When a Genetic Test Turns Your Life Upside Down: My Experience

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Updated: June 20, 2021

Originally Published: June 17, 2021

“We write to experience life twice, once in the moment and again in reflection.”

“The duty of a writer is to express what we cannot articulate ourselves.” – Anais Nin

I’ve always been a writer, for better or worse. On the upside, my life and experiences have been profoundly enriched through storytelling. On the downside, when I have a story that I can’t quite articulate, it festers in my mind until I’m compelled to share it. This is the nature of my craft.

Initially, this story wasn’t meant for my usual social media outlets; it felt too raw and too personal. I’m ready to share now, or at least I think I am.

My stepmom told me she was honored that I felt comfortable enough to break down in front of her. She’s witnessed my tears before, but this time was different. How do you respond when every conceivable emotion crashes together? Apparently, you scream, “How could she?!” while laughing, crying, and breaking down—over and over again. Time feels suspended. This kind of thing happens to other people, not to you.

To provide some context: both of my parents have passed away. My mother died in December 2008 due to complications from addiction, and my father followed in December 2010 from similar struggles. I was an only child and had my son between their deaths, in January 2010. I was 22, 23, and then 24 years old. Yes, it was as jarring as it sounds.

Now, at 35, I finally took a 23andMe DNA test after procrastinating for over a decade. I hoped to uncover any long-lost siblings; my father supposedly had other children. Just before mailing off the test, I prayed, “Lord, let Your will be done.” My mom always warned me against praying for patience, so I opted for the generic approach. I already had a half-brother I was in contact with, so I thought this would confirm our relationship and possibly introduce more family. I was ready. I had started ADHD medication, taken up yoga, gone to therapy, and even bought a treadmill. I felt prepared. Then, everything changed.

The details—names, dates—are irrelevant if the people I discovered don’t matter. What truly matters is that my dad, the man I still miss on long drives, is not my biological father.

I was utterly shocked. I didn’t see this coming at all. I reached out to family, desperately seeking answers, but they had none.

As one friend pointed out, my dad was such a huge part of my identity that she worried about how I would cope. Both of my parents were deeply flawed—struggling with addiction and mental health issues—but they were also wonderfully human. I often clung to his attempts at providing stability. He was far from perfect—he could be downright terrible at times—but he tried his best. My mom also made her efforts, but my grief for my dad overshadowed any complexities regarding her. Now that I’m older and a mother myself, I empathize with her struggles. She attended my college graduation and my wedding, wanting to be part of my life. But my dad was my dad.

The thought that we weren’t biologically related never crossed my mind. There were vague hints, but I dismissed them as drunken misunderstandings. I inherited his nose, his smile, and his drive. My narrative for my son has always been, “From your dad’s side, you get all the degrees and high-powered careers, but from your mama, you inherit your grit and empathy. That’s all Talsma.” I kept my maiden name to honor my dad, despite his objections. He supported my Christian faith even while being a Wiccan pagan. His love for photography and unquenchable curiosity shaped who I am. He never graduated from eighth grade but was the smartest person I ever knew. I loved him deeply.

And yes, I understand that genetics don’t change any of this. He will always be my dad. Yet, there’s a profound sadness and sense of disconnect. I don’t see my features reflected in this new man’s face. My best friend reminds me that I spent years seeing myself in my dad’s likeness. His pictures line my walls, and his camera is tattooed onto my back.

Despite these upheavals, I couldn’t have asked for a more welcoming new chapter. My newfound family is open and kind. They use inclusive language and readily accept me. Months have passed, and while I’m still processing everything, I can recognize pieces of myself that always felt out of place. I find comfort in zooming in on photos, and I see traces of my own face. They share my curiosity and ambition, making this plot twist an odd but fascinating journey.

This experience has shaken me to my core, leaving me feeling vulnerable and reminiscent of the insecure little girl I once was. I know I’ll rebuild myself, but for now, I’m giving myself the space to feel shocked and human.

I shared this unexpected twist with my half-brother, and he joyfully accepted me as an honorary sister and aunt. I look forward to weaving him into my story as well.

There are countless details left untold. I’m taking this one day at a time, quietly getting to know those interested in connecting with me while respecting those who want to keep their distance. I’ve cried, lost sleep, smiled, and exchanged selfies. I even met a new sister in person recently, and it was an incredible experience. While I’m terrified to share this story publicly, I suppose life had one more plot twist in store for me. Thankfully, I am, for better or worse, a storyteller.

For more insights on this journey, check out this related blog post. Additionally, Make a Mom offers great information on fertility options. If you’re looking for reliable information on home insemination, Healthline is an excellent resource.

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In summary, my journey through a surprising genetic revelation has not only shaken my understanding of family but opened doors to new connections and self-discovery. As I navigate this new chapter, I embrace the emotional rollercoaster while cherishing the stories that shape who I am.

Keyphrase: Genetic Test Revelation

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