through them. We are not alone. United we can help each other heal. We can educate others about how deeply we are impacted. And we can elevate each other’s voices to change societal perceptions and laws to reflect our most basic right to know who we are.

Untangling Our Roots is the first-ever summit to promote these principles and bring together adoptees, the donor-conceived, people with an NPE, their significant others, raising and genetic family, and the professionals who assist our communities–an event sponsored by Right to Know and the National Association of Adoptees and Parents.

The summit will take place in Louisville, Kentucky, March 30-April 1. Tickets include breakfast, drinks, lunch, and snacks Friday and Saturday, all entertainment, tai chi and yoga moments, six different presenter sessions, a keynote speaker panel, and a special plenary speaker as well as the chance to meet many authors, podcasters, and therapists. There’s nothing like being in a room filled with people who just get it.

The event kicks off Thursday night at 5:00pm with registration, open mic, and Cory Goodrich’s show Folksong about her NPE. It’s a musical memoir of love and longing, an emotional ballad of grief and forgiveness, an ode to self-discovery, and a heart-stirring look at the lengths to which a family will go to protect themselves and each other. A five-time Jeff nominee, Goodrich is an award-winning actress who’s performed on stages across the country and has been seen on many television shows and commercials.

Starting Friday morning, Pekitta Tynes will be the master of ceremonies. Tynes is a professional comedienne, an adoptee, a foster child, a foundling, and the author of the book titled Thank God I Was Adopted ‘Cause DNA Is No Joke! She uses humor to share her search experience and her journey to finding her biological connection despite life’s obstacles. The first session will be a keynote panel with Astrid Castro, an adoptee who started Adoption Mosaic; Christine Jacobsen, an NPE and author of Dancing Around the Truth; and Chrysta Bilton, a DCP who wrote Normal Family. discussing family dynamics with NPE Leeanne R Hay author of NPE: A Story Guide moderating.

There are three session periods: a speaker workshop, speaker panel, and creative & therapeutic workshop with each session having five options. One session will be specifically for significant others because a DNA discovery is an emotional time for everyone. The day ends with comedy from Tynes and Laura High, a DCP, New York actor, and comedian.

Friday evening entertainment will feature Brian Stanton’s @ghostkingdom at 8pm. Stanton is a Los Angeles-based stage actor best known for his original solo play Blank, the true story of his adoption and search for identity. @ghostkingdom, his most recent work, has been screened at film festivals as well as for adoption support and at educational conferences. The Love International Film Festival honored Stanton with Best Screenwriter and Best Actor awards.

Saturday morning’s plenary speaker will be Paul Joseph Fronczak, whose foundling story touches on what many with misattributed parentage feel. “Ever since I was a child, I had a feeling I was someone else.” There will again be three session periods: a speaker workshop, speaker panel, and creative & therapeutic workshop with each session having five options. A full agenda is available here. And the summit will close with an to reflect and rejuvenate with Amber Jimerson, Lesli Johnson, MFT, and Ridghaus.

There will be a quiet room where therapists will volunteer to help attendees should a topic, discussion, or comment raise uncomfortable or difficult feelings or memories.

See the full agenda here.

Tickets are $279 until February 14, when they will increase to $319. Significant other tickets for Thursday evening and all-day Friday are $119 until February 14 and will increase to $139. NBCC credit available for therapist attendees from an online class recorded from summit sessions. For questions or further information, write to info@UntanglingOurRoots.org and visit the summit website.

Kara Rubinstein Deyerin is a non-practicing attorney with an LLM in Taxation. In January 2018, she wanted to see where in Africa her father’s family came from. Her direct-to-consumer DNA test revealed she was 50% something, but she had zero African DNA. This meant the man on her birth certificate couldn’t possibly be her genetic father. She lost her bi-racial identity with the click of a mouse.Deyerin discovered she was 50% Ashkenazi Jew. The DNA pandora’s box she opened led to an identity crisis. Lack of resources, advocacy, and access to support led her to co-found Right to Know. She’s a passionate advocate for genetic identity rights.

Nancy Verrier, LMFT, became so deeply intrigued by her adoptive daughter’s response to having been relinquished that she earned a master’s degree in clinical psychology and wrote her thesis about what she called the primal wound—the trauma of separating a child from its mother. Her book, The Primal Wound: Understanding the Adopted Child, published in 1993, is in its 15^th printing and has been translated into seven languages. Its message resonated with filmmaker and adoptee Rebecca Autumn Sansom who, along with her biological mother, Jill Hawkins, PhD, have produced a powerful documentary starring its author and exploring the theory that the trauma of relinquishment must be acknowledged before healing can occur and examining the cultural shift the book kickstarted. Reckoning with the Primal Wound is the first feature-length documentary about relinquishment trauma that explores the perspective of both adoptee and biological mother and features, in addition to Verrier, psychologists David Brodzinsky, PhD, and Amanda Baden, PhD.  In September 2022, the film premiered at The Catalina Film Festival in Long Beach, California. It’s since been seen in dozens of screenings to enthusiastic audiences of adoptees and others, has been accepted into 20 film festivals. Here, we talk with the filmmaker about the genesis of the film, it’s creation, and its reception.

How and why did you become a filmmaker? 

I got really frustrated with my parents when they didn’t have any footage of me from early childhood. My history, however brief, was always oddly important, and I wanted to dissect it. It was due to this frustration that I got a camera and learned how to edit in high school and have been doing that ever since. I can’t seem to stop.

Do you recall your first reading of The Primal Wound, by Nancy Newton Verrier, and what your initial reaction was? 

Yes, of course. It was after years of being told by random adoptees I met (even in different countries) that I should read it. It went in one ear and out the other until I was finally ready to absorb the information. That happened to be when I was 29 years old. The outcome was immediately trying to find my biological mother. So it changed my life—for the better.

Tell us about the journey of this film. What inspired it and how widely has it been seen?

I began filming in my third trimester back in 2017 and it came out officially in October 2022. It was inspired by adoptees in my family who were struggling with addiction and I always wondered if unpacking their adoption issues would help alleviate some of their pain. They weren’t receptive to reading anything or joining support groups that I recommended, so I Googled around to see if there was another medium for the information in the book. I couldn’t find anything. I was so surprised, because at that point, the book was over 25 years old. I think I looked down at my huge belly and wondered if being a pregnant person would be an asset for such a film…then I realized Nancy Verrier lived 45 minutes away, so I emailed her, and while waiting for her to respond, I just started filming. My boss at the time told me about her childhood friend’s harrowing experience finding her birthmom that she was documenting on Facebook. She lived a couple of hours away and agreed to an interview. (That’s Doris if you’ve seen the film.) So, it just started happening, and then my mom didn’t want to come to the birth (which was fine and understandable), but Jill, my biological mother, did really want to be there. I had no idea I would be induced and have so much downtime in a labor and delivery room with my birthmother, but again, it just kind of happened. That interview ended up being so compelling. I tell people now that it must’ve been my destiny to create this documentary, because, honestly, so many things kept falling into place, and getting the input from the community over the past 18 months made it something that is beyond me and any scope I could’ve done alone. It definitely has its own life and I’m just going with it.

You noted that Nancy Verrier was initially reluctant to participate. What persuaded her?

Yes. She got misquoted in print and it scared her from doing much press and she was never going to agree to a big production or anything. But once we built up a rapport, our relationship was easy. In the interviews, it’s just me and my friend, author Sara Davis, behind the cameras. And it was my idea to let the cat, Solare, out of the back bedroom…so pretty much all of the unprofessional decisions were mine. I did add as many animals into the film as I could because they are so important to us, to relinquished people. If anyone wonders if that was intentional or not, it was.

How about your family? Were any of your family members reluctant about participating, and if so, why, and how did they come around? And at one point in the film, for example, your adoptive mother doesn’t want to appear on camera, yet she’s seen throughout the film. Did her reluctance have to do with privacy and how was she moved to be fully present?

My parents are the opposite of how I feel about being on stage or on camera. They did not want to participate. But they would drop gems all the time. I had to surreptitiously film my mom a few times. And then I couldn’t help editing the footage into my final cut. I ended up falling in love with that footage. I actually got pretty depressed upon completing the edit and knowing I had to get their permission. I was 99% sure they would veto it. But, they didn’t. I still have the text my mom sent after watching the film. “We realize it’s not about us.” That’s when I knew this project was meant to be. They still won’t come to Q&As or anything, but I will always appreciate their decision to let me use the footage. I think their roles and their story/perspectives are extremely important.

What role did filmmaker Nico Opper play in getting this film made?

Nico is an award-winning filmmaker and provided some post-production notes, but their main role here was as a participant. And of course they graciously let me use the footage from Off and Running, which I recommend everyone watch to further understand the perspective of inter-racially adopted people.

What other documentarians have influenced your work generally, and for this film specifically?

As controversial as he might be, Michael Moore’s catalog made an impact on me. I’ve seen all of his films and respect his approach to making a lasting point through documentary film. Chris Paine’s Who Killed the Electric Car? was formative as well. And of course, Tim Wardle’s Three Identical Strangers. Then for more expressive elements, I’ve been influenced by filmmaker and performance artist Maya Deren. One of my favorite quotes I’ve gotten from a viewer is that the film is ‘poetic and raw.’ That’s a huge compliment to me. I really like organizing films into parts, so for this one the four parts come from the sections of the book: “The Preface,” “The Wound,” “The Manifestations,” and “The Healing.”

What was your goal when you began—what did you want the viewer to walk away feeling/thinking—and how, if at all, did that change as you progressed?

I simply wanted my adopted relatives to go to rehab. But then as it became kind of a thing, where 1,000+ people signed up to be in the Adoptee Army section of the credits—which means they agree that more should be done to change the current narrative of adoption—I started thinking bigger picture. Which always means policy change, right? I would absolutely love for the film to be used as a tool to alleviate pain and suffering for anyone experiencing any form of genealogical bewilderment. I say that because it’s not just adoptees, it’s donor-conceived people, people dealing with misattributed parentage because of the prevalence of DNA kits, surrogacy-born people, and of course foster and former foster youth. Let’s really think about family separation and its long-term effects. And consider if we’re doing the best we can by these invisibly marginalized groups. I say invisibly because we’re not recognized as marginalized by the majority of society. But I believe we are.

How long did the whole process take from inspiration and conception to distribution and what challenges, if any, did you encounter as you moved forward?

This April it will be six years since I first had the idea. I’ve had the normal challenges of being an independent filmmaker. So trying to cover operation costs has been nonstop work, but I can’t complain because it’s really hard for a film that didn’t get picked up to make anything. If it does turn a profit I’d love to create a mutual aid fund for adoptees who are on the struggle bus. I do give 10% of the proceeds each month to an adoptee for their personal self-care fund. And then I like to say that my lobby is to get the Department of Human Services to give us all at least $5K a year for self-care and therapy.

Another unexpected challenge has been community members who do not like the book. And I understand the criticism, but I wish people would give the film a chance before writing it off just because it’s associated with the book. That’s been kind of stressful actually.

One of the things I found fascinating, and most personally resonant, was when you said “You are not the person you were going to be…which may not be a bad thing.” In an article about my own experience, I once wrote, “I can’t help but imagine, for good or for bad, who I might have been if I’d only known who I was.” These are thoughts I don’t see articulated or acknowledged often. I imagine they may be difficult for non-adoptees to understand. Can you say more about that and what you meant?

Oh, I love the way you put it. Much more poetic. But, yes, it’s a paradox of sorts. We are, but we aren’t. I feel like the Buddha said something similar, right? Like, this is because that is, and that is not because that is not. I always think, if I were Autumn, would Jill’s children born after me—Christopher, Clare and Candace—be? They are, because I went.

Someone recently sent me a passage from a book about reincarnation that made them think of their experience as an adoptee. It was about how some souls are removed from their soul family in order to evolve for the benefit of the soul family. I think that’s a positive way to look at it. But I always welcome any attempt to make it make sense. Some people have a really hard time calling me Autumn, but for me (in certain spaces) it helps bring my two timelines together. I think this is why filmmaking and being in control of the actual timeline is cathartic for me. (In editing software, where you cut the film is called the timeline).

In the film I go on to say that “I’m trying to figure it out”—knowing that I can’t really figure it out. But maybe we’ve been given the gift of examining our lives being non-negotiable?

At one point in the film, Amanda Baden, MEd, PhD, says, “One of the challenges for adoptees is that they may be seeking people to validate their experiences all the time, and it’s hard to do that when people don’t always understand or empathize with their experiences.” Is this film an effort to validate their experiences? Or your experiences?

Did you know the film had more Baden than Verrier at one point? Talk about dropping gems! And yes, this film is validating our experiences. I hear from adoptees that their main takeaway is seeing other adoptees voice feelings they’ve had and feeling like they aren’t alone anymore. That’s the best outcome I could hope for.

There’s discussion in the film about microaggressions and at one point specifically referencing comments people make when they find out one is adopted, such as, “Have you searched for your birthparents?” Having never known my mother, people asked me all my life if I searched for her. It never struck me as negative or offensive, just a natural curiosity, a way of showing interest. It’s impossible, I think, to expect others to understand how their responses may be offensive or considered microaggressions. And saying nothing seems to show a lack of interest. What are appropriate responses when one discloses that they’re adopted? 

That’s a good point, and I totally hear you. I also never took it as offensive growing up, but looking back I think the question led me to try to find Jill before I was ready. I did attempt to get my records from the State of Tennessee when I was 21 years old, and it was unsuccessful. I think the main reason I wanted answers was to please other people. Which is not why anyone should do anything. But people can be aware that it’s unintentionally detrimental to adoptees’ psyche to call into question the realness of their nurturing or natural parents, to dismiss how personal and loaded the question is, and maybe just respond with a little more empathy.

I think Jill’s answer when I ask her how she would’ve felt if she’d been adopted and she says she would’ve been in constant turmoil is pretty astute.

But yes, I agree, being intentionally relinquished by your mother and being abandoned by her are different, but also not different at all. That’s a quandary. I just wonder if my relationships with my friends and you with your friends would’ve been deeper and more psychically beneficial if they were framed more sympathetically.

Now I think the best response to learning someone is adopted or dealing with maternal/gestational parent separation is to say something like, “I’ve heard that can be a difficult life experience. If you ever want to talk about it or need support I’m here to listen.”

What would you say to others about using their voices, their art, to express the experience of being an adoptee?

The nice thing about content creation is that there’s always something new to be gained from individual stories. I love learning about people through their own personal experiences, through words, songs, performances, films, memoirs, etc. I would personally love to amplify trans-racial adoptees’ stories in future projects. The added loss of culture seems extraordinarily unfair.

Tell me about the two songs that play over the end credits and their songwriters—”March 11, 1962,” by Liz Rose and Mary Gauthier, and “Wanna Be,” by Celeste Krishna. Why did you choose those?

My mentor, Demetria Kalodimos (true crime podcast producer of Carol’s Last Christmas), told me I needed to meet her friend who was adopted and a musician in Nashville. It was Mary Gauthier. When we finally met, she graciously offered me any track off of her exemplary album The Foundling, which chronicles her adoption journey, to use in the film. I could hardly pick one, but kept coming back to the lyrics in “March 11, 1962.” It seems to be the right choice considering the feedback. So many people can relate to making that call and the emotions surrounding reunion. Like one viewer says, “Seeing Mary Gauthier’s lyrics and hearing her voice while watching the names scroll through, I feel like I’m standing naked in a field and finally seen!”

I have a small record label and my artist, Celeste Krishna, wrote a song about trauma and depression for her album My Blue House. It’s called Wanna Be. She let me use it. Last week someone told me it’s the song they blast on the way to therapy. I got Celeste to send a voice note explaining the meaning and why she wrote it and that voice note was sent to another community member who was teaching a high school writing class and she used the 90-second voice note as a prompt that same day! I love that the songs are getting more exposure through the film. The line, “Analysis, paralysis, my own mind, tied knots that I cannot untie”—I couldn’t NOT use it!

