On what makes us family.

A little about my story.

“The problem with the world is that we draw the circle of our family too small.”

—St Teresa of Calcutta

This photo was taken in the 1970s, soon after my parents brought me home through the gift of adoption (please enjoy the kitchen wallpaper—I’d 100% have that now).

Before my adoption, I was fostered for a few months by a couple who, as my mother recalled, had two small boys of their own. Apparently, they’d even hoped to adopt me themselves. At the same time, my brave and beautiful first mother’s hopes of keeping me - the one that made her a (young and unmarried) mother - were diminishing.

So much letting go.

Eight years my elder, my brother and I may not be biological family, as defined by the physical shape and form of our DNA. But in another, no less inextricable way, we are.

“For you created my inmost being; you knit me together in my mother’s womb.“ Psalm 139:13

My story has shown me that family can be knitted together, outside the womb. And it is no less mysterious or miraculous.

Aged 18, and with the blessing and support of my parents, I set out to find and, eventually, meet my birth mother and, years later, Italian birth father, Angelo.

It’s a journey that, over three decades, has taken me from the leafy suburbs of south west London, where I grew up, to the terracotta rooftops of Tuscany, where I was reunited with Angelo in a hotel foyer in Florence, just metres from the famous Ponte Vecchio, and on to the small town in Liguria where the sunlight dances on the sea, the shutters are a deep, glossy green, and the buzz of the Vespas navigating the narrow cobbled streets is the local white noise. That, and the clatter of espresso cups and aperitivi being cleared at pavement cafes, and the opera score of animated conversations. The bells of St Nicholas announce the time of day, just as they have since the church was built, in medieval days, in honour of the saint believed to have spared the town from the plague.

My Italian family welcomed me with homes and hearts wide open. My nonna laid a place for me at her table in a way that made me feel as if I’d always had one there, but had just been away for a while.

Years later, I would return to those same streets with my husband and our own family, and watch our daughter play in the same piazza where our family story began.

Today, that place feels like home to her, too.

Along with the joy, there has been devastating loss and grief, and a anxiety that has ebbed and flowed since my childhood, a result of what American author Nancy Verrier named the “primal wound” of a child’s early separation from their mother.

Over the years, I’ve found myself sharing our story in the unlikeliest of places, at the most unexpected times. I am always honoured when someone entrusts something of theirs with me. Sacred moments of connection.

Since you cannot do good to all, you are to pay special attention to those who, by the accidents of time, or place, or circumstances, are brought into closer connection with you.

—St Augustine

There have been a lot of “accidents of time” along the way.

I am the daughter, sister and mother I am today because of my beloved parents, my first mother, my papa and that young couple who gave me the gift of home and family, for a time. I’d love to find them today, to thank them. And I sometimes wonder what happened to those little boys who were like brothers to me, in those months.

While the nature/nurture debate wages on, I have come to know that what makes us family and who we are can’t be categorised in this way. What bonds us, what welcomes us home and all it means to belong, is mysterious, miraculous, sacred ground.

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Speaking of accidents of time

… just before sending you this week’s newsletter, I discovered it’s National Adoption Week here, which makes this feel especially timely.

The UK charity Home For Good has some good links and info below, for those who might be interested.

homeforgood.org.uk

A post shared by Home for Good (@homeforgood.org.uk)

As always, thanks so much for reading and for sharing your stories, too (in the comments, by replying to this email or via Instagram. I’m looking into ways of exploring this more in this space, too).

The little town of Noli, Liguria, not far from the one where our family story began.