I flew out to Virginia with my three best friends—Becky, France, and Sandy—to meet Toni and her family for the very first time, and it was incredible.

We stayed at a nearby hotel, and that evening we drove to Toni’s house for dinner. I was finally going to meet my birth mother, her husband, Vito, their daughters, Maura and Elaine, and their son, Rocco.

I was quiet on the drive over, nerves fluttering in my chest. In theory, it seemed awkward—walking into a stranger’s home for dinner with a family I had never met. But as soon as we pulled into the driveway, before I could even get all the way out of the car, Toni appeared on the porch with her arms wide open.

We smiled at each other, and then shared the biggest, most beautiful hug.

From that moment on, our first meeting felt easy—light, natural, and full of stories, questions, answers, and, best of all, laughter. After dinner, I gave Toni a photo album I had made of my childhood and also showed her the report I received from the investigator who found her. While everyone else chatted, she and I sat together turning the pages as I shared stories from my life and she connected the dots of hers. She was so happy to see that my life had been filled with love.

Over the next several months, I flew to Virginia several more times to visit, celebrate her birthday, and spend Mother’s Day together. Later that following summer, Toni, her sister Jo, and Rocco flew out to California to meet my family. Each visit felt like another piece of our story falling perfectly into place.

Then there was Roy.

He quickly made plans to ride his Harley down to the Bay Area to meet me for the first time. I was excited—and a little nervous—to finally see him in person.

He showed up just as promised, tattoos, leather vest, and his hair pulled back in a ponytail. It was one of those surreal, movie-like moments: my father, this rugged, kind-hearted, complicated man, pulling into my driveway with the unmistakable rumble of his Harley.

We spent the weekend driving around San Francisco, going out to lunch, and even stopping by to introduce him to my aunt and uncle. It all felt surreal.

My emails with Roy leading up to that meeting had already built a strong foundation between us. They were long, unfiltered, soul-baring emails that revealed both his struggles and his strength. He carried the scars of war, the weight of lifelong medications, and a quick temper—but he also had a deep sense of humor and a fierce loyalty.

And then I saw the tattoo of my face on his arm.

OMG I was blown away.

It was wild, emotional, and, in its own strange way, beautiful. But that was Roy—raw, real, complicated, and all heart.

Roy soon began an annual pilgrimage out to California to see me. Sometimes he came on his hog, sometimes in a borrowed car, and sometimes by train.

It only took a couple of visits for me to realize how difficult it could be to truly connect with him in person. The combination of his medications and, occasionally, a bottle or two or three of Mike’s Hard Lemonade often left him nodding off in the middle of a conversation. He was also very hard of hearing and didn’t always wear his hearing aids, which made communicating even more challenging.

I found myself repeating things over and over, trying to reach him—not just with my words, but with my heart. It was frustrating and sad at times because all I wanted was to have a real, meaningful conversation with him.

Still, when I look back now, I remember those visits with tenderness.

They were the beginning of finding my own way with Roy. I was slowly learning that knowing someone doesn’t always look the way you imagine it will.

Over the years, I learned that laughter, patience, and a little lightness could go a long way. We didn’t always have the deep conversations I had hoped for. Sometimes connection came in much smaller ways—a shared joke, a smile, a funny look, a story, or simply sitting together.

Those small, imperfect moments became some of the memories I hold most dear.

My family circle was expanding and I feel so grateful to have met and formed relationships with all of my siblings.

Rocco—my half brother—was in his twenties when I first met him. He was instantly easy to love: loyal, generous, fun, with a silly side that felt like home. At the end of my very first visit with Toni, he took me and my friends out for a nightcap at a local bar— where we all laughed until our faces hurt. He slipped into my world as if he’d always been part of it.

During one of my many visits, Rocco picked me up from my red-eye flight, landing around 10:00 p.m. He was gentle and thoughtful, suggesting we stop at a local diner to grab something to eat and just hang out together. My heart swelled—this was something I had always wanted. A little brother. A chance to share our lives, to really talk and connect.

And that night, we did.

We sat there for hours, talking about everything. He shared his dreams. We laughed. We opened up. It felt so easy, and real, and special.

Meeting and getting to know my two step/adopted sisters, Maura and Elaine, gave me another surprising piece of the puzzle of my life.

Here were two grown women who had grown up being loved, cared for, and raised by Toni. Getting to know them gave me a beautiful glimpse into what my life might have looked like if things had been different.

What touched me most was how easily they welcomed me into the family. They barely had any time to process the fact that I even existed, yet they opened their arms to me without hesitation. There was no judgment, no awkwardness—just kindness and acceptance.

Maura and Elaine are kind, smart, funny, generous, and fiercely loyal to the people they love. They’ve made a point of always including me in any big family news and announcements, even though I came into their lives as an unexpected chapter so many years later.

Whenever I visit, they make me feel like I belong. And maybe that’s one of the most unexpected gifts of finding my birth family—not just discovering where I came from, but finding people who were willing to make room for me in the family I never knew I had.

My half sisters—Rhiannon and Kim—each bring something beautiful into my life.

Rhiannon, Roy's youngest, lives in Olympia.  She was only 20 years old when I first showed up in their lives.  She is gorgeous, sharp, and full of humor. We clicked immediately, our text threads are always a mix of sarcasm, funny one-liners, and genuine heart. She makes me laugh, and she makes me feel like I’d always been her big sister.  She grew up knowing Roy and lost her mother when she was a teenager.  Our humor has connected us and allowed us to navigate "all that is Roy" together.  

Kim, Roy’s middle daughter, lived in Texas with her husband, Tom. She has four grown kids and the biggest heart imaginable. We bonded quickly, staying in touch through texts and long conversations. When Kim, Rhiannon, their husbands, and Roy all came to visit us in Grass Valley, it was pure joy. We laughed nonstop that entire trip. It felt really good to see the joy fill Roy's eyes as he finally had all three of his daughters together in one place.  

Kim had endured more than most people could ever bear. As a young mother, she survived a violent and traumatic relationship—one that ended in tragedy.  This is not my story to tell, but I feel honored that she trusted me enough to share it.  She also battled some serious health issues over the years, and in 2022 she suffered a stroke. She fought bravely before slipping into a coma, and a couple months later on Christmas morning, she passed away. Losing her felt like losing a piece of myself and this incredible, fragile tapestry I’d spent years stitching together. Her passing was a painful reminder that time, no matter how generous, is never promised.  I miss our texting and miss knowing she was here on this earth.