At one point in the film your adoptive mother says of the book, “The author had a point of view…and I don’t know if that can be scientifically corroborated.” I’m not adopted, but as someone who was abandoned by her mother as an infant, I find that Verrier’s book, although not scientifically verified, and everything said in your film, rings true. Yet I know not everyone sees it that way. Your adoptive mother’s comment echoes some criticism of the Primal Wound—the suggestion that it’s merely a theory and that there’s no evidence to support the ideas it presents. Do you have any thoughts about that criticism? To your knowledge, is it something that Verrier has ever addressed?

I think Nancy and I agree that anecdotal evidence can be profound. That’s why I put out the call for the Adoptee Army. You can argue all day that the data isn’t there. But if thousands of people with similar experiences are saying “YES! That’s how I feel!” Can you really dismiss them all?

And how do you ethically collect data on gestational parental separation? And why don’t animal studies count? The fact that you can’t legally separate domesticated animals from their mothers before they are weened and ready—well we too are mammals. People know it’s true, but admitting it would be detrimental to too many structural belief systems. Until the majority of society thinks we are also a marginalized group, we won’t get any more civil rights. I do, however, believe the tension is building toward a tipping point. I would be honored to be a small part of the reckoning.

Has there been any criticism of the film, and if so, what is the nature of it? 

The feedback has been overwhelmingly positive. The critics are people who haven’t seen the film, so do they count as critics? And like I said before, it’s been that I’m hyping the book and an adopter instead of an adoptee. Which is a fair criticism, but I’ll say that knowing Nancy has been so meaningful and she’s provided a lot of value to my life and I’ve heard from so many people that she’s added value to their lives and taken time to hear them. Unfortunately, that’s exceptional for an adoptive parent to do, to listen to adult adoptees. I wanted to pay tribute to that in some small way, and my art is film. This film does pay tribute to Verrier’s contribution while reckoning with her role as an adoptive parent. I welcome any concerns anyone has. I’m very approachable.

I’m wondering, specifically, if your empathetic view toward, and inclusion of, birthmothers’ voices has been well-accepted? 

Funny you should ask this at this particular moment, because a birthmother influencer, Ashley Mitchell @bigtoughgirl just did two stellar reaction videos of the film this week! They are amazing and no, I didn’t ask her to do them, it’s totally organic. I embedded them on the website and you can find them on her Instagram page. So far, birthmothers have appreciated the film and are recommending it. I was hoping they would. It was actually screened at the CUB (Concerned United Birthparents) retreat last year if that tells you anything!

Is the film being used in educational and therapeutic settings? 

I am really pushing for more of this to happen. I’ve been told it needs to be, but as an independent filmmaker, my network isn’t big in these spaces, so any help with recommendations to child welfare organizations, colleges and universities, or to therapists would be greatly appreciated.

According to a press release, the film is the first-ever customizable documentary. What does that mean and how does it work? 

Thank you for noticing that. Yes! One of the benefits of being independent and owning the rights is that I can change the film whenever I want. So it dawned on me that for specific screenings I could put an organization’s thought leader in the film for 30-60 seconds for the price of the licensing fee ($400) and then it would be even more inclusive and help elevate even more people in this space who want to prevent pain and suffering within the adoption constellation. There are so many people doing important work in this space and if the film can amplify that in some way, I am happy to edit until the cows come home. Ha!

Finally, featured in the film is Moses Farrow, LMFT, an adoptee and adoption trauma educator. He says, “The adoption industry has evolved over the last 400 years or so because of careful and consistent crafting of the initial statements ‘best interest of the child’ and ‘second chance at a better life.’ Once these took hold, it was very easy to stigmatize women, to stigmatize out of wedlock pregnancies. As we become more aware and more and more in touch with this level of truth, I wonder how in the world we can reconcile that we are adopted into such a legacy? How are people so desperate to ignore such truths and realities. We have to move this narrative forward.” Can you comment on your point of view about what it would mean to move the narrative forward? What needs to happen to change the narrative?

I love how Moses puts it. And I think about this a lot. I’ve watched every season available of The Handmaid’s Tale and it’s multi-million-dollar budget, fantastic writing, and acting, AND laying out why all of this is messed up hasn’t really moved the needle as far as societal thinking about adoption goes. So, what can an indie film or grassroots adoptee centric movement do if Hollywood can’t?

I just posted on Instagram about a sketch NBC’s SNL did last month where adoptees are the punchline. It seems like we haven’t made any progress sometimes, doesn’t it? But, I’ve also had a number of friends see the film and then apologize to me, unprompted. I’m like, I wasn’t fishing for an apology, but thanks? They’re like, yeah, I know I said some wrong things to you about being adopted and I’m sorry. That, to me, is how we’re going to do it, and if the film is the thing that makes something click for people who haven’t considered our point of view before, then that’s all I could hope for as a filmmaker and as an adoptee rights activist. I appreciate all of the work Severance Magazine has done in this space and hope we can collaborate in the near future, too. Thanks for helping me spread the word about the film.

If you had to narrow the film’s message to one sentence, what would it be?

Everything you think you know about adoption is dead wrong.

How can readers see the film?

They can now buy/rent/and gift the film digitally via Vimeo which is linked at the film’s website or they can buy a DVD that I will hand make and sign from the merch tab on the website. There are also screenings(with surprise guests sometimes shhh!) and we’re cooking up some in-person screenings for this year, so if readers sign up for the newsletter, they’ll be in the know.

Rebecca Autumn Sansom is guided by the promise of a consciously evolving humanity. As a filmmaker, she was invited by Oregon’s Congressman Blumenauer to screen her feature documentary about high speed rail, Trainsforming America, at the United States Capitol in Washington, DC. She won a 2015 Midsouth regional Emmy for her work on Tout Your Town, a travel series produced by Genuine Human Productions, Nashville TN. As a native Nashvillian, Sansom’s life has been steeped in the sounds of Music City. For three years running, she’s been disrupting the entertainment industry through a safe space for marginalized talent with The Wavy Awards presented by The (NYC) Mayor’s Office of Media and Entertainment.

Lisa “LC” Coppola, a domestic adoptee through the department of children and family, is a mental health counselor who has years of expertise counseling adult adoptees and others touched in any way by adoption. A heartfelt advocate for those relinquished, she’s also a therapist and, in collaboration with Boston Post Adoption Resources, is the creator of the Voices Unheard: Real Adoptee Stories speaker and writing workshop series. A writer from the Boston area, she often explores themes concerning relinquishment and addiction. Now, she’s created a resource to guide therapists and peers who work with adoptees. Voices Unheard: A Reflective Journal for Adult Adoptees is a 52-week journal with prompts based on core themes that emerge in therapy and a script to help group facilitators. The journal can be used by adult adoptees on their own or under the care of a therapist, by therapists as a tool in their practice, and by peer-led support group moderators.

How would you describe this journal and what makes it unique?

The book is a guided journal, yes, but it is so much more than this. It offers 52 guided writing prompts based on common themes in adoption that we see clinically at Boston Post Adoption Resources, a nonprofit mental health agency. But the prompts are framed with resources including a post adoption vocabulary section and suggested reading, so the individual writer has access to knowledge if they want to do a deeper dive of study. The combination of prompts and resources also assists mental health professionals who might not be well versed in adoption-related challenges or therapies. Most graduate-level programs only spend eight minutes on the topic of adoption, believe it or not. So therapists can use this journal to become more informed about adoption loss and then as an aid to guide adoptees out of the fog—meaning out of the denial of the complex trauma of their adoptee experience.

Probably the part I am most excited about is where I include detailed instructions for adoptee volunteers—peers who might want to coordinate peer-led support groups. The instructions cover how to establish a group and how to organize weekly meetings using the journal prompts as themes and assignments, and even include a script to make the idea of running a meeting less daunting and more do-able.

How did you come up with this idea?

As a mental health counselor, I’ve had more than a decade of experience in running writing support groups and workshops on the themes of identity, recovery, relationships, and other issues that both adoptees and people in recovery from addictions struggle with. As an adoptee and person in long-term recovery from addictions, I’ve been a participant and beneficiary of these types of groups and therapeutic activities myself, so I’ve seen the value from both sides. When people come together to acknowledge a similar struggle, there’s a sort of belongingness that develops that I have seen to be the most powerful kind of healing. You see this all the time in the addiction recovery world. As adoptees are going through this kind of mysterious buried pain and grief, and one that is hardly discussed in public, I knew that they really could benefit from this kind of peer-to-peer recovery. So I wanted to combine my dual experiences to offer something bigger and more impactful than a traditional prompted writing journal, something with legs and utility to empower adoptees with a tool and to enlarge the professional and volunteer post adoption support system.

How is writing for adoptees valuable and therapeutic?

As a mental health counselor, I find that journaling on one’s story, trying to sort out the truth through telling the story, sifting through fears and hopes on paper, is incredibly powerful. It’s a way to help clients work their way through disparate and confusing emotions and memories, to identify common threads throughout their lives, and ultimately to connect to the truth of their uniquely personal stories. In individual and group sessions, I guide the journaling process with carefully planned prompts that guide the writer through a revelatory and healing process over time.

How did you come to discover writing as helpful in your own experience?

I’m an adoptee who has spent a lifetime confronting a history of trauma—quite common in adoption—as well as addiction, and who ultimately has found a path to healing. I share part of my past openly in the early pages of the Voices Unheard Journal. Writing and support groups have been my lifeline. I’m working on a memoir myself, and through this process I’ve been able to really get in touch with who I am at my core. Of course, as an adopted person, who I am has always been a confusing, kind of clouded thing, and with writing a memoir I had to really get to know myself on a new level to write my character. I had to look at the pain I came up against in my life and how I got through it. I feel stronger now than ever in who I am and in my own strength and resilience. The journaling process really helped me understand my story to the extent needed in order to write the more structured linear story.

Why the focus specifically on adopted adults?

So often in our practice we meet adoptees who are not aware until adulthood of the depth or the impact of their traumas. For example, I worked in addiction recovery programs for many years and during that time found that adoptees made-up a  disproportionate number of my clients. As I worked with them, sometimes for years, and as they gained some good time in sobriety, they often discovered that a root cause of their need to self-medicate was coming from a place of unprocessed grief around their relinquishment experience. In childhood, the adoptee trauma can look like a learning disability, or anxiety, or depression, or issues with love addiction or love avoidance. But once you peel back those layers of the onion, as they say, it’s all linked to that original wound manifesting. And many counselors, adoptive parents, and teachers have never been educated that adoption trauma even exists, so kids rarely ever get to address it while they’re young. Boston Post Adoption Resources and other adoption trauma-informed organizations are starting to change this now. Also another reason I designed this book for adult adoptees is that many are beginning  to search for biological families. This is a hard, confusing, process that needs support.

Tell us more about the cover art.

The design was created by our own clinical director, Kelly Dibennedetto, and her husband, Albie. It was based on that notion of “coming out of the fog.” The fog at the bottom represents the concept of denial around the adoption trauma experience that many adult adoptees face. The ladder provides hope for progress—a path to discovery and insight—as it connects adoptees to their own stories on a journey to healing.

What kind of feedback have you had so far on the journal?

We are very excited that some highly renowned adoptee writers and adoption professionals have really embraced the journal and generously provided written endorsements. In fact, Sharon Kaplan Roszia, co-author of one of the most important pieces of literature used by therapists trained in adoption competency, validates the approach of this journal and says it’s “long overdue” in the field.

What other projects/ books are happening at Boston Post Adoption Resources?

BPAR already has an acclaimed illustrated book called Adoption Is a Lifelong Journey, written from the perspective of a child adoptee and offering tools and tips to parents. It was released five years ago. We also published a free eBook for parents/caregivers called Voices in Transracial Adoption to share the lived experiences of transracial adoptees through interviews. We’re seeking funding to build an online post adoption resources learning center to educate on a deeper level on specific topics.

Learn more on Facebook, Instagram, and LinkedIn.

Please tell us a little about yourself—what was your life like before your DNA surprise?

I was born in 1965 in a state where I’ve never lived—Iowa. Our home was across the river in Illinois, but our doctor and hospital were in Iowa. I have lived in Los Angeles for over half my life, since I was 27. My wife and I are small business owners in the entertainment industry, and we are almost empty nesters. Our youngest will be starting his senior year of college in the fall.

Can you summarize as much as you’re comfortable sharing of your personal story of when and how your DNA surprise came about?

Rumors have swirled around my family in regard to my older sister for decades. She and I grew up thinking we were full siblings. Every ten years or so, someone would get drunk and angry and bring up that she wasn’t my father’s child. Then a few years ago, she found out it was true. My parents finally came clean. My mom was already pregnant when she met my dad. He was fully aware and agreed to raise her as his own. Two years later I was born.

That sister spent over a year and a half looking for her bio father but to no avail. I asked her if she needed help. I also did a 23andMe test so we we’d have something to compare. But when I received my results, I discovered I had two half-sisters I never even knew existed. And in fact there weren’t just two, there were four. It turns out my mother had a one-night stand with their father in 1965. My new siblings welcomed me into their family with open arms. My bio dad drank himself to death in 2010, which in a way has actually made the bond with my new siblings stronger. In telling me stories about him so I could know who he was, they realized there was a lot of good about their father that they hadn’t been focusing on. And I fit in with them way more than I ever did my in original family.

How are you absorbing or exploring this knowledge?

As my wife says, I am “all NPE all the time.” I dove in deep and read a lot about NPEs. In the beginning, I devoured all the NPE podcasts and in doing so found a way to place my feelings into perspective. Someone once told me there are two types of people in this world, those who want to find out what’s behind that closed door and those who don’t. I especially think this is true in our NPE world. I am definitely one who wants—actually who needs—to know what’s behind that door. So eventually I started my own podcast.

What aspect of your own experience was most difficult for you?

My dad grew up on a farm in NE Iowa. He’s 100% Scandinavian. When I was 16, I saw a family tree in which someone traced our Norwegian side of the family back to a couple who came over on the boat from Norway in 1855. I was hooked. I dove into my Norwegian heritage. (No one else in my family was into it like I was.) I’ve gone to Norway twice, and I found the farm that my ancestors sold to come to America. For Christmas dinners, I make Norwegian meatballs. I have a Norwegian flag on my office wall. On the day I found my new half-sisters, I also found out I’m not Norwegian at all. It’s heartbreaking for me.

What helped you most?

Listening to NPE podcasts, especially NPE Stories, helped me process my feelings a lot during those first few months after my discovery. Hearing others talk about the same feelings I was having was huge. And finding out I wasn’t alone took so much of the shame away. Severance Magazine and certain Facebook groups (not the big one) help in that regard too. I was in an NPE group therapy for three months or so. That helped me quite a bit. Nowadays, I also see an NPE therapist (she is an NPE) and I am seeing a lot of benefits from that.

How and why did you decide to do a podcast?

I’m in the film business, have produced and edited a feature length documentary, and have been working on my own documentary for six years. (It’s about kids who grew up in a cult.) It’s a labor of love for sure. So right after I discovered my dad wasn’t my dad, I knew I wanted to do something creative. Matter of fact, my steps in finding out about the NPE world were:

• I googled “my dad isn’t my dad” and somewhere amongst those results I found the term NPE
• I thought I wanted to do an NPE podcast, so I googled NPE podcast to see if there were any being produced already. That’s how I found Lily’s podcast, NPE Stories.
• And actually, as a side note, I emailed one of Lily’s guests, and she’s the one who told me about the Facebook groups.

There are a number of NPE/DNA surprise podcasts—how do you describe yours?

I’ve been a huge fan of This American Life for decades, long before the word podcast ever existed. I am heavily influenced by that show/podcast. But I try to make every episode like a documentary. I really like to use archival footage when it’s available and appropriate. I add music to enhance the listening experience. I often have more than one person telling a story. Whereas some podcast creators will have an NPE telling their story, I want their mom and their brother to tell their side of the story too. I think there’s room for all of our podcasts because they are different with different styles and content, which is good for the listener to have plenty of variety. I also make sure the audio is high quality. I often have my guests purchase microphones. I can’t handle bad audio.

