I believe there have been defining moments in my life that have gently guided me toward new and wonderful experiences—moments that have clearly illuminated my path. Whether I realized it or not, Spirit nudged me. My gut whispered. And life kept reminding me that there are always infinite ways for it to unfold.

I was 41 when I finally decided—without a hint of hesitation—to reach for something I’d dreamed about for more than 30 years. I hired an agency to help me find my birth mother. It was a big step, but everything in the Universe seemed to be pointing me in that direction. I felt no fear, no doubt—only a deep knowing that this was the right moment. My heart was smiling. I felt lighter just thinking about it. It’s an incredible feeling when life aligns and everything simply feels right. Both of my adoptive parents had passed away, so there were no more excuses, no more fear of hurting anyone. What remained was pure, profound joy and the freedom to finally follow my heart.

I was about eight years old when my mom told me I was adopted. I remember that day as clearly as if it just happened. I came home from school and found her in my bedroom, vacuuming. She called me upstairs, turned off the vacuum, and just said it—plain and simple. Her tone was almost casual, like she was asking what I wanted for dinner. But behind that calm, I now realize how nervous she must have been, how much courage it must have taken to speak those words out loud.  "You are adopted."

I stood there frozen, trying to make sense of what I’d just heard. It felt like time stopped. Then the questions started pouring out of me—Who was my mother? What was she like? Was my sister really my sister? My mom tried to answer as best she could, but there wasn’t much she knew. Just that I’d been born at a nearby hospital, and that my biological mother had been around fifteen years old. That was all.

She reassured me, over and over, that she would always be my mom, my dad would always be my dad, and that my sister—though born to another woman—would always be my sister. We were a family, and nothing could ever change that. As a little girl, I found comfort in her words. But even then, something deep inside me stirred—a quiet ache I couldn’t name. Over the years, that ache never went away. It only grew stronger, whispering reminders of a story I didn’t yet know how to find. 

A lot of things started to make sense to my young mind. Even as early as five years old, when I began kindergarten, I remember feeling different somehow. On my very first day of school, I watched the other kids with their families and noticed how much they all resembled one another — the same hair colors and styles, similar eyes, facial features, skin tones, and even body shapes. When I got home that day, I quietly studied my own family, searching for some physical connection between us. My mom had red hair — I didn’t. My dad had light brown eyes and a big Italian nose — I didn’t.

When I learned I was adopted, it all clicked. It wasn’t just a revelation; it was an undeniable truth — I was biologically connected to someone else. But who? That question echoed in me, even though I had no one to share it with. My family chose never to speak of it again. My dad said nothing. None of my relatives, friends, or neighbors ever uttered the word “adoption.”  It was a lonely feeling.

Looking back, I understand that they were scared — scared of losing me. Their fear drove them into silence and denial. The one time I tried to bring it up, my mom blurted out how terrified she was that I’d run off to live with another family. Her fear seemed so absurd to me. Had they no faith in me? As the years passed, they knew I still longed to know more, yet they continued to hope I wouldn’t pursue it.

The questions kept multiplying, and before long, they cast a shadow over my entire childhood. Who was I, really? I didn’t know what was true anymore. I couldn’t cling to my family identity the same way—it just didn’t feel right.  And that was such a bummer because I had only recently started feeling Proud to Be Italian, like the words printed across my little white t-shirt. But now, that pride didn’t belong to me. It wasn’t my truth. So what was my nationality? Who was my mother? What was she like? What did she look like? Did she ever think about me?

So many questions. So many missing pieces. It was maddening to try to wrap my young mind around it all. I could feel myself slowly starting to disconnect from my family. I was sad—deeply sad—and not being able to talk to anyone about it made me feel painfully alone. Keeping all those feelings bottled up was torture. Deep down, I knew I had to find some way to relieve the pressure that was building inside me. 

My instincts began to guide me, and I started piecing together my own story from what little I knew. Eventually, all of my friends learned that I was adopted—and sometimes, I even told complete strangers. This truth became a defining part of who I was. It was my story, and I owned it. As it continued to unfold, I felt a growing connection—to something, to someone. I became proud of my journey and deeply grateful for the chance to live a loving, healthy life. In another time or circumstance, my birth mother might have had other choices. I was damn lucky to be here. That gratitude and acceptance marked the beginning of my lifelong journey to discover who I truly am. 

As an adult, I took countless baby steps to uncover information about my adoption—and every single time, I was a nervous wreck. I never wanted to hurt my parents or show any disrespect, so I kept my curiosity, and my search, to myself. Still, I couldn’t help it—I ransacked their house whenever I had the chance, convinced they were holding out on me. They had to have my adoption papers somewhere, right? Every time they went out of town, I’d search the closets, the attic, and every locked box I could find. But I never found a thing.

