Made to Wonder: Why I Started Donor Conceived Community (Part 1)
How did you get here? A late night Google search? Is the glow of your phone or some confusing 23andme results threatening to steal another night’s sleep? Are you at your desk, toggling between your Ancestry account and a Zoom meeting that’s barely holding your attention? Or, maybe someone sent you a link, to help with that “situation" you’re going through.
Let’s talk about the other version of the question – “how did we get here?” The how-we-all-came-to-exist kind. The, “it all started with a sperm and an egg” kind. It’s a topic we don’t discuss much. Even as adults, say the word “sperm” out loud and you’ll notice a slight grimace, lowered voices, or a quick over-the-shoulder scan of the room to see – should we be talking about this here, now?
Every human starts with a sperm and an egg. It’s simple, but complex. We’re all a mix of science and story, but for some of us, it gets wildly complicated.
“We’re all a mix of science and story, but for some of us, it gets wildly complicated.”
Growing up, people said I was just like my Dad. Same brown eyes, same dark hair, same smile and dimple in our left cheek. He always knew how to make me laugh, even when I didn’t want to. We both loved summer days at the lake, new spelling words, sunsets, and Billy Joel. He was my favorite person.
It was spring of my freshman year when my mom picked me, my twin, and my younger sister up from school in the middle of the day. She gathered us in the living room to tell us something had happened to Dad, and when she got to the word “died” – all the sound and color faded. I was sitting on the floor, but as my mind absorbed the meaning of the words, I felt like I was falling, sinking. When I came up for air, I didn’t recognize my life. Losing a parent changes everything.
I had no idea how to navigate the grief. It’s hard to find help when you don’t know anyone else going through it. I didn’t know the word “stigma,” but I noticed how talking about my Dad’s death caused people to shift their gaze or lower their voice. Sometimes their own questions or opinions about suicide came tumbling out, and I had to figure out how to reply. I found a few people to confide in – a neighbor, a teacher, my high school guidance counselor. I joined a peer support group for students grieving the loss of a parent. Those once-a-week meetings helped me feel less alone, giving words to things I couldn’t describe. No one expected me to “get over it” – we were all just finding our new normal.
I never stopped missing my Dad. I couldn’t tell what was DNA and what was legacy, but over the years, I found him in old memories and sensed his presence in new connections. He was in my uncles’ loud laughter at family gatherings. He was in the steady roll of the Pacific waves. He was in the gelaterias and markets of my college travels to Italy – a link to generations of family I’d never met.
I missed him in the ordinary days and the milestones. Holidays, college graduation, a move to the Midwest. The void of a father-daughter dance at my wedding. Pregnant with my first child, I daydreamed – what would my Dad’s face look like, holding his grandson for the first time? I’d never know. But then, miraculously, they shared a birthday. That 1/365 chance offered a new cherished connection.
As the years without my Dad outnumbered my years with him, our family grew. Three boys heard stories of their Grandpa, and of my family growing up. They became familiar with the silly, sentimental, and scientific ways my Dad was still connected to us. If he was alive, they would have talked endlessly about music, world wars, and batting stances. I told them tales of ancestors who fished at the wharf, a lineage of family chefs, and mischief made with Irish-Italian brothers. And then, one winter evening, during an ordinary family dinner, a text from my sister changed the whole story.
“Those once-a-week meetings helped me feel less alone, giving words to things I couldn’t describe. No one expected me to ‘get over it’ – we were all just finding our new normal.”
I glanced down at my phone, read it, and read it again. I excused myself from the table- this required a phone call. A family story had surfaced. Details were faded by years of secrecy, but it was something about a sperm donor. Could it be true? The next few weeks were a blur of calls, texts, emails, and late night internet searches. I ordered a 23andme test. Eight weeks later, the results shattered any hope or uncertainty. I called customer service. The agent calmly reassured me, “No, it’s not a lab mistake – we get these calls all the time.” Half of my known genetic identity was gone. My Dad was not my biological father.
Once again, I did not recognize my life. I was still me, but everything had changed. Shocked, confused, scared, angry, and curious, I stood in front of my bathroom mirror, wondering – where did my eyes, my nose, and my chin come from? I was half of a stranger. A portal had opened to an alternate universe – one where my biological father might still be alive. Who was he? Did I want to know? Would I know if I saw him?
I had no idea how to navigate this. Questions lurked under everyday activities. Did cancer run in my family? Heart conditions? What was my parents’ highest level of education? Phrases like “it’s in my DNA” or “it runs in the family” made me wince. I called doctors, sperm banks, and fertility clinics, looking for resources. I called 23andme and Ancestry, but they didn’t know of any support. Who could help? Internet searches turned up terms like “sperm donor baby” or “offspring,” along with ads for sperm and sizable payouts for my eggs. Instead, I paid $99 for a year membership to Donor Sibling Registry and searched their database. No results. Where did I come from? Would I always wonder? Would it always be a secret?
“A portal had opened to an alternate universe – one where my biological father might still be alive.”
Read Part 2 to find out how my search for help led me to start DCC!
Melissa is the Founder & Executive Director of Donor Conceived Community.
She started DCC in 2021 to provide emotional and social support to donor conceived people (DCP) facing identity discoveries. DCC also offers education and resources for DCP, parents, and professionals to promote a healthier donor conception community. Melissa’s professional background includes marketing, training, small group facilitation, mental health education, and public speaking.