What’s been the reaction? What are you hearing from listeners?

So far, people have reacted positively. I had contacted an NPE I found on Severance actually and asked him to be a guest. I sent him episode two of my podcast, which is about me and my four new half-sisters. He loved it and said, “Have you ever heard of This American Life? Your podcast reminds me of that.” I told him thanks and that you could not bestow a better compliment on me than that. I felt like a million bucks.

What if anything has most surprised you in the course of interviewing?

How often I bump my table and microphone has surprised me a quite a bit. Also, I think everyone I have interviewed, other than the “Unsolved Murder” episode, has cried, which I think is a wonderful thing. I wish there wasn’t a need for them to cry but I am grateful that they feel safe enough with me to let it out. It’s powerful.

Why do you think it’s important for people to share their stories? Why is it important for the storyteller and why is it important for others who receive the stories?

As I alluded to earlier, listening to others tell their story has helped me process my feelings better than anything else. It’s magic. And I think someone telling their story to someone who has been in their shoes is magic squared. There’s this old song I recall from my teenage years and the lyric was something like…“what would touch you deeper, that tears that fall from eyes that only cry, would it touch you deeper, tears that fall from eyes that know why?”

When we tell our stories it helps us heal. Full stop.

Based on the podcasts you’ve done so far, what would you say are the most universally difficult aspects of the experience?

Finding out your dad isn’t your dad hurts. It just does. And it changes lives, one way or another.

A heard someone in a self-help group say, “If it ain’t one thing, it’s your mother.” As NPEs, I think most of our relationships with our mothers is, at best, complicated. The reasons for that are both obvious and complex. And the severity is, of course, different amongst us, but all in all this seems to be the most difficult aspect. I could go on and on about why I think that but a couple things that stand out are that the majority of NPE people I’ve heard interviewed say their moms have narcissistic traits. I don’t know if that’s because those are the type of women who are more likely to have an NPE or if it’s that children of narcissist mothers are more apt to go on podcasts and tell their stories. Either way, it seems to be a thing.

On episode four of my podcast I interviewed four women who are pillars in our NPE community: Eve Sturges, a therapist and host of the podcast Everything’s Relative with Eve Sturges; Erin Cosentino, co-founder of Hiraeth Hope & Healing and founder of NPE Only Facebook group; Lily Wood, host of NPE Stories; and Gina Daniels, PhD, of Graystone Mental Health and Wellness Group. I asked them all four questions, one of which was, “what is your relationship like with your mother nowadays?” Their answers were all of course different but so amazing and complex and just full of pain and hope all rolled into one. They took the discussion to another level.

But also I have to say that as a society, we have such double standards when it comes to women cheating vs men cheating. I am not condoning anyone cheating but I think that creates a lot of shame in our mothers. And shame is a horrible thing, so I try to have compassion. I have forgiven my mother. Her “mistake” 56 years ago created a pretty amazing person. I’ve forgiven her for her past. However, her reluctance to discuss it today really puts a damper on our relationship.

Are you looking for participants and if so, how should they contact you??

I’m always on the hunt for good stories, especially those with a twist. I’m drawn to stories where I can weave multiple interviews from different people into one narrative. If someone has old footage/recordings of their bio dad that’s pertinent to their story, by all means, get in touch with me. Also, I often look for people who don’t even know what NPE means. My most popular episode by far is about a woman who was switched at birth in 1958. She’s known for over 20 years but did not know what an NPE was until I contacted her. Since then she’s been on the Facebook group Togetherness Heals getting support and giving support to others. That fact alone, that I was able to help her find us, the NPE community, has been one of the amazing outcomes of doing my podcast.

If someone thinks their story would be a good fit, the best way to contact me is on Instagram. I don’t really have an email set up yet…who needs another email. And if you aren’t on the gram…ask your kid to send me a message on your behalf.

By Laura L. Engel

The author and her son Jamie.

In 2016, I was living a great life, newly retired after a 35-year career in the corporate world and enjoying the extra time to indulge in travel with my beloved husband. That spring, on a whim, we decided to submit DNA tests to Ancestry.com.

Privately I hoped for a miracle. I had a secret.

In 1967, I’d given birth to my first-born child in an unwed mothers maternity home in New Orleans, Louisiana. I had been a typical 17-year-old high school senior with plans for the future that evaporated overnight.

In the sixties, it was considered close to criminal for a girl to become pregnant with no ring on her finger. The father of my child had joined the Army, preferring Vietnam to fatherhood. After my parents discovered my shameful secret, I was covertly hurried away and placed in an institution for five months. There, I was expected to relinquish my baby immediately after giving birth to closed adoption and I was repeatedly assured my child would have a better life without me.

After his birth, I was allowed to hold my son three times. My heart was permanently damaged when I handed him over the final time. The home allowed one concession—I could give my baby a crib name. I named him Jamie.

***

For decades I privately grieved my son but never spoke of him. Many times, I furtively searched for Jamie but always hit a brick wall. Adoption records were still sealed in Louisiana, continuing the archaic shadow of secrecy.

In October 2016, while out walking my dogs one evening, a  ‘Parent/Child Match’ message popped up on my iPhone, causing me to stop me in my tracks as my knees gave out from under me.

After 49 long years, Jamie had found me. Who was he? Where was he? Would he hate me? How would this affect my life? My family? His family?

I had always dreamed of finding Jamie but never thought past that point.

My hands shaking, I gathered courage and wrote back to this man who now called himself Richard. Within minutes he answered. At first, we tiptoed around each other, answering basic questions, but soon we were pouring our hearts out. My son was back in my life, and I learned I had three new grandchildren. All the while shame and fear bit at me as tears streamed from my eyes, but simultaneously overwhelming joy and hope flooded through me.

That night I heard my son’s voice for the first time. The wonder I felt when he said, “I know your voice” transformed me. In minutes, the secret of my son changed from fear of anyone knowing about him to wanting to shout out to the world, “My son has found me!”

Between tears and laughter, our first conversation lasted four hours. It was torture. It was euphoric. I cried. He cried. A tremendous relief replaced fear.

All the reunion experts warn, ‘take your time—do not rush into your first meeting.’ Neither one of us cared what experts said. Within four days, Richard flew from Louisiana to California to meet me. That first meeting was magical. My son was back in my life, and suddenly I was whole.

We discovered we delighted in each other’s company, and nature trumped nurture in many aspects of our lives. Richard resembled me in appearance and personality, and to my delight his oldest daughter was my tiny clone. I was smitten and immediately fell deeply in love with him and his children.

My husband, children, and stepchildren welcomed Richard and his family with open arms, and I pinched myself. My life took on a whole new dimension as Richard and I tried to make up for lost time. Two thousand miles did not keep us apart.

For three years, we made multiple trips to see each other, spending holidays and time together. His family welcomed me with open arms, too. Both of his adoptive parents had passed away, and I sorely regretted not being able to thank them for loving my son and giving him a good life.

2020—COVID happened—suspending all trips back and forth. We called, we texted, and all the while I watched as this son of mine started to break down before my eyes. A messy divorce, loss of job, and unhealthy isolation began to destroy him. Depression had colored my mother’s life, and I watched with hands tied as it was destroying his. Desperately, I advised him as a mother, counselor, cheerleader—but this was beyond my mothering skills. He seemed unable to pull himself out of a dark hole and I worried daily.

In February 2021, we had what would be our last conversation. Before hanging up Richard said, “I love you, Mom. You’re the best thing that ever happened to me.”

I cherish that phone call. Two days later, the son I had mourned for 50 years, the son who had found me, left me again. He took his own life. Now I had lost him twice and this time was forever.

A year later and I have torn myself up over the “what ifs” the “could I have done more?”  My grief has been crippling, but slowly I have come to realize that as painful as his loss is, I am forever grateful for our fleeting time together and I would not trade it for anything. Without our magical and much too short reunion, I would never have known about his childhood, the good man he was, or felt the love he imparted to me. I would never have forgiven myself for leaving him, and I would never have known my beloved grandchildren. Through them, I still have Richard.

I wish I could speak to all the birth mothers out there, who continue to carry the shame and guilt that society placed on us. For those who refuse to allow their relinquished child back into their lives. I want to say I know your fear. I know your uncertainty. I lived it and still live it. It is deep-seated in us, regardless of the circumstances that resulted in us leaving our children. Please know if you are brave enough to welcome that lost child into your life again, you may create a peace and a bond worth all the fear and guilt. There is nothing quite like reuniting a mother and her child, and you may be giving a gift of connection to that child and yourself, as it should have been all along.

One thing I know for sure—the memories of those short years with Richard will uplift me the rest of my life.Laura L. Engel, author of You’ll Forget This Ever Happened: Secrets, Shame, and Adoption in the 1960s, was born and raised on the Mississippi Gulf Coast and was transplanted to San Diego more than 50 years ago. Retired from a corporate career, she’s married to the love of her life, Gene, and is the mother of five beloved grown children and an adored Golden Retriever, Layla Louise. She’s the president of San Diego Memoir Writers Association and an active member of the International Women Writers Guild. Find her on Facebook, Twitter, and Instagram. 

After wrapping season one of her popular podcast, and just in time for the release of the first episode of season two, Alexis Hourselt talks about her own NPE journey.Please tell us a little about yourself — what was your life like before your DNA surprise?

I grew up a military brat, mostly in Arizona. I lived in Tucson with my husband and two children and still do. I love the desert. Before my DNA surprise I would say I was part of a close-knit family—my parents live a few minutes away and my sisters are here too. My dad is Mexican and my mom is of European descent, so I grew up ambiguously biracial. My days were filled as a working mom, wife, friend, sister, and daughter.

Can you summarize as much of your personal story of how your DNA surprise came about?

I bought an AncestryDNA test in June 2021 as part of a Prime Day deal. I had zero suspicions about my dad—I was always told my parents were married after I was born. I look like my sisters. About a month later I got my results. I was first struck by my ethnicity breakdown—I was not Mexican at all, but African American. There was zero latinx in my results. Then I clicked on my matches and to my utter shock/horror I matched with a man I’d never seen before, my biological father.

When you tested, you had a parent child match. What was that experience like and what resulted?

It was really confusing because my bio dad didn’t have his name in his account – it was a username, so I had no idea who he really was (not that I knew him, anyway). I was way too afraid to contact him, so I called my mom and asked if she knew. She didn’t based on the username. I spent the next few days putting all of my internet sleuthing skills to work until I was able to identify him. I found him on Facebook and lurked everything I could find. I found an old podcast he appeared on just to listen to his voice. It was all very surreal. A few days into my journey my newfound sister contacted me and that really got the ball rolling in terms of building a relationship with my family.

You said at one point your mother apologized. That’s often not the case. How did this affect your relationship?

My situation, like so many of ours, is very nuanced. Both of my parents knew the truth about my paternity—or so they thought. They believed they were protecting me from someone, but that person is not my biological father. So, while I disagree with their choice to keep a secret from me, I do understand the initial decision. That empathy made it easier for my mother to apologize and for me to be open to receiving it. I do appreciate the apology but I am still processing everything. It’s not an overnight process but I hope our relationship can normalize.

You said growing up you didn’t relate to your Mexican heritage. Were you raised in that culture and still didn’t feel connected to it?

Yes and no. My parents didn’t deeply immerse me in Mexican culture, but I live in the southwest so it’s everywhere. Whenever we visited family in Texas I saw much of that Mexican side as well. I went to schools in predominantly Mexican areas, at times. I just never felt a real connection despite how hard I tried. I always felt like an imposter but I attributed it to being mixed race.

You talk about discovering you were Black. You said in the episode about your own story “It was like I knew but I didn’t know.” Can you talk about that and what you meant? 

I’ve always loved, respected, and admired black culture. From music to television to movies to fashion, what’s not to love? As an adult, I became deeply invested in anti racism. So much of who I am aligns with being black, but it never occurred to me that I was. So it’s like I always knew on some level, while never considering that it might actually be true.

How are you absorbing or exploring this new knowledge?

I am and I’m not! I do think about what it means to be black to me, without having been exposed on a real personal level very much at all. Sometimes I feel angry about that. I’ve joined social media groups, read, and talk about it a lot in therapy. It hasn’t been that long of a journey for me, so I try to give myself grace and time. I look forward to diving into my identity more in the future.

What aspect of your own experience was most difficult for you? Was it the secrecy? That others knew? The sense of betrayal? The not knowing who your father was?

It was definitely the betrayal by my parents. As I mentioned, I always felt really close to them, so to know that they kept something like this from me was deeply hurtful.

You said that your best friend gave you wise advice to wait before reaching out to anyone until you were ready for rejection. What did that mean to you and how did you get ready for rejection?

I really didn’t have time to get ready because my sister contacted me just four days after my discovery! The advice to me meant that I needed to wait until I was out of crisis. I wasn’t even present in my body when I first found out—not exactly the best state to reach out to someone who has no idea you exist. I planned to get into therapy, process my feelings, and come up with a sound plan for whatever outcome might occur. But as I said, my persistent sister is like me and reached out with open arms right away. I’m so grateful she did.

How does grief play into your experience?

Grief is a massive part of my experience. I grieve for the loss of the version of myself before this. I grieve for how it has affected my relationship with my parents. I grieve for the life and relationship I never had because of this secret.

How crucial has therapy been and why? 

Extremely. I wasn’t able to find a therapist who specializes in NPE/MPE but found a fantastic woman who specializes in grief and trauma. I called her almost immediately, within a few days of my discovery. We’ve done DBT and EMDR to help me process the event and I credit her for how well I’m doing right now (thank you, Susannah!).

Your own DNA surprise occurred fairly recently, less than a year ago, and you began the podcast only a few months later. How and why did you decide to do a podcast? Was the genesis of the podcast a way of working out your own feelings and understanding this new experience?

I used to have a podcast with a friend and it ended it July 2021. I’d wanted to create a new one but hadn’t a clue what I wanted to do…then this happened. I decided to start the podcast because it gave me a creative outlet during an extremely difficult time in my life. While telling my own story is a path to healing, more importantly, I wanted to help others tell their stories. Another benefit of doing the show is connecting with others. It’s been incredible to have conversations with every guest.

There are a number of NPE/DNA surprise podcasts — how do you describe yours?

DNA Surprises shares the stories of people who were shocked by a DNA discovery, mostly through modern DNA testing. NPEs, adoptees, and donor conceived people are welcome to tell their stories and so are their families. My personal mission with every episode is to center the storyteller. Everyone’s story is theirs to tell—I just want to help them tell it. Ultimately, my goal is to provide support to others in this situation. My dream is to reduce the shame and stigma that lead to DNA surprises.

What’s been the reaction? What are you hearing from listeners?

The reaction has been overwhelmingly positive! NPEs, DCPs, and adoptees have all reached out to me saying that these episodes make them feel less alone. I’ve also heard from people who have no experience with DNA surprises, which is really cool to me because it means we’re raising awareness about this issue.

What if anything has most surprised you in the course of doing the podcast?

I am amazed at how similar all of our feelings and experiences are, from the initial shock to our family interactions. No matter how different our stories are, there are so many similarities.

Why do you think it’s important for people to share their stories?

Stories are how we relate to people. They’re how we connect.

Why is it important for the story teller?

The storyteller gets to take ownership of their story when they tell it. It’s also helpful for processing their feelings about their DNA discovery.

And why is it important for others to receive those stories?

For anyone experiencing a DNA surprise, hearing stories makes you realize that you are not alone. It normalizes an extremely disruptive and isolating experience. I hope it helps people find some peace. For those who aren’t familiar with our community, I think the podcast is eye-opening. And even if they don’t think they know someone in this situation, it’s likely they do. This podcast will help them help others. I also hope it helps parents make different choices.