One particularly brave day, I drove down to the county Hall of Records. I parked right in front, sat there for an hour, then chickened out and drove away. Years later, I finally mustered up the courage to go inside. The back wall was lined with big binders labeled with specific dates. My heart skipped a beat when I saw one that read March 1965. The answers I’d been searching for my whole life could literally be right there in front of me!

When I told the woman behind the counter that I was adopted and asked for my birth records, she said they’d been sent to Sacramento and destroyed. Wait—what? Destroyed? I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. How could anyone destroy birth records? I felt completely devastated. Later, my friends urged me not to give up. They were sure the government couldn’t actually destroy birth records. Somewhere out there, my story still existed.

When my parents passed away in 2001 and 2003, something inside me shifted. For the first time, I felt free to search for the truth about where I came from—without the heavy weight of guilt. I began registering with every adoption registry I could find, hoping that if anyone out there was looking for me, they might finally have a way to reach me.

Then, in January 2007, an email arrived from an agency called Kinsolving. Their newsletter included a “New Year’s Special—50% Off!” promotion that immediately caught my eye. The agency specialized in reuniting lost loved ones, and somehow, that discount felt like a little nudge from the universe. My adoptive parents had been huge shoppers who loved a good deal, so it almost felt as if they were whispering from above, Go ahead, Dina—it’s on sale! I smiled through my tears, feeling both amused and strangely comforted.

This search felt different—it was safe, and it was time. The agency guaranteed a find, promising that if the person I was searching for had passed away, they’d still provide information about their next of kin. I would only pay if they located my birth mother or someone directly connected to her. Once she was found, the next step would be mine—to make contact. Just that one word, contact, sent a wave of emotion through me. My heart raced with hope, fear, and anticipation all at once.

On January 17, 2007, I sent the agency the only pieces of information I had—my adopted name, my date of birth, the hospital where I was born, and my birth mother’s approximate age at the time. I hit “send” and sat there, staring at the screen, my heart pounding in my chest. The next day, an email arrived. I signed on the dotted line. Just like that, the search had begun.

It was the biggest leap I had ever taken, and, as it turned out, the timing was no coincidence. January 18, 2007—the day the search officially started—was the sixth anniversary of my adoptive mother’s passing. The symmetry of it all gave me chills. I had lost a mother, found a mother, lost a mother again… and now, maybe, just maybe, I was about to find one once more. The circle of life was spinning in full force.

Three weeks later, on February 9th—my grandmother’s birthday (She passed in 1999), I received another email from the agency. My eyes froze on the words: “The person you are looking for has been found.”

Holy flippin’ crap.

I was completely beside myself. I actually stepped back from my desk to get a better look at myself, as if I could somehow watch this moment happening to me. My mouth hung open. My eyes refused to blink. My heart pounded so hard it felt like it was trying to escape. Everything slowed down, the world suddenly drenched in slow motion. I tried to breathe it all in, to soak up every second. My life was changing right before my eyes. This—this was one of those big, defining moments.  Be the sponge, I told myself. Be the sponge.  Absorb it all.

I paid the agency fee, then just over twenty-four hours later, another email arrived. 

This one had an attachment—my life story. I actually had to remind myself to breathe. My hands shook as I opened it. I was too overwhelmed to read it on my screen, so I printed it out—page after page after page. Seven in all. Seven pages that somehow held the story of me.  I sat there, the paper warm in my hands, my heart racing. I was scared. Excited. Happy. Terrified. I kept glancing around the room, hoping one of my roommates would walk through the door so I’d know this was really happening. I wanted someone to pinch me. To witness it with me. But I couldn’t wait. Not one more second.

Suddenly, a peaceful calm washed over me. I sat down at the dining room table and began to read. The letter unfolded like a genealogy report—page after page of names, cities, and relatives. It was overwhelming at first, a sea of information that took me a moment to navigate. My mind and eyes began searching for little nuggets of truth. What was my mother’s name? Where does she live? Does she have other children? WHAT IS HER NATIONALITY?

As I found the answers, I began highlighting them one by one. With each discovery, something inside me began to shift. The hole in my heart seemed to close just a little, and the weight I had carried for so long began to lift. Though the names were unfamiliar, I knew—deep down—I was reading about myself. I was. Now the question was: what do I do with this? It was up to me to contact her. She had no idea that I had found her.

