Writing My Memoir Forced Me to Answer a Question I Was Afraid to Ask

I thought I knew why I was writing this book.
In her early twenties, my biological daughter took a DNA test and found me.
We weren’t supposed to find each other.
And yet, there we were—standing face to face, staring into the same eyes.
That moment—our moment—was pure magic. A fairy tale. The kind of thing you see in viral videos with a million likes and tearful comments.
I thought that was the story.
The shock.
The reunion.
The instant, undeniable connection.
And so, I sat down to write—ready to capture it, to share it, to tell the world: Look what happened. Look what’s possible.
But then… life happened.
And I realized the real story isn’t about finding each other.
It’s about what it means to be found.
We never talk about what happens after the viral moment.
After the video stops rolling.
After the adrenaline fades.
After the long-lost relatives stop hugging and go home to their separate lives.
What happens when the dust settles and two people—who were never supposed to meet—are suddenly mother and daughter?
How do you build something real?
How do you hold onto the magic while figuring out the messy, complicated reality of what comes next?
How do you navigate love, guilt, belonging, and the ghosts of the life that was before the life that is?
That’s what this book is really about.
At first, I thought I was writing this for myself.
For the little girl I once was, who needed to be told it would all be okay.
For the woman I became, who spent a lifetime shaping herself to fit into other people’s expectations.
For the mother in me, who wanted to tell the world, She’s here. She’s mine. And I love her.
But those weren’t the real reasons.
The truth is, I’ve spent my life performing.
Performing competence. Performing normalcy. Performing connection.
I learned to mask so well I forgot what it felt like to be fully seen.
And then, one day, my daughter walked into my life—and saw me immediately.
Not the version of me I curated.
Not the one I thought I was supposed to be.
Just… me.
That cracked something open in me I wasn’t prepared for.
I thought this book would be about finding my daughter.
But now I see it’s about becoming her mother.
I thought it would be about the magic of DNA.
But it’s about the messy, complicated reality of family.
I thought it would be about our story.
But it’s about what stories do to us.
How they define us.
How they trap us.
How they free us.
I spent years shaping myself to fit other people’s expectations.
This story—the one I’m writing now—is about learning to let go of them.
This book was always meant to be written with my daughter.
And she’s still stepping into it.
That’s something I have to honor, even when my instinct is to charge ahead, to wrap it in a bow, to make sense of it all right now.
But life doesn’t work like that.
Neither does family.
So I’m writing my way into it.
Piece by piece.
And when she’s ready, we’ll write the rest.
So, I’m still writing. I’m still figuring it out. And I’m still asking myself, every step of the way: Who is this for?
For me? Yes.
For her? Absolutely.
But also for you—the person who reads this and sees a piece of themselves in it.
And when I hit that final page, I hope it’s not just my story anymore. I hope it’s ours.
Have you ever found yourself at a crossroads, rewriting your own story? I’d love to hear what that journey has looked like for you.
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