How if at all does it help you in your own journey? 

It helps me immensely. When I speak to guests, I connect with others who understand me. I learn about new resources and frankly, feel normal in an abnormal situation. I hope I provide the same space for them.

Are you looking for participants and if so, how should they contact you?

Absolutely! If anyone would like to share their story, please email dnasurprises@gmail.com.

From the people you’ve spoken to so far, what would you say are the most common difficulties they have after discovering a DNA surprise?

Almost everyone I’ve spoken to has spent a lot of time thinking about the life they missed. One guest said half of her life was stolen from her and that’s a recurring theme. There’s also a big struggle with who to tell, specifically around telling raised or birth certificate fathers. My dad knew, but for those who did not, there’s definitely a divide in whether or not to tell. I find that really interesting.Alexis Hourselt is a full-time truth teller. She is an NPE and host of the DNA Surprises podcast. Alexis is a communications professional, vacation enthusiast, and desert dweller. She currently lives in Tucson, AZ with her husband and two children. Find her at www.dnasurprisespodcast.com and @dnasurprises on Instagram, Twitter, and Tiktok.

Louise Browne and Sarah Reinhardt created The Making of Me as a platform for conversations about all aspects of adoption. But it’s a podcast with a twist. In each episode, the hosts and their guests discuss a book about adoption. In the first season they tackled Nancy Verrier’s The Primal Wound, and now just a few episodes into their second season, they’re exploring another classic, Journey of the Adopted Self, by Betty Jean Lifton.

Meet the adoptee friends who pivoted from operating an ice cream truck to hosting a popular podcast.Can you each summarize your adoption journeys?

Sarah: My bio parents met in their first year of college but went their separate ways after the second semester ended; he went back to New Hampshire, and soon after, he was drafted in Vietnam. I’m not sure if he dropped out of college or what the circumstances were that he was drafted, but he never learned of the pregnancy. My bio mom kept it from her parents—weirdly, she was also adopted!—and on a plane from JFK (she was from Queens) to St. Louis where she was to go to nursing school, her water broke. There was no hiding that from her mother. She was not allowed to even hold me. I was immediately taken from her. I was placed with a foster mother for about six weeks and then adopted into my family. A few years later, they adopted a boy, and when he was five months old, they discovered they were pregnant with twins. They divorced when I was seven, and my brothers and I stayed with my dad (who remarried about five years later). My bio mom had four kids after me (and another she carried almost to term but lost after a terrible car accident)—all of whom were kept. My bio father, who died before I was able to meet him, had three kids, one from a second marriage. So I’m the oldest of seven biologically, and three from adoption. I also have three step-siblings. I met my bio mom and siblings in 1998 and stayed in touch with her until she died in 2009. I’m still in reunion with my sisters.

Louise: My biological mom chose to put me up for adoption in September 1968 after leaving college when she became pregnant with me. She was 18 years old. She’d known my biological father in high school in Colorado, where they dated. From what I’ve gathered, they met up again during the holidays and I was the result of that encounter. My biological father was already engaged to his girlfriend at the time who was also pregnant previous to their encounter. My bio mom took on the journey of having me on her own. My bio dad did know about me and signed off on my adoption. I believe that the decision to relinquish me was made by my bio mother “in her right mind” because I have letters from her to family members who had asked her to consider letting them raise me. She was very insistent that I have a father figure who was strong because of her missing some of that in her childhood and she did not want to see me being raised and not be my mother. She had strong convictions on having me be with an intact family. I do think it critically changed her path. From what I know from relatives, she may have regretted it later in life. She passed away at a young age in a drowning incident so I’ve never been able to ask her. I know who my bio dad is and who many of my family members are from knowing his name and having it confirmed on Ancestry. I have not had a reunion with them. I do stay in contact with my bio mom’s sister and cousins. My parents adopted me through an agency several days after I was born in Denver. They had one biological son and had lost a baby girl a few years prior to me in delivery. My mom could not have more children of her own. I then grew up in Littleton, Colorado

How did you meet?

Louise: Our sons were in elementary school together and we met through a mutual friend.

Sarah: Once we discovered we were both adopted, we became instant friends. Ultimately we opened a business together—a gourmet ice-cream truck in Los Angeles.

How did you decide to do a podcast about adoption together and what was your goal at the start?

Sarah: Adoption was what we initially connected over, and we had talked about starting a podcast. We were tossing around ideas and finally we were, “Uh, duh! We should talk about what we both know.”

Louise: Honestly, we didn’t really have a goal except to hear adoption stories and connect with other adoptees.

How did you find and build your audience? Were you already connected with a number of adoptees or with the adoptee community?

Sarah: We were not connected with the adoptee community. In fact, we didn’t even know there was such a thing until a few months in and we found Adoptee Twitter. Our initial audience came from word-of-mouth and friends listening and sharing, and then we started to build a following because people related to the stories and our connection with each other.

Louise: And then it took on a life of its own. People started reaching out to us to thank us, asking to be on the podcast and share their stories.

There are a number of adoptee podcasts – how do you describe The Making of Me?

Louise: I’d describe The Making of Me as more of a conversation around adoption. First we discuss a chapter of an adoption book. in Season One it was The Primal Wound by Nancy Verrier, and Season Two is Journey of The Adopted Self by Betty Jean Lifton. After we discuss the book, we bring on a guest to tell their story.

Sarah: I think what draws people to the podcast is that even though it’s a deep topic, we bring levity and honest back-and-forth with our guests.

How and why did you conceive of the idea of linking chapters of books to adoptees’ stories?

Sarah: The chapter discussions are not necessarily linked to the stories. It’s kind of its own thing that we do together before we bring a guest on. But every chapter, every adoptee can relate to.

Do you plan to continue basing the podcast on books about adoption, and if so, do you already have thoughts about books you want to highlight in the future?

Louise: We plan on continuing to base it on books about adoption, at least at this moment. We’ve got a list we’re going through. We’re thinking possibly about a memoir by an adoptee for our next book.

Louise, on your website bio, you write about learning that your birth mother had been killed in an accident, saying “This piece of information proved to be a touchstone between the guiding and protective voice in her head and the events of the past.” Can you say more about that and what you mean by that?

Louise:  My bio mom’s family found me when I was 32 years old due to my bio grandmother being terminally ill. I learned the night that I got the call about them finding me that my bio mom had been killed in an accident when I was in the 2nd grade. This just made sense to me. I was overwhelmed, saddened but not that surprised, strangely. My entire life from around the fourth grade until my late 20s, I felt that I had a voice that protected me. Not my own internal voice, but a voice that would set me on the straight and narrow or give me warning signs when I was going off track too far. I always felt that it was ‘otherworldly’ and I have had many experiences since childhood with sensing people from beyond. When I found out that she was no longer on this earth I wasn’t shocked. I sort of knew this internally. It’s hard to explain. When I found out that she had passed away, I stopped having this sixth sense or voice in my head.

Louise, you’ve said that hosting the podcast has been life changing? In what way?

Louise: The way it has changed my life is that I never really had the experience of community with other adoptees. I have had adopted friends (many in fact), but when we touched on deeper issues about adoption that we all felt, I almost feel like we were scared to broach the topic. We would bond immediately over certain shared experiences that I couldn’t relate to others about, but would be a bit guarded about anything after that. I now have a sense that I can be more open to explore parts of myself that I have kept to myself and haven’t been able to describe or flush out. It is freeing and a bit scary.

Can you both describe your understanding of what is meant by being in the fog or coming out of the fog?

Sarah: How I see it, it’s waking up from the narrative I was told my entire life; I was “lucky,” I was “chosen”—and that was the end of the story. It’s having my eyes opened and understanding that was only the beginning of the story— seeing the deep trauma, how that first relinquishment (and subsequently second from my adopted mom and emotional abandonment from my adopted father) altered the course of my life, affecting almost every decision I’ve made, how I felt about myself, how I relate to people and the world around me. It’s been enlightening and also a grieving process. I’m getting to know myself in a different way. Even though there’s been some grief, it’s also been liberating because I now know I’m not alone, I’m not a freak, and I can begin to heal in a new way.

Louise: The concept of the fog perplexes me somewhat. I do feel I have crossed a line that I hadn’t crossed before in exploration and understanding of what some of my deeper issues are and what caused these issues (where they may have stemmed from). I’m not sure I had the understanding of the deeper core reasons as to why they were there before this. That feels amazing. So, yes, that does feel like coming out of a fog. I understand the fog and how important it is in describing these feelings. I feel I may always be moving through this fog and not just stepping out of it. Or stepping out and then maybe going back in. Maybe it’s a place I may always be in or out of? The way I can best describe it for me is like I am living in it and some days it is sunny and clear and other days it is so thick it may rain. I now feel that I am on a journey that has shifted, and wherever it takes me, I’m excited to have a deep understanding of myself. I feel calmer with this new insight and have developed some grace (for lack of a better word) in looking at the situation from many angles. I am not sure how else to describe it. I hope that makes sense.

What has most surprised you in the course of doing the podcast? What story most affected you?

Sarah: What has been most surprising for me is how far and wide the reach has been, and how many people want to connect, tell their stories, and just tell us how much they relate. And again—the community that I never knew existed!

All the stories have affected me in one way or another, but there are a couple that stand out. Sam, who was an LDA and didn’t find out he was adopted until he was in his early 50s with a life-threatening kidney disease. He had humor in dealing with it. Rachel, whose birth was the result of a violent act, and the grace in which she lives her life. And John, who was part of Operation Baby Lift out of Vietnam! Everyone’s story is so unique and yet the same. I love that.

Louise: I am going to echo Sarah here. I’m blown away daily by those who want to share their stories bravely and connect with us via many means. I feel so honored to have others reach out to us and tell us about their struggles and why they are ready to share their stories. It makes me care greatly about what we are doing and wanting to make sure we let others tell the truth as it is for them. Adoptees and our guests are so resilient, have great humor, and also have such deep souls. I’m grateful I’ve had this time to share with them and to grow in this along with my friend Sarah. Each story is my favorite when it comes out and after our interviews.

From your experience after so many episodes, what do you think is most misunderstood about adoptees by people who are not adopted?

Sarah: People who aren’t adopted don’t understand that it’s a trauma from the start—the “primal wound.” They assume the narrative that we were told—we’re “lucky,” we’re “chosen,” we were “spared a terrible existence.”

Louise: I think they don’t understand that babies carry that trauma on a cellular level. It seems that the mainstream general public hasn’t dug into hearing what adoptees have to say and focuses more on the adopters.

How much were you aware of the adoptee community when you began doing the podcast?

Sarah: How about this—ZERO awareness of the adoptee community! Isn’t that crazy?

Louise: For me, it’s been eye-opening and so informative. We’re really grateful for the community.

As with most communities, the adoptee community isn’t always unified in its beliefs or in its approach to advocacy. Has that ever been an issue for you as you’ve been working on the podcast?

Louise: We had a couple of bumps, mainly to do with being new in the community but because we were open to listening we’ve been welcomed by mostly everyone.

What do you love, if anything, about adoptee Twitter, and what, if anything, do you not love about adoptee Twitter?

Sarah: We love the community, that there are others who have gone through and feel the same as we do—mirrors that we never had, really. We love hearing about issues that we’d never heard in a public forum.

Louise: What can be difficult is that sometimes it feels black and white – not much nuance. If you don’t agree, then you are wrong – no middle-ground. Sometimes legitimate feelings feel dismissed if they’re not the exact same as others.

Why is it important for adoptees to share their stories?

Louise: It’s important to share stories so we can connect as a community, have a safe space to tell your story to people who understand you. We’ve talked to people who have never told their stories and listened to our podcast and found the courage to finally want to talk.

Sarah: It’s liberating to tell your story and be heard with love and compassion.

As advocates for adoptee rights, what do you think is the most significant issue that needs to be addressed?

Sarah: For starters, taking a look at why there are so many infant adoptions. If it’s really about wanting to be a parent, why must it be a baby? Someone else’s baby? Prospective adoptive parents might want to examine—is this about parenting or is this about wanting a baby for our own needs?

Louise: Take profit out of adoption. Resources to birth mothers and families—making keeping that family together the priority. Putting that first, not the needs (or wants!) of the prospective adopters.

Sarah: Legal guardianship rather than adoption (in most cases) is a better option. And NOT changing the child’s name. Why? Just, why is that even a thing anymore?

Conceiving People: Genetic Knowledge and the Ethics of Sperm and Egg Donation, by Daniel Groll, is a fascinating exploration of attitudes about whether donor offspring are entitled to knowledge of their donors, but the issues and questions it raises are pertinent to adoptees and NPEs/MPEs as well. Comprehensive and academic in approach, it may be challenging to readers not well-versed in philosophical discourse, but it’s key reading for anyone with a stake in the debate over access to genetic knowledge. And although Groll ultimately stands against anonymity in donor conception, some NPEs and MPEs may take exception to some of the arguments that led him there. Therefore, we asked him to address some of those arguments, and he readily agreed.Severance was the target of a critical article last year in a publication called Real Life that accused it of numerous transgressions, including promoting bionormativity. It insisted that the magazine’s content poses genetic family as measured by DNA as “the norm against which all forms of family should be judged.” It further states that if we view the genetic family as something from which one can be severed, non-genetic family “will inevitably be understood as secondary, extraneous, and even pathological.” Additionally, it charges that those of us looking for genetic information are indicating that “biogenetic kinship is the most true, essential, and valid form of family” and that such a belief places queer families in “legally precarious positions but undermines the larger value of ‘love makes a family’ for all families.” The argument rejects the idea that there can be a desire to know one’s genetic history that is apolitical. Clearly, I don’t believe Severance makes any such assertions, and based on having heard hundreds of stories and experiences, it’s obvious that most of us grew up with non-genetic families. I, for example, was raised by a man who was not my father. He was my family. I didn’t wish to have another father, but I did wish to know who my biological father was. I didn’t imagine my biological family would be a better family, or a more real family. I simply wished, as I believe most people who lack this information do, to know from whom I got my genes. My question is, how does simply wanting that information valorize traditional families or diminish nontraditional families?

Before I answer this, I just want to explain my connection to the issue of donor conception since people inevitably wonder about it. I am a known donor to close friends who have two children. The children know both who and what I am in relation to them. Our families are in regular contact. From the get-go, everyone agreed there would be no secrets and that we all need to be open to how their children understand their experience and let that guide us. Maybe the fact that I’m a donor will cause some of your readers to stop reading, but I hope not.

On to your question! One thing I want to make clear is that I think people who create children with donated gametes should not use an anonymous donor. So I am totally with you: I don’t think that wanting genetic knowledge—as I call it—necessarily or always or even usually valorizes traditional families or diminishes nontraditional families. One thing I try to do in my book is to make exactly this case. There are really good reasons for taking people’s desire for genetic knowledge seriously without committing ourselves to the view (which I don’t subscribe to) that biological parents are normally the best parents or that the traditional family form—of a man and woman and children that are genetically related to both parents—is somehow the best kind of family.

Having said that, I think it’s worth taking seriously the idea that an interest in genetic knowledge is not apolitical, if that means that it floats free from, or exists independently of, the contingent cultural norms, practices. and institutions that shape our desires. I want to be really clear: this isn’t a point about the desire for genetic knowledge in particular. Rather, I don’t think we should see any desire as obviously apolitical. Even what we might think of as our most basic desires—for sustenance or for social connection—take the particular forms they do as a result of the culture they are embedded in. We might put it this way: all of our desires are filtered through, or suffused with, the culture (the norms, the values, the practices) they are located in.

As a result, I think it is always worthwhile to ask two questions about our wants, desires. and interests: 1. “In what ways have they been shaped by our cultural milieu?” and 2. “Is that shaping a good or a bad thing?” In the book, I talk about certain gendered desires – like, for example, a boy’s desire to not cry in front of his friends—as examples of desires that are a) clearly shaped by our cultural milieu and b) a bad thing.

