In life, fathers fulfill so many roles—providers of love, strength, and acceptance. Whether it’s our birth father, our spiritual father, or the quiet spirit within ourselves, there’s something grounding in the presence of a father figure. That sense of support often begins within.
For me, my first father is a mystery.
As an adopted person, my mind sometimes drifts into wondering about my creation. What were the circumstances surrounding my birth? Who were the people who brought me into the world? As a child, I often imagined stories about my birth family. Most of my thoughts centered around my mother—but as I grew older, my curiosity about my birth father deepened.
In my teenage years, I learned that a male friend had given a child up for adoption. That news cracked something open inside me. Then I met Chris. He told me his story—how, in high school, he had made the difficult decision to place his child for adoption. When he shared his journey, it connected us on a level I hadn’t experienced before. From that moment, he and his child imprinted on my heart. My thoughts and prayers have often been with them, and through them, I began to imagine what my own birth parents might have experienced.
For many years, those adoption thoughts quieted. I focused on life—Chris and I built a life together filled with children, careers, and adventures we never could have imagined when we first met. But when Monica came back into our lives, something shifted.
Monica is Chris’s daughter—the one he gave up. Her return sparked a wave of emotions in me and reopened the space in my mind where questions of my own origin live. The mind can be a magical, mysterious, and sometimes dangerous place. It took me back to the final conversation I had with my dad—the man who raised me. When he asked, “Are we okay?” I was able to say, “You love me, and I love you. That’s all that matters.” I’m grateful that our relationship ended with that clarity, despite the ups and downs along the way.
I still carry the weight of his life and how it affected mine. He served in WWII as a very young man, and he never spoke of it much. But I remember him telling me how a backfiring car could take him right back. Understanding CPTSD now gives me a small window into what he may have carried. I’ve seen it in my own family—how our bodies remember trauma, how a shiver can pass through someone even years after a near miss.
Sometimes I wonder: did my birth father know about me? Did he have a say in the decision to place me for adoption? My mind tries to build stories. I think about reaching out, about uncovering the truth, but fear holds me back. Will it bring peace or pain? I’m not sure I’m ready to find out.
I’ve made space in my life lately to let these stories breathe. I try to see it as a way to cope with the current chaos of the world—letting my imagination roam where it needs to. I’ve come to appreciate the quiet moments within myself where I acknowledge the simple truth: whatever happened all those years ago brought me here. And I’m grateful to have come this far.
When Monica reentered our lives, Chris admitted he had once looked for her when she turned 18. Since he found information easily, he assumed if she wanted to find him, she could. He thought maybe she didn’t want to. But he had more to go on—more information, more tools. And maybe that made all the difference.
Her return feels like divine intervention. Some mysteries aren’t meant to be solved—just accepted.
I confess, there are times I feel jealous of what Chris has now. I’m happy for him, but a part of me aches to know my own story the way he now knows part of his. I try to draw strength from what he’s navigated, to find peace in his journey even as I remain in the dark about my own.
Before we were married, during a time of emotional overwhelm, my mind spiraled so badly I couldn’t even access my own name. It was terrifying. I never want to experience that again, and I don’t wish it on anyone. These days, when the spirals return, I pray. I meditate. I let them take me for a while, but I always return to the breath.
Since I was a teenager, I’ve found comfort in knowing I can hold my breath or change it—but the end of my breath is not up to me. That is beyond my understanding. It reminds me of a higher power, and for that, I’m grateful.
Somewhere, long ago, two people made a choice that led to my creation. I sometimes picture that tiny baby in a hospital in Chicago—held by many hands, helped by many hearts. I can’t begin to count all the people I’ve crossed paths with on this journey. Some I wish I hadn’t, but many have helped me become who I am.
Holding space for the good, the bad, and everything in between is part of being human. And knowing that I can hold multiple feelings toward others reminds me I can do the same for myself.
So many moons ago, when I took my first breath, that was my only job. And today, it still is. To breathe. Everything else flows from that.
My hope is this: that the people who gave me life have found some goodness along their path. That my loved ones—and even strangers—find more peace than pain in their lives. That somewhere in all our wondering and wandering, we find a moment of serenity.
And that it is enough.
