Vanessa – Born 1998

Name: Vanessa

Born: 1998

Where conceived: UCSF Center for Reproductive Health (USA)

I found out I was donor-conceived at the age of 22. I had recently graduated from my undergraduate studies in the US and had decided to move to the UK to pursue a master’s degree in Genomic Medicine—a degree choice that now feels like glaring foreshadowing of events to come.

I was about six months into my studies when I started thinking about what I might want to do next. I had studied biology as an undergraduate and took prerequisites for medical school in case I decided to go down that path. But at some point during my master’s, a new prospective career dawned on me: embryology. (Except this time, my interest in the field was more than just a coincidence).

Growing up, I sensed there was something my parents weren’t telling me. I just couldn’t quite pinpoint what it was. I remember the odd occasion when I would catch my parents stopping themselves, as if they were about to say something that they then thought better of. And so, I started theorising. Like many donor-conceived people (DCP), my first thought was adoption. I realised I didn’t look much like my mom. (She is a brown-eyed, olive-toned Italian; I am a fair-skinned, blonde, with blue eyes). But it wasn’t quite that simple, because I did look like my dad, and I had seen photos of my mom during her pregnancy. So, at 13, I plucked up the courage to ask my mom outright what she was hiding. The answer: I was conceived via IVF.

Did this explain why I didn’t look like my mom? No.

Did I accept it as the whole truth? Yes.

Truthfully, knowing I was conceived via IVF was something I found quite cool. As I got older, it was likely at least part of the reason why I developed an interest in reproductive biology. So, nine years later, I went down a rabbit hole researching the life of an embryologist. In doing so, I inadvertently learned more about assisted reproduction, average success rates, alternative options, etc. Long story short, the missing pieces of the puzzle fell into my lap.

My parents had used an egg donor. It made perfect sense.

Once I had the answer staring me in the face, it felt obvious. I felt as though I should have figured it out sooner. But, in all honesty, not hearing the truth from my parents was the hardest part. At the end of the day, my mom was still my mom. That didn’t (and was never going to) change. But the rest—the dishonesty, the altered sense of self, the unanswered questions—was infinitely more challenging to come to grips with.

I initially sat on my newfound discovery without saying anything. The feelings of betrayal, confusion, anger, shock, curiosity, and sadness formed one big mess of emotions that I realised I needed to at least attempt to untangle, before having a conversation with my parents. Once the sharp edges of my new reality dulled just enough, I did exactly that. About a month following my discovery, I got an extension on my thesis submission, with intentions to fly home to California. I had 23andMe results on the way, and while I had hoped to have confirmation in hand before confronting my parents, it was taking too long. I couldn’t wait any longer. So, with evidence pending, I hopped on a plane.

My parents immediately admitted my theory was correct. From there, everything unfolded quite quickly. My parents surfaced the files the donor had filled out when she applied to donate, and, somewhat frustratingly, my 23andMe results came back the very next day. Within 48 hours, I suddenly went from knowing almost nothing to knowing a lot. I knew I was significantly Irish (not Italian), I knew my donor had a daughter (I grew up an only child), and I knew my donor’s name.

Suddenly, I had all the information I needed to look her up. But honestly, I didn’t want to—not yet. Being late discovery, I found the revelation itself to be overwhelming and emotionally exhausting. The thought of adding more to the already very tall pile of questions, realisations, and emotions was just too much to bear. So, I decided to press pause on my journey until everything felt a bit more normal.

In the end, I decided that embryology hit a little too close to home. Instead, I circled back to genomics and decided to pursue a PhD in Human Genetics. I did however start writing articles for The Progress Educational Trust (PET) relating to genomics and fertility. Through this work, I learned about Donor Conceived UK. Then, three years post-discovery, I was asked to sit on a panel of DCP at the 2024 SurrogacyUK conference. While in the beginning I would have cried at the thought of the truth, I now found myself sharing my experience with others—on a stage, no less. That’s when I realised that I was ready to hit play again.

I should mention that despite being on 23andMe from the start, I never had more than a third cousin pop up as a match. Even though I had my donor’s name, I was hoping a match with her on an ancestry service might lead to a more “natural” means of reaching out. Luckily, that’s exactly what happened—we matched on Ancestry. Unluckily, she hadn’t logged on for two years and didn’t see my message. One month, one Facebook message, and one anxiety-filled week later, she replied. And I’m incredibly fortunate to say she has accepted me with open arms.

That said, my story is still very much unfolding. I have more to learn, more boxes to tick, and more messages to write, but I’m grateful for what I know now.

At the start, I felt alone. I felt like no one could truly relate to what I was going through. No one quite knew what to say or how to react. And on top of grappling with my own emotions, I had to constantly weigh probabilities—the probability that Person A knows X, or that Person B will be upset by Y. I’ve since learned this is not a unique experience. Being donor-conceived requires an impressive balance of patience, understanding, awareness, acceptance, and foresight. You walk on eggshells with every step, fully aware that one new match or piece of information could throw a spanner in the works at any moment.

The sheer range of journeys and outcomes among DCP is vast—each of us faces our own unique set of challenges—but like many other DCP, I am passionate about ensuring that we, as a community, have the support and resources we need to navigate our personal journeys. I’m grateful to Donor Conceived UK for making an otherwise isolating experience feel far less lonely and for granting me the opportunity to play a part in ensuring our voices are heard, our rights are met, and lasting change is achieved.