Now, I don’t think the desire for genetic knowledge is like that. I’ve already said that I think we should take people’s desire for genetic knowledge seriously and that doing so leads to the conclusion that people shouldn’t use anonymous donors. But I think it’s undeniable that we live in a culture that highly valorizes genetic connectedness and often tells simplistic, reductive stories about family resemblance, genetic ties, the significance of “blood” etc. I think it’s worthwhile for everyone—not just donor conceived people or others who lack genetic knowledge—to interrogate their commitments about the significance of genetic ties in light of the culture we’re in. We should all ask, “Why do I, or do people in general, care about this so much?” and “Is it a good thing or a bad thing?” I try to give an account in the book about why many people care about genetic knowledge in a way that shows how it can be a source of meaning. But I also try to show that, oftentimes, people’s reasons for being attached to genetic knowledge are shaped by forces that do unjustifiably valorize the biogenetic conception of the family.

Why can’t I uphold the rights of people who wish to create nontraditional families and still want my genetic information? Why is it an either/or? Why is it not acceptable to honor and uphold nontraditional families and at the same time say that genetic knowledge also matters?

I think it is acceptable! Indeed, that’s the position I try to carve out in the book: we shouldn’t see the interest in genetic knowledge as ineluctably bound up with biogenetic normativity. One can do exactly what you say: honor and uphold nontraditional families and at the same time say that genetic knowledge matters.

A problem emerges, however, when people put an emphasis on the significance of genetic knowledge—and genetic ties— that automatically downgrades the status of non-traditional families to “second best.” I’ve seen this attitude on display in a number of contexts. Sometimes the idea is that someone who isn’t raised by their genetic parents is (usually, though not always) worse off for it. Sometimes the idea is that a life without genetic knowledge is necessarily and seriously deficient. Sometimes the idea is that contributing gametes for the purposes of procreation without the intention of raising the resulting child is, by itself, morally unacceptable (equivalent, perhaps, to abandoning one’s child). I take all of those ideas to downgrade—if not outright reject—non-traditional family forms. So to the extent people’s attachment to genetic knowledge goes through those ideas, then I think there is a tension between caring about genetic knowledge and honoring non-traditional family forms. But again, I have no objections whatsoever to your way of thinking about things.

It seems that the objection to wanting genetic knowledge asserted by some individuals creating nontraditional families has to do with the fear that their children will be somehow less connected or see their parents as somehow less than traditional parents when I believe there’s no research or even anecdotal experience to suggest that is true. Is that right?

I think you’re right. Certainly, parents who do not want their donor conceived children to know that they are donor conceived sometimes cite as the reason that they’re worried the child will be less connected to their non-genetic parent. One thing seems clear: when people find out later in life they are donor conceived, that very often does cause a rupture. But the issue there seems to be mostly about secrecy and deception, and not about the fact of genetic non-relatedness itself. As far as I know, there is no evidence that people who are donor conceived and have never been led to believe otherwise are generally less connected to their non-genetic parent. Part of the issue here, though, is that we would need a better of understanding of what “less connected” even means. One thing I would definitely want to reject is that “being connected” is a zero-sum game so that if a donor conceived person forms a connection to their donor they are thereby less connected to their social parents.

It’s important to note here that it’s only some families that can realistically keep their donor conceived child in the dark, namely heteronormative families that can “pass” as “traditional” families (i.e. families where children are genetically related to both parents). I think doing so is, generally speaking, deceptive and wrong. I think oftentimes a parent’s worry that their child will not connect to them in the same way if they (the child) know they are donor conceived reflects the parent’s own preconceptions about the significance of genetic ties as well as, sometimes, shame about not being able to conceive (particularly for men).

At some point in Conceiving People you say that people can be influenced or educated to believe that genetic history is not as significant as some would have us believe. There seems to be no evidence to assert that genetic information is unimportant. On what basis can that claim be made?

This is a great question. One thing to say up front: clearly genetic information can be super important for medical reasons. I do not want to deny that! Nor do I want to suggest that we should try to “educate” people to believe otherwise. But the medical reasons for wanting genetic knowledge are not—for many donor conceived people—the whole story: if it were possible to get the relevant medical information without knowing who your genetic parents are, many donor conceived people would still want to know who their genetic parents are. So, when I suggest that maybe we can move people toward caring less about genetic knowledge, I don’t mean that people should care less about the medical reasons for wanting genetic knowledge. I mean, rather, that perhaps people can be moved to care less about genetic knowledge for the reasons that go beyond the medical reasons.

What do I mean when I say that perhaps people can be “moved” in this way? To answer this question, let me lay out one key idea I argue for: while genetic knowledge can provide a rich source of meaning in answering the question “Who am I?”, I don’t think it is either the only source or a necessary source. I think there are ways of telling a rich and truly complete story about who you are as a person that doesn’t put a lot of emphasis on genetic lineage. Now combine that thought with one I discussed above, namely that we live in a society that puts a lot of emphasis (in my view, undue emphasis) on the significance of genetic ties. These two thoughts together suggest one way that we might move people—everyone!—to care less about genetic knowledge, namely by working to make society less bionormative overall, where that means we try to change our cultural schema so that lacking genetic knowledge isn’t necessarily seen as having this massive void in one’s life. That’s a tall order (as are all calls to effect change at a societal level). I don’t have anything particularly insightful to say about how to go about doing that.

At the individual level, one thing I say in the book is that people have a choice about how to construct their identities, about what parts of their life to treat as important and which to treat as comparatively unimportant. In retrospect, I would have not put things in terms of “choice” because I don’t think it’s really possible to just make up your mind to either care or not care about something. What I was trying to convey is that I don’t think there is a fact of the matter about who we, as individuals, are. There’s not a single answer to the question “Who am I?” out there, waiting to be discovered. Rather, there are many different rich, full answers to that question and not all of the answers require having genetic knowledge. So, it’s not about “educating” people, but rather creating a culture, a climate, where there is less pressure—from all avenues of life —to pursue what I call the “genetic route” to answering the question, “Who am I?”

Crucially, I think one of the ironies here is that insisting that genetic knowledge doesn’t matter at all or withholding information from people is not the way to create that climate. Quite the opposite: I think practices of secrecy and anonymity function to heighten the perceived significance of genetic ties. I think honesty and an openness to what the philosopher Alice MacLachlan calls the “abundant family”—a notion of family that extends beyond the typical notion parents and children—are more likely, over time, to put genetic knowledge in its proper place as a source of identity determination, but not an absolutely necessary source.

What about truth? How can wanting to know truth be dismissed as somehow unethical or immoral? How can truth be immoral? Couldn’t it reasonably be argued that trying to deprive someone of their birthright—of information most other humans have—is deceptive and unethical or immoral?

Let me tackle the second question first! I think it is indeed deceptive and, generally speaking, unethical to not tell a donor conceived person that they are donor conceived. What about not giving people access to genetic knowledge by, for example, using an anonymous donor? The central argument of the book is that that too is, in general, unethical (I wouldn’t call it deceptive, though, unless it’s paired with non-disclosure).

I’ve almost answered your second question, but not quite, because you put things in terms of people having a “birthright” to genetic knowledge and I didn’t use that term in my answer. I don’t use the language of “birthright” for two reasons. First, just as a philosophical matter, I’m not entirely sure what I think about natural rights in general, so my thinking just doesn’t tend to run in the direction of explanations that appeal to natural rights. But even if it did, I think it’s well worth asking what makes something a right in the first place. In other words, I’m not satisfied with saying, “Well, it is my right to have this information and there’s nothing more to be said.” I think rights call for explanations, so even if I did want to put things in terms of rights, I would still want to go on to do all the stuff I do to explain what gives rise to the right.

Your first question—about whether truth, or wanting the truth, can ever be immoral—is super interesting. I don’t think truth, as such, is either moral or immoral. It’s just the truth! Facts are neither moral nor immoral. But I think that wanting the truth can be immoral. Suppose I want to know some embarrassing fact about you so that I can blackmail you. My wanting the truth, in that case, would be immoral.

Now, wanting genetic knowledge is not at all like that. I’m just giving a case where it seems pretty clear that wanting the truth can be immoral. My point is just that if someone wants to defend the right to genetic knowledge, it’s probably not best to make that case by claiming that it is never wrong to want the truth. We need to know why people want the truth…and that returns us to some of what we discussed about interrogating the source of the desire for genetic knowledge.

Who benefits and how do they benefit by wanting to discourage the gaining of this information?

This is a great question, and it’s not one I take up in the book, at least not in detail. I think there are four broad communities that benefit from practices of anonymity. The first community is heteronormative parents who want to pass as a “traditional” family and don’t want anyone—least of all their child—to know that they have a donor conceived child. I think this interest is often born out of a sense of shame about being unable to conceive, combined with the kinds of worries you mentioned above (e.g. that a child who knows they are not genetically related to one of their parents will, as a result, love them less).

The second community is non-heteronormative families—gay and lesbian couples for example—whose status as parents has been, and to some extent still is, legally and socially tenuous. Living with the prospect that the donor might swoop in and claim parental rights—and that the law might side with the donor —is profoundly unsettling. A friend of mine describes it as living with a feeling of “terror,” and recent developments in the legal landscape in the United States—like the recently “Don’t Say Gay” law passed in Florida, the legal attacks across the country on reproductive rights, and the legal attacks in some states on trans people—show that that feeling is not remotely unfounded. I think those of us that have not lived with the prospect of having your family torn asunder—or your whole identity targeted—by the law can have trouble understanding the force of this concern. It’s understandable—to put it mildly—why, in that context, people might care that the donor is anonymous.

The third community, of course, is the fertility industry which has a massive interest in ensuring a supply of donors and avoiding limits on how many offspring can be conceived with the gametes of one donor.

The fourth are prospective donors who donate to make money and also to help people who cannot conceive, but do not want any involvement at all with their genetic offspring.

How much should we care about these interests? Let me start with the fertility industry. I am not an expert on the fertility industry (and, I’ll add, I have absolutely nothing to do with it), but I have little-to-no sympathy with their set of concerns. The same goes for prospective donors who want to be anonymous—I argue in the book if you’re going to donate, you shouldn’t be an anonymous donor. I can understand, of course, why a donor would want to be anonymous. But I argue that those interests really don’t count for much at all.

I am, however, sensitive to the interests and concerns of the first two groups I mentioned. Crucially, I don’t think such concerns win the day. In the book, I consider why prospective parents may prefer to use an anonymous donor and—while I understand where those preferences come from—I find them wanting when compared to a donor conceived person’s interest in having genetic knowledge.

I’ll also add that I think I think the best way to address the legitimate concerns of the first two communities is not by upholding practices of anonymity—which, as we all know, are increasingly impossible to uphold in the world of 23andMe etc.—but rather to transform the cultural norms and beliefs about the nature of families so that, for example, infertility is not a source of shame, the bionormative family is not seen as the “gold standard” (to borrow a phrase from Charlotte Witt) of family forms, and the law provides protections for non-traditional family forms.

You stop short in your book of weighing in on the right to know. Could you look at this and comment not as a philosopher but as a person with curiosity. Reverence for ancestors has been communicated since the beginning of time. Genealogy is the world’s leading hobby. People have always and will continue to want to know where they come from. If the vast majority of people in the world, now and apparently in all time and all cultures, were able to know who their parents are and that knowledge mattered to them, is it reasonable to think it isn’t a problem for those of us who are deprived of that information? Perhaps reduce it to an absurd point. Say, bread isn’t necessary for life, but if 95% of the people in the world want bread and are allowed to have it and you can’t have bread, wouldn’t you be upset, and might you not wonder why you are not entitled to have bread, even if it weren’t vital to your life? Why are all the philosophical arguments you construct necessary if, as the studies you cite suggest, the majority of donor conceived people feel that genetic information matters? Why is their lived experience not enough to demonstrate that, for whatever reason, they feel impoverished by not having the same genetic information others have?

I want to reject the dichotomy between looking at things as a philosopher and looking at them as a person with curiosity! For me, philosophy is all about being curious and trying to get to the heart of things. To be sure, I don’t think it is the only or the best way to be curious or to get at the heart of things: music, poetry, art, fiction, creative non-fiction, not to mention all the other academic fields of study, are also conduits for curiosity and thinking things through. Philosophy is just one way. But it’s a way that speaks to me. There’s not “Philosophy me” and “Here’s what I really think me.” It’s all just me!

So, when I consider your fantastic questions as a person with curiosity, I unavoidably take up a philosophical perspective. And when I do, it seems to me that it’s not enough to note that lots of people want something in order to conclude that they should have it or are entitled to it. Now: it’s definitely relevant. Indeed, my whole argument against anonymity is centered on the fact that the majority of donor conceived people want genetic knowledge. But—at the risk of sounding like a broken record—I think all desires, all wants, are candidates for critical scrutiny. We should scrutinize the forces that generate the wants, desires, interests, and aims that people have. Sometimes we’ll see that the forces are benign or even positive. Other times we’ll discover that they’re not positive. And still other times, we’ll discover that it’s a mix.

The point is just that we shouldn’t treat people’s desires, interests, or aims as beyond scrutiny and as the thing that settles the matter of what people should have or be entitled to. We need an account of what is behind the interests, desires, etc. I try to provide such an account when it comes to the desire for genetic knowledge—among the population at large, not just among donor conceived people. And I try to show that even if certain problematic cultural forces are in play, the desire for genetic knowledge is nonetheless worthwhile and should be respected. Anyway: that’s why I spill so much ink on this topic.Daniel Groll is an associate professor in the philosophy Department at Carleton College in Northfield, MN and an affiliate faculty member at the Center for Bioethics at the University of Minnesota. He writes on a variety of issues in ethics and is currently spending time thinking about the nature and significance of family resemblance. When he’s not doing philosophy, he’s probably making music for kids with Louis & Dan and the Invisible Band. Get a 30% discount on Conceiving People with the code AAFLYG. Find him on Twitter @dang_pigeon.

In 1995, when Peter J. Boni’s mother experienced a stroke after open heart surgery, the walls she’d built to hold back a secret for nearly half a century crumbled. In rehab, she began to tell visitors what she never told him—that his father wasn’t his father, that he’d been donor conceived. And so began a quest to learn the truth of his origins and the nature of the societal forces that led to the circumstances of his birth—the subject of his new book, Uprooted: Family Trauma, Unknown Origins and the Secretive History of Artificial Insemination.

Roughly halfway through his narrative Boni says, “Never doubt my resolve.” But his dogged determination is evident from the first page. Early on, it’s clear that after serving as a US Army Special Operations Team Leader in Vietnam, he was the go-to guy in his business sphere, where he was a successful high-tech CEO/entrepreneur/venture capitalist and more—and he tore into his personal mystery with the same can-do attitude—a tenacity that fueled him through the 22 years it took to solve the puzzle of his parentage.

Uprooted is comprised of four parts that add up to exceptional storytelling. It’s compelling memoir of a troubled childhood with an unwell father, a determination to succeed, and the challenges of grappling with the emotional fallout of his family’s secrets. It’s also an exhaustive and insightful account of the history of assisted reproductive technology; a cogent indictment of the flaws of the largely unregulated, multi-billion-dollar industry; and a rallying cry for advocacy with a prescription for change.

Boni’s scope is ambitious and he succeeds on every level. Donor conceived people will see themselves reflected in his moving testimony about the consequences and repercussions of the inconvenient truth of donor conception. Many will feel seen and heard as he describes genealogical bewilderment and the roiling emotions aroused by the revelation of family secrets, the shattering of comfortable notions of identity, and the lack of knowledge about his genetic information. It’s a must-read not only for donor conceived people but also for donors and recipient parents as well as fertility practitioners, lawmakers, behavioral health providers, and anyone contemplating creating a family through assisted reproduction. While the actors in a deeply flawed industry who are motivated solely by profit aren’t likely to be swayed by Boni’s arguments or embrace his suggested reforms, Uprooted may fuel a wildfire of advocacy that has the potential to give rise to meaningful legislation, transparency and accountability, and a true cultural shift.Let’s talk about language. With respect to people affected by misattributed parentage, I’m increasingly interested in the words we use about ourselves and our experiences and the words others use about us. You use the words bastard and illegitimate, mostly in the context of the history of donor conception and when discussing the societal and legal ramifications. What are your feelings about each of these words? Do you find them offensive or descriptive or neutral?

