You can read the earlier posts in this series here:

• Being Adopted, Introduction: The Primal Wound
• Being Adopted, Part I: An Incomplete Self
• Being Adopted, Part II: Finding the Missing Pieces
• Being Adopted, Part III: Meeting My First Genetic Relatives

In my last post in this series, I wrote about meeting my immediate biological family, my siblings and mother. But family roots, of course, go far deeper than one or two generations. I wanted to have a more complete picture of the ancestors whose genes I’d inherited.

About five years after I met my sister, brothers, and mother, I took an Ancestry DNA test. As more and more people take the test, my results are continually updated, and my list of genetic relatives keeps growing. For the most part, though, these people are pretty anonymous, identified only by initials. They’re primarily distant relatives that I can’t easily place on a family tree, and their profiles usually contain few details about themselves. I’ve sent messages to a handful of people over the years trying to connect the dots, and a few have responded.

Through Ancestry DNA, I discovered and got in touch with two closer relatives, a first cousin of my mother and a first cousin of my father. I had the pleasure of meeting both of them last year. They each live within about an hour from where I grew up and where I was born.

Each of these women was so kind and welcomed me with open arms. Each had limited memories of my biological mother and father, having lost touch with them many years ago, but they helped me to start to piece together a picture of the larger families from which I came. I connected with both of them easily — I can only guess whether shared genetics played any role in that.

My maternal cousin, Judy, told me about her upbringing while I tried to entertain my toddler son and chased him around the restaurant. She was very patient and honest as she revealed some of the struggles our relatives had endured, including alcoholism, depression, and abuse. Judy has a radiant personality and sunny disposition. She struck me as someone who is eternally upbeat and optimistic, despite the challenges she’s faced. She’s a talented artist and generously made me a beautiful, colorful portrait of my son, which I proudly display in our living room. She expressed that she seems to have more in common with me than with her immediate family, both in terms of personality and artistic tendencies.

About six months later, I had the opportunity to meet Bea, my father’s cousin. This time, I left my son with my mom so we could talk more easily. Prior to meeting Bea, I knew virtually nothing about my father, aside from what I read in his obituary. He had died in a car accident when I was 20 years old, long before I had identified him.

Bea’s father and my paternal grandfather were brothers. Bea last saw my father, Danny, when he was about 16. Her father had died not long after that, and after her father’s passing, she lost touch with his side of the family.

Despite the intervening years, Bea remembered my father well. They were close in age, Danny being the youngest of eleven siblings. Danny was blonde, which perhaps explains how my little boy ended up with such light hair. Bea described him as a golden boy, a favorite of his father. The family didn’t have much, which is unsurprising given how many mouths there were to feed. Bea remembered Danny as a good kid who didn’t get into much trouble.

My grandfather was a poultry farmer in York County, Pennsylvania. At some point in the mid- to late-1970s, he must have relocated to northwestern North Carolina. He died in 1978 in Bakersville, less than 60 miles from where I now live, as a result of injuries incurred in an auto accident in Johnson City, Tennessee, which is practically my back yard. Danny was 20 when his father died, and he had remained in Pennsylvania, along with three of his sisters. (Bea didn’t know most of these details; I learned them from my grandfather’s obituary.)

I think my grandmother had relatives in the Bakersville area, which is probably what led my grandparents to move there in their sixties. My DNA test results show clusters of matches in southcentral Pennsylvania and in Western North Carolina. It feels like a significant coincidence that I moved to central Appalachia knowing nothing of these family connections, as though some inexplicable force drew me to where my ancestors had lived. I recently connected with a fourth cousin who lives in the same town where I now live. (We haven’t yet determined exactly how we’re related, but it’s pretty cool nonetheless.)

Bea told me she knew my father would be proud of me, which was such a sweet thing to say. She told me about her own immediate family, and we shared photos of our kids. Like Judy, Bea was warm, friendly, and easy to talk to. Although we only met once, sitting in the coffee shop, it felt as though we could have known each other for years. Meeting these two cousins had none of the awkwardness of meeting my siblings and mother — maybe there was just less inherent pressure and anticipation. It was so nice to talk to people who were slightly more removed from my immediate family, who could provide some broader perspective and a connection to the bigger family tree.

After our meeting, Bea sent me some photos of my grandparents. Although their faces were a little hard to see in the old black-and-white photos, I loved seeing the images. Most people probably take old family photos for granted, but for someone like me, who grew up not knowing anything about my ancestors, photos like these are oddly grounding. As I continue to comb through records on ancestry.com and connect with more relatives, I hope to be able to see more old pictures of the people who came before me.

I saw an interesting post on Instagram a few days ago, on an account that focuses on issues faced by adoptees. The author argued that while people who have always known their biological families tend to talk about their ancestors, family history is not necessary for a person to feel complete. The post struck me as I was working on this blog post (I wish I had saved it to share here, but unfortunately I cannot find it now). Everyone’s experience is different, of course, but for me, learning more about my family has helped me to feel like I have a more definite place in the world. While there is still so much I don’t know, meeting Judy and Bea, who actually knew and remember the people from whom I directly descended, helps me to feel a bit more grounded.

If you enjoyed this post, please share.