Dear Les,
I stumbled across your obituary by accident on a Tuesday afternoon in November 2017.
I was chatting with a friend about adoption, and I meant to find a picture of my half sister, Rachel, to show that our skin tone and hair color was like yours. Apparently those genes run strong: the deep brown hair and skin with yellow undertones. Your obituary came up in the search results.
You were only 60, and were diagnosed with a glioblastoma a mere 5 months before you died from it on November 22, 2016. A year ago. I’ve known your name and where you were but had not yet made contact. Your two other daughters, Rachel and Stephanie, were the key reason why: do they even know about me? Would they want to? But the question that was always burning in my heart was if I often crossed your mind. How could I not have, with your two younger daughters a constant reminder of the one that came before?
This week I have grieved deeply for your loss. Not for the man I never knew, but for the loss of the opportunity to get to know you. I could have contacted you at any time in the last few years, but the truth is, what I wanted more than anything was for YOU to find ME, because I was afraid that I would reach out and you wouldn’t want to know me. Your obituary says you loved golf, had many friends and would talk about your daughters to whoever would listen. It’s amazing how much that sounds like my Dad’s obituary. The man who raised me will always be my Dad, but there is no doubt that you are a part of me, too, and it’s incredible how similar you sound. If so, I think I would have really liked you.

My birth mom, Jill, found me 10 years ago. She has said you were kind and treated her well, but that your lives were on different paths. I’ve enough now to understand what that means. She also said that when she saw one of my baby pictures that she was astonished how much I looked like you.

I’ll never get to tell you that I turned out okay, or that I have never been angry or resentful that you gave me up, or that I’m happy you had what sounds like a wonderful life, or find out what aspects of my personality were yours, too. But I’m pretty sure that if you knew me you’d be as proud of me as you are of Rachel and Stephanie. ❤
My questions will never be answered, but I will still carry a piece of you with me.
Andrea ❤

I have very strong memories of being a small child and my adoptive mom telling me that my tears weren’t real: that they were crocodile tears, that I was faking it. When I got my heart broken by my very first love in high school, I was an absolute mess for at least a month. I remember binge watching movies (before Netflix was even a thing) just to keep myself distracted.
I crave intimacy from all people. I have always been willing to give myself to others emotionally, wanting to share who I am in hopes of learning, in return, who they are. For me, beauty is in the totality of someone, not just their parts. I believe that the more you know someone, the easier it is to love them, because you can see how they wind their way through the world. The sad part for me is how not everyone feels comfortable sharing those parts of themselves. I both understand and lament this fact.

Winters are really hard for me. I thrive on warmth and long summer sunshine-filled days. I love to be outside, so when it’s cold and snowy and I have to stay inside it drives me to a bit of a depression. I’m not remotely alone in this: it’s estimated between 10 and 20% of Americans report noticing a lowering of mood or an increase in sadness during the shorter days of the year.
Symptoms of summer SAD include:
Find fun things to do that are winter-only. Skiing? Snowboarding? Snow shoeing? Building snow men? Or if you don’t like to actually be outside in the cold, take a class in the winter. Do something that makes winter special for you.