Yes, “illegitimate” and “bastard” are emotionally charged and offensive words by today’s standards, aren’t they! I wanted to share the emotional connotation of those words with the reader. I felt rather outraged by the label. To defend myself, I intellectualized it. In my research for my origins, I needed to understand the societal backdrop that fueled my parents’ decision to conceive me in such stealth via an anonymous sperm donor.

Those words were so descriptive of the then prevailing attitudes fostered by Church and State, which had evolved over centuries. A Time article, dated February 26, 1945 (near the time of my conception), amplified that backdrop. It had recapped a ruling in Superior Court on the legal status of a donor conceived child. In the eyes of the court, the wife had committed adultery, the husband was granted a divorce on those grounds, and the child was deemed “illegitimate.” The articled was titled “Artificial Bastards?” Yes, that was with a question mark. Those attitudes contributed to driving the donor insemination practice underground. My parents’ fertility practitioner coached them on how to make me look “legitimate.” They were instructed to take their closely held secret to the grave.

I used “Artificial Bastard” as the working title for my book during its early drafting (retitled Uprooted, with help from my publisher). No neutrality on my part. It was personal.

Early on and throughout much of the book, instead of referring to your biological father, you’ve referred to your “paternal seed.” I don’t believe you ever referred to your donor as your father, biological or otherwise. Why did you choose that word and what did that choice mean to you? And when speaking with your sister, you referred to “her father,” “her brother.” What went into the choice of words here?

For me, my dad may not have been biological, but I was fortunate; he wanted to be a dad and was terrific at it. He gave me absolutely no indication that he was anything other than my genetic father. Discovering 33 years after his death that our relationship wasn’t genetic actually magnified my reverence for him. It also rekindled my grief over his death. He’ll forever be my dad. Referring to my biological father as “the source of my seed” protected me from the emotional construct of the word “father” applied to an unknown person with whom I had no such loving relationship.

I discovered the source of my paternal biology thanks to a DNA test and the open embrace of my biological father’s natural daughter (AKA my half-sister). When she asked me “How should I refer to him, I mean, Dad?” I responded rather callously, but genuinely. “He’s your dad, not mine. It was never his intention to be my dad. He sold his sperm to enable someone else to be my dad.”

Her brother (my half sibling), gave me no such open embrace. Once again, to defend myself from the bonding word “brother” applied to someone who showed no interest in my existence, I found it less threatening and emotionally safer to refer to him dispassionately as “her brother.”

We sometimes use the word identity loosely–or maybe it’s more accurate to say that it means something different to different people. How do you define identity and how do you feel your identity changed after your mother’s revelation and again later when you discovered your sister and the facts of your origin?

Identity is complicated. Nature, nurture, or a combination of both?

I always credited who and what I had become (my identity) to three major experiences. First, a disruptive childhood enhanced my adaptability. Second, an education from a fine state college opened innumerable doors of opportunity for me. Third, on-the-ground service as a special operations infantry officer in Vietnam shaped my collaborative leadership style. Wait a minute! What about my DNA? I always took that for granted. My last name had its roots in Northern Italy.

“Genealogical bewilderment” was a term I studied in a college psychology class. It was applied to the adopted who had experienced developmental and belonging issues as they sought for missing pieces of their genealogy. Upon learning that I was “semi-adopted,” I poked myself. I was still the same person, but everything had changed for me. All the stories of family lore were a fabrication. My birth certificate was a hoax. If not Northern Italian, what was I? Who was I?

My dad suffered from debilitating bouts of depression. As a younger man, he could shake them off. As he aged, he could no longer do so. He took his own life when I was sixteen. Dad’s old-school Italian family treated his mental illness as a shameful flaw to be hidden, lest it spill over onto them. Suicide of a loved one creates a wound that never heals. I felt flawed, inadequate, vulnerable, abandoned, and alone. I feared that this gene might pass onto me or my offspring. I camouflaged those feelings with bravado and kept his suicide a closely guarded secret. I vowed to become accomplished, always strong, and invulnerable. Isn’t that what my future family would need from me?  Had I overcompensated and shaped my behavior based upon a willful lie?

How could I feel deceived and relieved, sad and joyous, shame and pride…all at the same time? The feelings sometimes came in waves, either soft and soothing or churning and crashing. My experiences and how I dealt with them were mine. But what were the origins of my athleticism, my stamina and endurance, my intellect, and my tenacious will? Why was leadership so important to me? My identity had been challenged by this revelation. Was I the victim of identity fraud? Worse yet, was I a fraud?

My fervent need to know my genetic origins, health history and whether or not I had any siblings poured high octane gasoline on this blaze to fuel my relentless research…for 22 years…until I discovered my answers. During that process, with the help of some therapy, I bonded with the cartoon character Popeye. I still quote him often. “I yam what I yam”—no more flawed than anyone else!

Equipped with a healthier sense of myself, I finally uncovered my paternal genealogy (the source of my seed), a giving sister, and my genetic health history, all of which I could share with my children. With my persona intact, I better understood the origin of some of my characteristics, physical and otherwise. I wasn’t looking to create a new family. I had a loving one. But this unveiling was such a home run for me! I’m an only child with a couple of siblings I adore. We have a terrific friendship based upon unusual circumstance. Mission accomplished! I feel whole and complete. I am donor conceived, and I know my truth.

I find it interesting that we say “I am donor conceived” or “I’m an NPE” as opposed to I was donor conceived or I was an NPE, as if being donor conceived or an NPE isn’t something that happened to us but something we are. What are your thoughts?

I was born on December 12th. In astrological terms, that makes me a Sagittarius. It isn’t that I once was a Sagittarius. I am a Sagittarius. It isn’t that I was an NPE, misattributed, donor-conceived. I am. I will be donorconceived for the rest of my life. It can’t be changed. That truth has not defined me, but it does add to my identity.

Several times you used the word logical—as in “I was a logical Guidaboni.” I don’t recall seeing that before. Can you explain why you used that word and what it means to you?

My Italian cousin Eddie deserves the creative footnote for “logical.” He was the first of my paternal relatives with whom I shared my newly discovered donor conception. Since our relationship was no longer biological, Eddie coined me his “logical” cousin; a “logical” Italian. Doing so acknowledged our mutual feeling that blood alone does not define family. We were both keenly aware that we shared common experiences, common family stories of victory, rebounding from defeat, values and traditions, common foods, a common enemy at times (the elders when we misbehaved), and a common definition of hospitality—all part of our common upbringing.

Eddie is thrilled for me that I found my truth. It is only logical that our mutual feelings of family bond have intensified since my initial revelation and final discovery.

You used the word loneliness at one point to describe the feeling of having discovered this enormous secret in your life. Can you describe how the experience produces loneliness?

Allow me to give you a frame of reference for that feeling of loneliness.

As a small unit infantry commander in a combat zone, I led a competent team of people through the fear, stress, chaos, and confusion of hostile enemy fire. At times, I made life and death decisions in an instant, without complete pieces of information. I used those skills in my business career as a CEO in order to right organizations that had run aground. Leadership is a lonely place. There are competing opinions and interests all vying for attention. Only you hold the ultimate accountability. In war, the cost of accomplishing a mission can be as high as life or death. In business, the ultimate cost is measured in money, but it includes organizational longevity and career security, which can impact many thousands of people. These were unique experiences, from a unique perspective, shared by very few. My fellow infantry officers and fellow CEOs provided me with a sharing support group of sorts to help process those unique experiences and learn from the experiences of other people who have walked that walk. Collective wisdom is a powerful thing.

Upon this donor conception discovery, I felt genuinely alone. Who could relate? As I shared my confusing feelings with a closed circle of friends and family, their well-intending platitudes only enhanced my feelings of isolation. (“You at least know that you were loved and wanted” or “You are still the same person.”) Sure, I had empathetic friends and family and a fine trauma therapist. But throughout my entire 22 years of searching, I longed to meet and speak with other donor conceived people who shared my emotions from their own unique experiences to help me process and validate these confusing feelings. They were likely few and far between. Who were they? Where were they? Did they even know that they were donor conceived? I was surrounded by the love of so many, but I longed for company.

Moving away from language, but related to that last question, you write about having discovered the group We Are Donor Conceived. Can you talk about how important that discovery was and how it helped you not feel alone?

I received loving empathy and support from helpful friends and family. I had engaged an able therapist. They were able to “talk the talk,” but they had never “walked the walk.”  No handbook was readily available on how to walk that donor conceived walk. The internet and twenty-first century technology came to my rescue.

I googled “donor conceived and misattributed people.” Up popped We Are Donor Conceived, a private Facebook group that had only been in existence since 2016. It was comprised of several thousand donor conceived people from around the globe who had experienced the impact of misattribution and genealogical bewilderment from the surreptitious practice of artificial insemination by donor.

Everyone had their own unique story. Some had learned by the surprising results of their recreationally taken DNA test. Like me, they had experienced a range of emotions—sometimes simultaneously: anger, relief, violation, deceit, curiosity, shock, shame, isolation numbness, pride, grief, confusion, embarrassment, emptiness, sadness, joy, fulfillment, indifference, or a combination of high and low feelings that changed over time with more knowledge. Members of the group shared how they had discovered, processed, and benefitted (or not) from what they had discovered.

I was no longer alone. I had a nonjudgmental community with whom to share feelings, tactics, and strategy. This community had walked the walk. The power of collective wisdom from uniquely experienced people has been priceless.

You mentioned therapy quite a bit—how important was therapy to you in navigating your discovery and in your search for your roots?

This whole identity disruption I found traumatizing. The social context in which I had grown up and spent my adulthood (in both the war room and the board room) reinforced the attitude that weak and needy people were inadequate and unsuitable for command. Only the weak needed therapy.

In my case, this genetic identity trauma triggered flashbacks of a dysfunctional childhood, three decades of grief for my dead dad that I never allowed myself to fully experience, and the PTSD of war. It was difficult for me to admit. I was a CEO who needed some professional help to navigate the volcanic fallout from my changing genetic landscape. I did so discreetly.

My therapist was deadpan serious when he said, “You hit a trifecta. Newly experienced trauma often resurges others long past.” To effectively deal with my identity disruption, I had to deal with all three issues. I never worked so hard in all my life. In the process of searching for my roots, I had discovered myself.

At one point you wrote, “My persona had become softer, yet I had grown stronger, both personally and professionally, as a result of my intense, identity-challenging ten years from 1995 to 2005.” Can you say more about what you meant by that?

Therapy hammered into me that “flawed” is a human condition. It is okay to be blemished. Everyone has baggage. My therapy constructed a better handle for me to carry it. My unresolved baggage from childhood and war ruled my behavior. Never vulnerable, always strong; make tough, logical decisions without letting my feelings get in the way. That personality profile worked for me in the jungle as a Special Operations Team Leader and certainly in my chosen career. It was not working in my adult home.

My wife and I were in the midst of a marital crisis at the outset of my trifecta. We had issues. I had learned to deny my feelings and fears. To top it off, she found that the privacy with which I carried my feelings, my invulnerable air, had robbed her of an intimacy with me that she craved. For her, our relationship had not grown. It was shallow and incomplete. The leftover anger from a traumatic, life-altering Vietnam combat experience wore thin, too.

Gaining this deeper understanding of where I came from and who I am went a long way in helping to heal my marriage. I had learned to reveal more of myself to my inner circle and to connect more intimately with my wife and others close to me.

As a CEO for companies facing difficulty, I always thought I had provided the right kind of collaborative leadership. People followed me to take the hill. But I found that by adding an air of intimacy and revealing more of myself, the quality of my leadership increased markedly, as measured by the high caliber and low turnover of the teams that I built and the size of the hills my teams were able to conquer. No hill for us climbers!

Popeye might have said “I yam what I yam.” Perfect? No! But I was able to add, “I yam better than I yam.”

What most surprised you during your research into the field of assisted reproduction?

A whole host of discoveries surprised me as I researched the scandalous history and evolution of assisted reproductive technology, but two things stand out.

First, the unregulated practice of assisted reproductive technology has enabled dozens, even hundreds, of siblings, all unknown to one another, to be conceived from the same gamete donor, with no requirements for testing or registry and with no laws to combat what we term “fertility fraud.” A friend of mine who used to breed Rottweilers said it best. “The breeding of puppies enjoys greater legislative oversight.”

Second, a staggering number of us are misattributed, for whatever the circumstances. That is compounded by the generational impact. The experts estimate that 2% to 4% of us are misattributed; our DNA and our birth certificates don’t jive. While some make a calculated case that this number is a bit less, others make a cogent case that it is actually much higher. Either way, I find that number unfathomable. For instance, in my high school graduating class of 100, using that 2% to 4% estimate, two to four of my classmates are misattributed. I’m one of them. I have helped two other classmates interpret their DNA test results to the same conclusion. In a typical family tree, we have two parents, four grandparents, eight great grandparents, and so forth. When applied a few generations out, in geometric fashion, all 100 of my classmates are misattributed to (at least) one of their third to sixth great grandparents. There are over 50 million people in DNA databases today. How many have experienced their own identity trauma with an accidental discovery? How many more have yet to discover that something doesn’t jive? There remains much more trauma yet to come.

There’s been some criticism of those of us who believe both that genetic inheritance matters and that we have a right to know our genetic identity, and that this emphasis on genetic information promotes the primacy/superiority of genetic family at the expense of nontraditional families? How would you respond to such criticism?

The right to know one’s genetics and the bonds of family, traditional or nontraditional, are not mutually exclusive. For instance, I can love my dad, not biological, and want, even need, to understand my genetics all at the same time. My “logical” cousin, Eddie, would agree.

As you know, many aren’t able to put all the pieces together as you did or haven’t found welcoming family. It may be hard to imagine, but how do you think your life might be different now had you not put together the pieces, had you not figured out the source of the seed, had you not been embraced by new family?

To put my answer to this question in context, I ran PSYOP missions in Vietnam. At times, we conducted Operation Wandering Soul. It exploited the superstition that the dead must be put to rest in their ancestral burial ground or their spirit would be doomed to wander forever.

I have reaped the benefits of therapy to better carry my baggage. I never aspired to develop a new family. My new sibling relationships are a bonus. In the absence of my final discovery, however, I expect I’d remain emotionally healthy, but the fire of genealogical bewilderment would endlessly rage within me. I imagined that I would be that agonizingly Wandering Soul, never at rest.

How did the experience of writing this book change you, if at all?

Before writing this book, I considered myself a retired venture capitalist, former high-tech CEO, combat veteran, non-profit leader, recreational sailor, and fun-loving grandfather. I still am. But this experience awoke my inner Don Quixote.

Mark Twain once said “The two most important days of your life are the day you are born and the day you find out why.”

Today, I am an author and an activist for the rights of the donor conceived.PETER J. BONI credits his disruptive childhood, a state college education from UMass Amherst, decorated on-the-ground service as a US Army Special Operations Team Leader in Vietnam (coined his “Rice Paddy MBA”), plus luck-of-the-draw DNA with making him the person he is today. Out of his accomplished business career (high-tech CEO, venture capitalist, board chairman, non-profit leader, award-winning entrepreneur, senior advisor) grew his first book, All Hands on Deck: Navigating Your Team Through Crises, Getting Your Organization Unstuck, and Emerging Victorious. The father of two and grandfather of three, he lives on Cape Cod, Massachusetts. Find him on the web, on Twitter @PeterJBoni1, and on Instagram @peterjboni.

