I didn’t tell my mother about the meeting at first. I didn’t want to upset her or add strain to her life. But over the years, Marty and I stayed in sporadic contact. A late ‘happy birthday’. A belated ‘merry Christmas’. We met once more, when he was four hours late. I sensed he was struggling in his own life – not so much unwilling to be there for me, but unable.

During these years, I’d lived largely as a one-woman band. I was diagnosed with panic disorder and ADHD, experienced episodes of depersonalisation and went in and out of therapy. I also built a successful business, returned to freelancing, fell deeply in love, had my heart broken and kept going. My friends became my family.

Earlier this year, when Marty wished me a happy birthday weeks after the day I’d turned 37, something in me shifted. It had been 18 years since we first met. I replied and asked whether he’d ever told his other adult children about me. He responded kindly: his wife knew of my existence, but he wanted a DNA test before telling their children. I understood, even though in my own mind there was never any doubt that he was my father. The result came back a 99.9999998% genetic match.

So, on a balmy night in August, tucked away at a discreet table in a Soho pub, I met my siblings for the first time. They arrived one by one: two brothers and a sister. They were kind, open and funny. We drank and talked for hours, swapping stories. The older of these brothers had already told me, via a message on Instagram, how sorry they were that they hadn’t known about me sooner. That night, I took him on a crawl of Soho institutions I’d grown up in and realised just how different our lives had been. They’d grown up overseas, the children of a married couple, then gone to boarding schools in the English countryside. It was a stark contrast to my experience as an only child in London, heading to my granny’s flat after school because my mum was away.

For a long time, I thought there was a missing piece somewhere else: perhaps in another person, another family, another version of life. But connection doesn’t arrive as a single, cinematic moment. It’s built slowly and imperfectly – often sideways. Through friendships, work, chosen communities and the life you make when you don’t have a template to follow.

Today, my relationship with my family is ever-evolving. My grandmother, who provided me with so much love and security, passed away over 10 years ago. My relationship with my mother and her partner is complex, but when I eventually told Mum that I was in touch with Marty, she was glad that I now have a wider family network to rely on. I continue to build on my relationships with my siblings, who I deeply admire for their kindness. I’m still figuring out where I fit, and still learning how to belong without contorting myself to do so. But I’ve learned there is no one-size-fits-all way to live, no universal order of marriage, children or career milestones that guarantees fulfilment. And no family is normal. My independence was something I built out of necessity rather than choice, because relying on other people never felt safe. But some people who grow up surrounded by support still carry quieter struggles.

We are all shaped by our histories, including our parents. The task isn’t to rewrite them, but to live honestly alongside them. To stay open. To make the most of what we have. And to trust that finding your place in the world isn’t a destination you arrive at, but something you keep choosing, again and again.

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