I Wish I Knew More: Finding My Birth Mother and Redefining Family
This is Peggy, my birth mother.
She died in her kitchen and wasn’t discovered for weeks. I know very little about the circumstances of her death, except that I was told her heart gave out after years of struggling with obesity.
Peggy lived with bipolar disorder and alcoholism. I found her when I was 20, during one of the most difficult periods of my life.
I was home on Navy leave, trying to find myself after experiencing a severe psychotic episode. I was also fighting a medical board to stay in the Navy.
I’d discovered that Peggy had placed herself on a registry for adoptees searching for their birth parents. There was an address but no phone number. I wrote her a letter.
No response.
So I decided to just “swing by.”
Me, Shirley, Jeri and Inchill (Shirley’s daughter)
My best friend from high school came with me. Peggy’s apartment was only a few minutes from my adoptive parents’ house.
I got out of the car, walked to her door, and knocked.
A woman answered. Her eyes were so piercing that they seemed to look right through me.
I knew it was her.
But when I asked for Peggy, she told me Peggy wasn’t home.
I played along.
I simply asked her to tell Peggy that I’d stopped by.
Later, keeping up the ruse, I sent another letter apologizing for missing her and saying I’d love to connect sometime.
I wasn’t angry. I didn’t feel rejected. I didn’t judge her.
I was just curious.
A few weeks later, a letter arrived. She was happy I’d reached out again, and this time she included her phone number.
I was stationed in Great Lakes, working out constantly, attending church, and fighting to remain in the Navy. I was doing everything I could to rebuild myself.
Looking back, it was a remarkable time to discover my birth mother.
Over the next decade, I continued seeing Peggy whenever I returned to Columbus. I successfully stayed in the Navy, and we gradually developed a relationship.
She even took me to one of her AA meetings.
She introduced me to her recovery friends as her daughter.
Her cards were signed “Mom.”
Those little things meant something.
Peggy had her struggles. She sometimes called me when she was experiencing a manic episode. She could be unpredictable, but she was also kind and wonderfully free-spirited.
I never felt the need to judge her.
I simply accepted her for who she was.
And then, after Peggy died, my family continued to grow in ways I never imagined.
I connected with two of her three sisters. They became my friends.
Years later, when Franklin County opened its adoption records, I discovered I had a sister.
Through those open adoption records, I eventually found another sister.
Then one of my sisters discovered our brother through a DNA website.
My half brother had served in combat as a National Guard medic. We eventually recorded a podcast together.
Think about that.
One unanswered letter, one unexpected visit, and one woman standing in a doorway ultimately led me to discover an entire family I never knew existed.
Yet there is still a significant piece of my story missing.
I have absolutely no information about my biological father.
I don’t know who he is, what his life was like, or whether there are other family members out there I have yet to discover.
It’s strange to know so much more about one side of your biological family while the other remains a complete mystery.
Perhaps someday I’ll find those answers. Perhaps I won’t.
But this journey has taught me something important.
Family is what you define it to be.
It isn’t always the cookie-cutter story we’re conditioned to expect. Sometimes it’s complicated, messy, painful, and filled with people carrying burdens we may never fully understand.
But approaching my birth family with curiosity rather than judgment opened doors I never imagined existed.
We all have our demons, scars, and traumas.
Perhaps if we learned to accept people as they are, while maintaining healthy boundaries, we’d find it a little easier to be kind to one another.
I wish I knew more about Peggy.
I wish I understood the experiences that shaped her, the struggles she endured, and what she felt when she opened that door and saw me standing there.
I wish I knew something about my biological father, too.
I may never have all those answers.
But I know Peggy put herself on that registry.
I know she eventually wrote back.
I know she called me her daughter.
And because I went looking for her, I found sisters, a brother, and family connections I might otherwise never have known existed.
My story is still unfolding. And perhaps that’s what family really is: a collection of imperfect people, unexpected discoveries, and connections that continue to shape who we become. ❤️