Later that day, my story continued to unfold. I was living with two of my best friends, and when they got home, this was all we talked about. They were as excited as I was. We made calls, shared the news, and pored over the email for hours. We examined every detail, re-read it again and again, each time uncovering something new. It felt like putting together a jigsaw puzzle of my life. Every name connected directly to my birth mother—and to me.

I finally had her name: Toni Lee Bruce. She was fifty-nine years old—the exact age my adopted mom had been when she passed away. Crazy, right? I had her address, a phone number, and even an email. I entered her name and number into my cell phone contacts, my fingers trembling. The road ahead suddenly seemed both clear and terrifying.

My friends asked what I was going to do next. I didn’t have an answer. All I knew was that I needed to see her. After all these years, that had become the most important thing—to see her face and know that I looked like her. I craved that connection, that proof of belonging. But fear crept in too. What if her family didn’t know about me? What if reaching out caused her pain? I didn’t want to ruin any chance of knowing her.

I joked that if things didn’t work out, I’d just hunt her down and stalk her—park across the street with binoculars and a camera. “Sometimes you gotta do what you gotta do,” I laughed. But my friends talked me down. They told me to wait a few days, to absorb it all, to sleep on it. They were right—but I needed an outlet for the flood of emotions swirling inside me.

So I sat at my computer and began to write. I didn’t know what I was going to say; it was just supposed to be a release, a private journal entry. But before I knew it, a letter poured out of me—honest, tender, and full of heart. It came out in one sitting, raw and real. The next morning, I showed it to my friends. They cried. And that’s when I knew—I had to send it.

Here is the letter that I sent her…

Dear Toni Lee Bruce,

I hope that this letter reaches you in good health and with an open heart.  

My name is Dina Jacopi.  I was born at Sequoia Hospital in Redwood City, California on March 15, 1965.   I was given up for adoption and I believe that you are my birth mother.  

I was raised in a very loving home with a younger sister, two wonderful devoted parents, and a large extended family.  I am grateful to you for the life that I was given.  I have thought about you almost every day since I was a little girl.   I do not know the circumstances that led you to give me up for adoption, but I have ALWAYS felt extremely grateful that I was given a chance to live a good life and I respect your decision.  I have NEVER... EVER felt any resentment or anger toward you. 

I am very fearful of intruding in your life and causing you any pain.  Honestly, it has always been my dream to meet you and I hope that one day we can, but I understand if this is not possible.  I have enclosed a photograph of myself.  My hope is that you write to me and send a photo of you!

Sincerely,

Dina 

Once again, everything was moving in the right direction. Deciding to send the letter to her so soon just felt right. I spent the rest of the weekend handwriting it, pouring my heart into every word. On Monday, I’d take it to the post office. I don’t usually wish for Mondays to arrive so quickly, but this time I was anxious — in the best and worst way. I addressed the envelope carefully and slipped in a recent photo of myself. On the drive to the post office, there were so many what ifs rolling through my mind. 

What if the address was not current or wrong?

What if someone else opened her mail and threw it away?

What if she threw it away?

What if the post office lost it?

For my own sanity, I needed proof that she at least received it. Whatever happened next, I could handle. But I had to know my letter had made it into her hands. So I made one last decision: I’d send it Registered Mail.  She would have to sign for it. 

As I pulled into the post office parking lot, my heart began to pound. I sat in the car, staring at her name written on the envelope. This was it — the point of no return. I was about to reach out to my birth mother for the very first time. The thought was so enormous, it nearly swallowed me. Fear crept in, fast and fierce. I had to shake it off. I had to do this.

I must have looked like a ghost as I handed my letter to the postal worker — blank stare, half-open mouth, barely breathing. The second he tossed it into the outgoing bin, tears filled my eyes. I turned and walked out quietly, sobbing. There was no turning back now. This was really happening.

I don’t know about you, but I honestly believe a Registered Letter should not take more than a couple of days to cross this fair country of ours. I mailed my letter on Monday, February 12, and expected her to receive it by Wednesday — Valentine’s Day, which would’ve been kind of poetic, right? Nope. Valentine’s Day came and went. So did Thursday. And by Friday, I was all twisted up inside. My imagination ran wild: maybe she didn’t want to hear from me. Maybe she was angry. Maybe she’d thrown it away. I felt completely lost.

That night, I went out with friends, and drank too much — probably trying to quiet the storm inside me. The next morning, I paid for it. After multiple, miserable visits with the porcelain god, I was shaky, exhausted, and not feeling particularly attractive. Exactly twenty minutes after throwing up, at five minutes to noon, my cell phone rang.  

I froze. 

The caller ID read: “Toni Lee Bruce is calling”.