By Maegan Bergeron-ClearwoodFirst, if you feel called to read this essay, then you belong here. Welcome. Do you belong in the Jewish community? Are you a part of this religion, culture, and peoplehood? Are you actually technically Jewish at all? To give a very Jewish answer: yes, no, maybe. It depends. But this journey of exploration and curiosity—of questioning and wrestling—is absolutely yours for the taking. So welcome. Welcome, welcome, welcome.

Not everyone along the way will greet you with such open arms, so I want to make sure that mine are stretched extra wide.

An NPE* discovery is complicated enough, but when compounded by an ethnicity discovery—a Jewish ethnicity discovery especially—the complications are magnified. And Jewish identity is complicated enough, even for people who were raised Jewish. DNA testing may be new, but the question of “who counts as a Jew” is as old as Judaism itself. Judaism is an ethnicity, as you may have just learned unexpectedly, but it’s also a culture, a spiritual practice, a community, a set of laws, a set of holy days, and unendingly more. How many of those boxes must a person tick in order to be counted among the tribe? The answer remains: it depends.

There’s a beloved aphorism: for every two Jews, you get three opinions. Judaism is far more concerned with asking questions than it is with answering them. So if you came to this article asking “Am I Jewish?” be forewarned: you won’t get a clear answer. But you will, I hope, get a solid footing for the start of your journey, should you choose to embark.

The Rabbinic Answer

Let’s start with the answer you’d be most likely to get if you googled “Am I Jewish?” Or, let’s say you told a rabbi: “I just found out that I’m biologically half Jewish because the dad that I thought was my dad isn’t my dad and my DNA isn’t what I thought it was—what does that mean?” First, the rabbi would probably respond the same way most people do: a polite “please slow down because I don’t believe what I’m hearing,” or something of that ilk. Then, the rabbi would likely say that, according to halakha (Jewish law), you must be born to a Jewish mother or have entered the faith through conversion. For an NPE, then, this sounds like a resounding no: you are not, by law, a Jew. A reform or reconstructionist rabbi (these are the more socially progressive and halakhically creative of the four main Jewish denominations: learn more here) would tell you that patrilineal Jews count, but only if they’re raised Jewish—so you’re still out of luck.

Don’t take any of this to mean that rabbis are unfeeling jerks who won’t empathize with your situation, or that you shouldn’t seek out a rabbi with a curious heart, or even that all rabbis follow this halakhic law. But “Welcome to the tribe” might not be the first words out of a rabbi’s mouth when they hear your story, no matter how desperate you were to hear them said.

As NPEs, we are no strangers to rejection. We get it on all sides: from the families that raised us, for stirring up trouble; from our new biological families, for daring to exist; from our friends and partners, for being so damn depressing all the time. It’s particularly devastating, then, to seek refuge in our newfound ethnicity only to be turned away. These DNA results were what pushed us off the path of seeming normalcy to begin with, and now we’re being told that our DNA is not enough? If I’m not who I was before and I’m also not Jewish, then what am I?

So before you disavow rabbinic law entirely, a bit of context. The fact that Judaism exists in the 21^st century is a miracle. There’s a joke about Jewish holidays: They tried to kill us, we survived, let’s eat! And it’s true: on paper, Jewish history is bleak, what with the exiles, plagues, forced assimilation, slavery, to say nothing of the literal genocide—for a people who make up less that one percent of the world’s population, our existence is nothing short of miraculous. But it’s not a Chanukah kind of miracle, where God intervened to make sure oil lasted for eight impossible nights. It’s a miracle of resilience.

For more reasons than I can go into here, Jews don’t proselytize (learn more). Instead of growing in numbers, we grow in connection; Judaism isn’t about breadth, but about depth. Across hundreds of generations, Jews have passed along laws, traditions, and maybe most importantly, texts. Some of these inheritances seem ridiculous on paper (Why is God in the Torah such a jerk? Why don’t we light fires of Shabbat? And what’s the deal with shellfish?), but they’re the fibers that connect a peoplehood across the span of thousands of miles and thousands of years. This doesn’t mean that Orthodox and other more “traditional” Jews are more Jewish than Reform or Reconstructionist Jews or even than agnostic or atheist Jews, (because yes, you can be a Jew and not believe in God). To be a Jew is not to follow every single tradition. But intentionally changing or even rejecting a tradition can be an act of keeping those threads of connection alive.

In many synagogues you’ll see a sanctuary lamp, or Ner Tamid: eternal flame. It represents the menorah of the ancient Temple of Jerusalem, which was meant to burn continuously, across the generations, a symbol of God’s constant presence among the Jewish people. It sounds impossible, to keep one fire lit for thousands of years, but that’s the miraculous part: it’s still burning. In synagogues and on Shabbat tables around the world, the fire burns.

So yes, you have Jewish DNA. That means that your ancestors were part of this unending, miraculous chain of lights. What a beautiful discovery! Mazel tov! But if you knock on a rabbi’s door asking if you’re Jewish and they tell you “It depends,” or even “No,” they aren’t slamming the door back in your face. They’re just meeting your knock with a bit of healthy skepticism: your ancestors kindled the fire, true, but are you willing to do the same?

Because being Jewish is about so much more than DNA.

In fact, being Jewish isn’t about DNA at all.

The Ancestry Answer

 But it’s literally about DNA! Genetics are what got me into this reality-shattering mess to begin with! Science says that I’m Jewish, so I have to be! Right?

Yes. And no. It depends. But I would argue, that when it comes to this answer in particular, it’s mostly no.

Which is strange for me to admit, because if it weren’t for discovering my genetics, I wouldn’t be where I am today, and I love where I am today. My NPE journey is still, overwhelmingly, a hot, stinking, miserable mess of family drama and emotional upheaval. But becoming Jewish? That’s made it all worthwhile.

When I first started telling people about my NPE discovery, this was the most common response: “I always thought you looked Jewish!” My hair apparently, is a dead giveaway. So are my eyebrows. My “dark features.” My nose. Or I just give off the right vibes. “Yeah, I can see that,” people would respond. Gentiles and Jews alike, it seems, have read me as Jewish long before I knew that I had Ashkenazi parentage. Intellectually, I was always wary at of these responses. Surely there’s no way to “look Jewish,” is there? Isn’t that what the Nazis used to say to justify murdering six million of us?

And yet—it was also strangely comforting. My NPE discovery had fractured so much of what I thought to be true about myself, and this was the affirmation I craved: yes, you are different; no, you’re not crazy; yes, you belong.

The whole reason that Eastern European, or Ashkenazi, Jews show up as an ethnic group on DNA testing sites is because of a population “founder effect”: we descend from a small number of culturally isolated ancestors who rarely intermarried, so we share enough common genetic markers to classify us as distinct. Other Jewish ethnic groups, like Sephardi or Mizrahi, don’t show up with that kind of specificity. The attempt to genetically quantify “who is a Jew,” therefore, centers Ashkenazi Jews at the expense of so many other ethnic groups, Jews of color in particular (learn more about Ashkenormativity here).

And on an even more fundamental level, this quantification implies that ethnicity is a core component of Jewish identity, when in fact, the Jewish people have always been a “mixed multitude”: as far back as our exodus out of Egypt, the Jewish nation has transcended ethnicity, borders, and ancestry. To rely on a DNA test as proof of one’s Jewishness, and to equate being Jewish with looking a “certain way,” dismisses the beautiful spectrum of Jewish peoplehood, including Jews who have joined the tribe through marriage, adoption, or by choice.

The overarching implications of linking DNA to identity, however, is not only reductive and exclusionary: it’s downright dangerous. No matter where you land on the “Am I Jewish?” question, you have to tread carefully. Race isn’t biological. It’s an organizational tool for constructing social hierarchies based on difference and otherness. Jews have historically been racialized for this very purpose, across geography and time. The most glaring example is the pseudoscience of Nazi Germany, which made claims of supposed genetic markers to prove the existence of racial imperfections and justify the eradication of entire populations of people – Jewish, but also Black, Romani, the disabled, the list goes on. Genetics, both the science and the language around it, have been weaponized against Jews and other racialized groups for centuries. In these strange times of mainstream genetic testing, if I read someone’s search history and saw “Jewish ethnicity DNA,” I wouldn’t know if they were a neo-nazi or just curious about their ancestry. Which should terrify us. (Learn more about race, Jewishness, and DNA testing here.)

Technically, sure, you can call yourself Jew-ish based on DNA alone—but you run the risk of replicating some wildly dangerous rhetoric in doing so. As someone who ended up choosing to be Jewish after finding out about my Jewish ancestry, I’ve become much more familiar with the insidiousness of antisemitism, and the potential misuses of mainstream DNA testing frankly scare me. Ironic, that DNA testing is what led to my becoming a Jew in the first place, but true.

So if you’re new to this journey, I recommend doing a bit of reading: a) on antisemitism, particularly racial antisemitism, both historically and as it appears today; and b) on the incredible diversity to be found throughout the Jewish people. It’s critical that we expand our conception of what it means to be Jewish and who “counts” as a Jew; we need to recognize the glorious mixed multitude of peoplehood, of which genetics are barely a part, if at all. And we need to be careful with our words, particularly in this age of rampant xenophobia, racism, and antisemitism.

Which isn’t to say you shouldn’t explore your roots or disavow the physical traits that you inherited from your newfound Jewish ancestors—by all means, learn about your heritage and honor where you come from, if you feel called to do so. Many NPEs describe their experience as one of uprootedness, and delving into one’s Jewish ancestry can be a beautiful way of becoming re-rooted. Ashkenazi culture has so much to offer, from food and music to literature and language, so dive in! Eat, sing, read—savor it all.

Over the past four years, I’ve fallen in love with the stories of Sholem Aleichem, enjoyed lectures on theater and history the Yiddish Book Center (a wonderful resource for learning more about Ashkenazi culture), and, after some trial and error, managed to bake a few decent loaves of challah with my partner. I’ve also come to love my hair and nose in so many unexpected, tender ways, even as I remain wary of what it means to give off “Jewish vibes.”

Being visibly and genetically Jewish was my entry point into becoming Jewish, but that’s all it was: an entry point. An invitation. An awakening to new possibilities.

In a way, Jewish NPEs are weirdly lucky: we may feel hopelessly lost at family gatherings or when we look in the mirror, but at our fingertips, there’s a rich cultural roadmap for living with deep, interconnected roots. The tricky part being: we can’t just read the map. We have to actually make the journey.

Choosing an Answer

I wish I could say that discovering Jewish ancestry means that your identity suddenly makes sense. If you’re reading this article, then you’ve already been through enough emotional upheaval for a lifetime: wouldn’t it be a relief to have some simple answers for once, to just know who you are once and for all?

But remember: two Jews, three opinions. Simple answers are not, unfortunately, in the stars.

These days, you’ll probably hear the descriptor “Jew by Choice” more often than “convert to Judaism.” It’s a language choice that’s meant to recognize the activeness of the person’s journey into Judaism. It’s meant to be affirming, empowering even.

When I first started considering conversion, I bristled at this phrase. None of this was a choice. I didn’t choose to be born with this parentage; I didn’t choose to have my ancestry kept a secret; I didn’t choose to learn about my heritage in such a traumatic way. My Jewishness was thrust upon me, along with so many other complicated revelations about my identity and family history. I didn’t ask to be Jewish—I didn’t ask for any of this.

But when I look over the past four years, I realize just how many choices I’ve made along the way. When I got that email from 23andMe, I could have slammed my laptop shut and moved on as if nothing had changed. But I chose to let myself be transformed by the discovery. I chose to ask questions, I chose to do research, I chose to feel uncomfortable, and ultimately, I chose to be a Jew. I chose to light that candle, and I choose every day to keep it alive.

This article was clearly written by a Jew, someone who loves their peoplehood and religion. But I recognize that not everyone reading this is ready to seriously consider being Jewish in such an all-encompassing way. So let me frame things differently.

Recovering from trauma is all about crafting narratives. Something totally outside of your control just happened to you. Reality has become unreal. The story of your life has ripped to shreds. And the only way to unfreeze yourself, to feel in control again, is to rewrite the story, with you at the center. You didn’t choose to discover you were suddenly Jewish, but you can choose what that discovery means.

For me, becoming Jewish was a way to craft a healthy narrative. There’s a beautiful adage in Jewish mysticism, that every single Jew was present at Sinai when Moses delivered God’s commandments, when the covenant between God and the Israelites and was sealed and a united peoplehood was born. The soul of every single Jew, across history and geography, Jews of choice included, was there at the base of the mountain, being called to their place in history.

This narrative brings me comfort. Was I really at Sinai, standing alongside every single member of this sprawling, interconnected family? Is that why I felt called to respond to my Jewish ancestry discovery—because my soul was Jewish all along? Is that why all of this exhausting, traumatic family secret nonsense happened to me?

Yes. No. It depends. Chances are, I like the Sinai story because it helps me make sense of a senseless thing. It isn’t my DNA that brought me to the base of that mountain; I’m there because I choose to be. And this act of choosing doesn’t make my presence at Sinai any less true–my soul was there because I believe it to be there, and that belief is realer to me than any DNA test.

If you want to make sense of your newfound ancestry, if you want to answer the question “Am I Jewish?” once and for all, you absolutely do not have to convert to Judaism. But you also can’t just ask a rabbi or trace your genetic family tree. You have to answer the question for yourself—you have to decide whether being Jewish fits into your new narrative of personhood. Making that decision requires curiosity, energy, introspection, and lots and lots of books.

It also requires patience. You may have discovered that you had Jewish ancestry overnight, but discovering your Jewish identity will take time. It’s taken four years and counting for me, and it’s been a boundlessly radical process. It may take even longer for you. It may be wildly transformational or not a huge deal at all—but that’s not for me, a rabbi, or anyone else but you to find out.

Exploring Judaism is one of many ways to heal and construct new narratives out of an NPE experience. You’re no less valid a Jewish-ancestry-NPE if you decide against such an exploration. But if you feel called to journey, if you really need to know whether being Jewish is part of your story, then welcome.

Welcome, welcome, welcome.

*NPE: not parent expected, nonpaternity event, nonparental event — discovering that a person you believed to be your parent wasn’t your genetic parent

Severance is not monetized—no subscriptions, no ads, no donations—therefore, all content is generously shared by the writers. If you have the resources and would like to help support the work, you can tip the writer.

Find the author on Venmo @ottertarot.Maegan Clearwood (she/they) is a writer and theater-dabbler based out of Western Massachusetts. As an essayist and theater critic, their work has been published in The Journal of Dramatic Theory and Criticism, OnStage Blog, Howlround Theater Commons, and Everything Sondheim. They earned an MFA in Dramaturgy from UMass Amherst, with a graduate certificate in Advanced Feminist Studies, and a BA in English and Theater from Washington College. Find them on Twitter @maeganwriteson and Instagram @ottertarot.Do you have a story about discovering a new ethnicity, religion, or culture? We want to hear it. Read our submission guidelines and get in touch!

By Kara Rubinstein DeyerinIt’s what those of us with misattributed parentage like to call “sibling season”—the time when people who received an over-the-counter DNA test for Christmas are getting their results. When you have a DNA surprise and learn the person who raised you is not your genetic parent, you are plummeted into a world of confusion, doubt, and shock. You feel all alone in your experience. You are likely thinking it is impossible that anyone else could have had such a crazy thing happen to them. And so when you turn to a professional—a licensed therapist—for help, the last thing you want to hear after explaining your situation during your first session is “Wow. That’s incredible. I’ve never heard of that before!”

We estimate that 1 in 20 people have misattributed parentage—that’s 16.6 million Americans who may innocently spit into a tube and discover they’re not who they thought they were. People have a misattributed parentage experience (MPE) from a variety of circumstances: they discover they’re adopted or that they were conceived through assisted reproduction or as a result of an extra-marital affair, rape, or other sexual encounter. Regardless of why someone has an MPE, the news is traumatic for many.

“After I told my therapist about my MPE, she said she had no idea how a person should respond to being told such a story.” Lisa

In Right to Know’s 2021 Survey of MPEs[1], 39% of those surveyed responded they’d sought help from a licensed therapist. Of those who saw a therapist, just only 18% felt their therapists had sufficient training in misattributed parentage issues to assist them. This needs to change.

“Today I had a therapy session with yet another new therapist. Every time I have to educate my therapist on what an MPE is, how we feel, how our situation is life altering, how we have an identity crisis, and how we search for family….” Michelle

Right to Know is a nonprofit dedicated to advocating for people with a DNA surprise and misattributed parentage and promoting understanding of the complex intersection of genetic information, identity, and family dynamics. To promote this goal, we now offer the first misattributed parentage education platform providing educational information on MPEs and the impacts of DNA surprises to professionals and the public. With this initiative, we aim to tackle one of the most important aspects of the MPE discovery—the need for training for licensed therapists and information for those affected by an MPE and the public at large.

“During my first visit to a therapist, she admitted this was all so new to everyone and she had no experience with this specific trauma, that there was no handbook on how to handle my feelings. She told me my mother had every right to lie to me, that it was her body.” Dan

When a person makes a discovery of such a potentially traumatic magnitude, properly trained licensed professionals can provide essential mental health support. We offer four core introductory courses for continuing education credit on Identity, Grief and Loss, Psychological and Ethical Impacts, and Reunion, with more classes coming soon. Learn about the CE courses at www.MPE-Education.org, and use coupon code 15%OFF on your first CE course. Right to Know has been approved by NBCC as an Approved Continuing Education Provider, ACEP No. 7181. Programs that do not qualify for NBCC credit are clearly identified. Right to Know is solely responsible for all aspects of the programs. Not a therapist? We also offer these courses without education credits at a discounted price.

“After telling my therapist about my MPE, he kept calling my father that raised me my ‘stepdad.’ I cringed every time he said it; it made me uncomfortable hearing him referred to in this way.” Susan

Identity confusion can be a major part of an MPE. Identity & MPEs, taught by Jodi Kluggman-Rabb, MA, LMFT, PsyD, covers identity formation and the dimensions of identity, genealogical bewilderment, and the psychological impact of an MPE identity crisis. This class provides an overview of what an MPE is and the terms associated with a non-paternity event (NPE).

People with an MPE may be dealing with disenfranchised grief and ambiguous loss. Cotey Bowman, MA, LPC Associate, teaches Loss & Grief in MPEs through the lens of an NPE. He reviews the foundational concepts of loss and grief, discusses how this can complicate healing from an MPE, and compares treatments including artistic creation for loss and grief for people with an MPE.

Some common psychological concerns of people with an MPE include complicated grief, complex PTSD, attachment issues, identity and existential confusion, family secrecy, depression, and anxiety. Psychological and Ethical Implications of MPEs offers therapists an understanding of the themes associated with MPEs, psychological concerns and diagnoses, as well as the ethical and advocacy considerations of MPEs. Lynne W. Spencer, MA, LLP, RN, illustrates these issues from the perspective of donor conception and reviews the terms associated with assisted conception.

The prospect of deciding whether to reach out to new genetic family is daunting, especially when considering all of the possible outcomes. Leslie Pate Mckinnon, MA, LCSW, in Navigating Reunion with MPEs, takes therapists through the steps of reunion from an adoption perspective. She provides an overview of adoption terms and history, discusses the innate desire for people to know their genetic identity, and offers tips about the nuts and bolts of reunion.

These classes are just the beginning. Classes on helping parents talk to their children about their unique conception and understanding genetic sexual attraction are also in the works. If you’re interested in having Right to Know sponsor a course on a certain topic or if you’d like to teach a course, send a message to info@RightToKnow.us.

And to all our new siblings out there, we got you! We’re working hard to ensure you have access to the information and resources you need to process your MPE. If you are looking for a therapist, Right to Know maintains a list of therapists with experience working with misattributed parentage on our MPE Counseling Directory. If you need help with your DNA surprise, call 323-TALK MPE. We’re here to listen, help you identify your genetic family, find an experienced therapist in your state, and provide a mentor—all for free because no one should ever feel alone with such life-changing news.

[1] 2021 MPE Survey, Right to Know and the DNA Discussion Project (600+ respondents).Kara Rubinstein Deyerin is co-founder and CEO of Right to Know. She is a non-practicing attorney with an LLM in Taxation and an MA in trade and investment policy. In January 2018, she wanted to see where in Africa her father’s family came from. Her over-the-counter DNA test revealed she was 50% something but it wasn’t African. This meant the man on her birth certificate couldn’t possibly be her genetic father. She lost her bi-racial identity with the click of a mouse. Deyerin discovered she was 50% Ashkenazi Jew. The DNA pandora’s box she opened led to an identity crisis. She’s a passionate advocate for genetic identity rights. It is a fundamental human right to know your genetic identity.

By Jennifer CarraherI am the daughter of an adoptee. My mother, adopted from an orphanage when she was nine months old, was raised by parents who were loving, protective, and kind people. They raised my mother, a second adopted son, and their third and only biological child in a pastoral, rural setting where the kids rode horses to their one-room schoolhouse, kicked around in the surrounding woods and pasture, and lived a pretty idyllic existence. When my mother was 18 years old, she became pregnant with me. In a whirlwind of impulsive action, she married my birth certificate father, moved 2,000 miles away from home, and six months later gave birth to me. By the end of the year, she had packed me up, returned to her parents, and essentially disappeared the man I believed to be my father. Within the next twelve months, she remarried, gained two more young children, and, four years later, she and my stepfather had a daughter of their own. Amidst this chaos, I immediately began to identify myself as an outsider in the family: a sensitive and insecure child, an interloper among the three children of a man with whom I lived but hardly knew. In just a few years, I was both born of and made into a fatherless child.

The psychological construct known as object relations theory has shown us the cruciality of early childhood relationships to identity formation; that is, the origins of the self emerge from exchanges between the infant and others. Originally theorized by Austrian psychoanalyst Melanie Klein, the essential idea is that the infant’s bond to the parents shapes future relationships. What this means is that the mother as a physical object is invested with emotional energy from the child, and the psycho-emotional impression of the mother—the internal object—comes to represent what the infant holds in her absence. If the object formation is disrupted early in life—as, I would argue, it is with virtually all adoptees and MPEs/ NPEs*—the failure to form these early relationships leads to problems later in the child’s life. Object relations theory also points out that situations in adult life are shaped by and mirror familial experiences during infancy.

My mother’s own adoption unquestionably caused for her a failure of identity formation leading to problems in later relationships. No doubt and with good reason, the sense of attachment and security that adoptees can, and likely do, feel carries over into adult relationships in all kinds of ways. The question is how this manifests itself. Adoption is not, by any means, the only way that this attachment disruption occurs. In fact, biological children may suffer the same disruption for a variety of reasons. The lack of attachment demonstrated by my mother in her adult relationships is not necessarily a reflection of her relationship with her adoptive parents, and not all adoptees develop in this same way. In our case, whatever the disruption my mother experienced as a child, whether the result of her late-infant adoption or some other barrier to her attachment, it severely affected her identity formation. This affected identity formation is where the intergenerational disruption of object formation can be seen most clearly.

I found out about my NPE status one year ago today. While reeling from the news for many months, I had not a single thought about my mother as a child—let alone as a daughter. I was too busy contemplating the questions, “Who is my father? Where has he been? Where can he be?” Over time, I began to ask myself questions about my mother’s own history, her fractured parental bonding as an adoptee, and how this object formation may have influenced her as a new mother in the NPE scenario. How does the attachment become so fragmented that the next generation could be subjected to suffering in this way?

The foundation of the relational object is one in which, as the infant grows, she naturally wants to consolidate the work of managing her most basic needs, which are described by Klein as drives; she does this by forming an attachment to an adequate caregiver who can contain these drives. For example, how the caregiver responds to the baby’s need to eat, comforts her if she cries, and meets her most fundamental needs. If these drives are met, then a good object relationship is developed. The caregiver, usually the parent, is the “good object.” To soothe herself, the infant eventually must be able to internalize that good object.

Conversely, if the caregiver cannot accommodate the infant’s drives, then the infant will experience the drives as being out of control and instead of developing a positive attachment to the mother or caregiver, the infant may develop a negative attachment. If the caregiver herself has inadequate object relations, if her drives have not been met and she is identified with a bad object (her absent parent), then it’s possible that in order to cope, the mother will project that identification onto the baby. This defense mechanism arises so that the mother may defend herself against unbearable feelings; it also works to defend the internal object against rage, which can destroy the internal object. The mother copes with the unbearable feelings and rage by externalizing those feelings. This is called projective identification. Because of this projection, the mother may begin to see the baby’s experience as the embodiment of her own bad object and perceived reality. For example, a mother may witness the baby crying uncontrollably and in that crying she will see the manifestation of the experience from which she has tried to distance herself. Because of this, her identification with a bad object is affirmed through her projection onto that child’s crying, and the child is left carrying that projected reality.

But how does this play out in the NPE experience? In my case, the object formation disruption seems to be about the attachment with the father. If the NPE’s mother is enacting her own loss of the father object by projecting it onto the baby, the NPE child may grow to identify herself with this negative experience. This means that the child suffers the mother’s perceived losses (fatherlessness in this case) because the mother’s own drives are disorganized. Instead of nurturing and helping the child to consolidate her needs, the mother continually and repeatedly projects chaos onto the child.

Because I was born to my young mother, perhaps in the midst of this object disruption, no doubt in part due to her experience as an adoptee, she exercised her projective identification on me. This allowed for an erasure of my father, or the man I understood to be my father—the exact experience she imagined for herself. She did this not only by removing me from my birth certificate father almost immediately after my birth, but also as I grew and developed, I was told in both explicit and subconscious ways that my step-father/father figure, with whom I had lived since the age of three, could not belong to me either. When I learned in my adult life that my biological father was someone else entirely, the projection further solidified.

It is not hard to envision that—because my mother was in an orphanage, was adopted, and expressed throughout her life massive levels of alienation—she continually saw herself as severed from her family, regardless of any external reality. Every detail of her experience as an adoptee could have triggered this alienation; for example, the birth of a biological son to her adoptive parents when she was 10 years old manifested as a catastrophic event for her. So many experiences of the adopted child can contribute to this perception of severance from the family.

All of these experiences, in turn, influenced how she saw me as a child. My mother was experiencing the absent father. By enacting a dramatized reality, she was able to facilitate her projective identification as a fatherless child onto me. She played this out by running from her own (adoptive) father, disappearing my biological father, and sticking my paternity on a non-father/stranger she almost immediately abandoned. In both subtle and overt ways, I was continually reminded that my step-father was not a legitimate parent either; he could never belong to me because I didn’t “come from” him. Ultimately, though, it was all a futile effort because the enactment and projection did nothing to contain her own distress. As an example of how this played out, when I discovered my biological paternity and asked her who she thought was suffering most in this situation, she simply replied, “Your father.” Like many other NPE mothers, there’s no ability for her to imagine the suffering of the child because she is so resigned to her own suffering.

Another developmental psychological theorist and psychoanalyst, Donald Winnicott, theorized that the role of the father is to temper the ambivalence between the mother and the child. Ambivalence arises when the needs of the parent and the needs of the child are in conflict. Maternal ambivalence, specifically as theorized by Freud, is a universal maternal experience in which the feelings of love and hate for the child can exist side by side. When the father is absent, there is what Freud calls an ever-present “third” in the mother’s unconscious mind. For the NPE, the role of the father to modulate the mother-child relationship does not exist. This may be why so many of us have long-standing conflict with our mothers and spend years saying things like, of all of the children, I was always the outsider, or I never understood why I didn’t fit in, or asking why did she dislike me, what did I do wrong, and, eventually, why could I not have known my father? The answer to all of these questions lies quite simply in the projective identification of the mother onto her child: “If I can’t have a father, neither can you.”

While my mother may have subconsciously or otherwise attempted to make me into a fatherless child, I do not see myself that way. In fact, I don’t actually believe that my mother perceives me as without a father. She sees it only in herself, and she projects her own suffering as an internalized, fatherless child onto me. I have come to understand over the protracted and immensely heavy year since my misattributed parent discovery, that even as NPEs, even through all of our intuitions and suspicions, detachments and alienations growing up, we do have fathers. We should never diminish the significance of this fact because if we continue the pattern of projection of the fatherless child in our own lives, the cycle can never be broken. The gift of the NPE discovery is the acknowledgement of what has been lost to us, the chance to discover ourselves anew in order to protect our own children by offering them our solid and unwavering belief in their fathers. The only way to do this, I am afraid, is to begin to forgive our mothers.

*MPE/NPE: misattributed parentage experience/not parent expected or nonpaternity eventJennifer Carraher lives with her family in Sebastopol, California, where she’s an advanced practice public health nurse in the areas of women’s health and forensics. She’s also a medical sociologist who has worked extensively over the past 20 years in assisted reproductive technologies, kinship, and the social studies of science. Her current research is dedicated to promoting harm reduction as medical practice.   

Since her misattributed parent discovery in December 2020, she has established The Mendel Project, which will provide DNA testing and genetic support at no cost to patients in the hospital setting. She also continues to collect narratives from other adoptees, NPEs, and those affected by genetic surprises for the podcast Unfinished Truths. Find her at themendelgeneticproject@gmail.com & unfinishedtruths@gmail.com.

Supreme Court Justice Amy Coney Barrett is not the first, and certainly won’t be the last, to pose abortion as a problem and adoption as its solution. The adoption argument has become a pillar of the anti-abortion movement’s platform. Each time the words abortion and adoption appear together in headlines, there’s a rapid and robust response from adoptees and others to counter the fallacious proposition. This time, however, Barrett’s comments have roused ire not only for their essential, objectionable content with respect to adoption, but also for the cavalier language she used to dismiss the impact giving birth has upon a woman’s health, her career, and her life.

During the recent Supreme Court oral arguments concerning Mississippi’s 15-week abortion ban, Barrett, an adoptive mother, not only posed adoption as a substitute for abortion, she further suggested that if the consequences and obligations of motherhood are deleterious to some women, they can simply sidestep the “problem” by taking advantage of safe-haven laws, as if dropping off a baby to a police or fire station has no repercussions to a mother or her baby. As if there were no career reverberations and no health risks. As if the wellbeing of the child were of no concern. As if it doesn’t matter that adoptees may be weary, enraged, or traumatized by having again and again to field a question that should never be posed: Would you rather have been aborted?

Unfortunately, the burden of dismantling these destructive narrative falls upon adoptees and allies. Following is a sampling of their efforts. Please join the conversation by adding your comments.—BKJ“I Was Adopted. I Know the Trauma It Can Inflict,” by Elizabeth Spiers, The New York Times

“What We Get Wrong About Adoption,” by Gretchen Sisson and Jessica M. Harrison, The Nation

“Adoption is Not the Answer to Abortion,” by Lora K. Joy, My Adoptee Truth

“Barrett is Wrong: Adoption Doesn’t ‘Take Care of’ the Burden of Motherhood,” by Gretchen Sisson, The Washington Post

“Why Adoption isn’t a Replacement for Abortion Rights,” by Anna North, Vox

“I’m Adopted and Pro-Choice. Stop Using My Story for the Anti-Abortion Agenda,” by Stephanie Drenka, HuffPost

“Amy Coney Barrett’s Adoption Myths. ‘They’re Co-opting Our Lives and Our Stories,’” by Irin Carmon, New York magazine.

“A Choice in Name Only,” by Nicole Chung, in “I Have Notes,” a newsletter from The Atlantic.

“Is Pro-Life Evangelicalism Killing Adoptees,” by Sara Easterly, Red Letter Christians

“Adoption is Not a Simple Solution to An Unwanted Pregnancy,” by Lucia Blackwell, The Seattle Times

“Adoption doesn’t mean abortion isn’t needed, even if some Supreme Court justices think so,” by Aimee Christian, NBC THINK