I painted Morning Coffee at Wit’s End in 2001. Wit’s End was my happy place. I felt a deep peace there. I enjoyed listening to the call of the loons and watching the blue herons at the shore’s edge. The cottage faced west, and the sunsets were beautiful. This lakefront property in New Hampshire was my dream come true. It was the only place in my life where I felt as if I belonged. I knew I had to capture it on a 5” x 7” watercolor card. I needed this moment preserved forever. 

A behind-the-scenes player in my own game of life, I never felt a sense of belonging with the family I grew up in or, oddly enough, with my husband, even though I loved him. Maybe I shouldn’t have been surprised when suddenly my husband announced he was selling the cottage. My words of protest fell on deaf ears. There was no comfort or support for my grief; it was a solo task.  

If only my solo grief prepared me for the plot twists that were to follow. In 2005, I learned at age 49 that I am adopted. I guess the gift of being a late discovery adoptee is realizing that my problem-solving skills and body type that made me so different than the family I grew up in were due to different DNA, and not because I was the bad person I had convinced myself for all those years that I was.  

The following year, I reunited with my maternal side and discovered I had my birth mother’s personality. As corny as it may sound, I love having her personality and knowing that, without knowing it, she was always with me. My birth mother had dementia when I met her, so I opted not to ask all my burning questions; instead, my needs took a back seat, and I focused on spending time with her. The gift of this reunion was my brother, who I was told was my full sibling.   

In 2014, more secrets were revealed, leaving me divorced and back to the solo task of grieving, which by now was so well-practiced, it should have felt like an old friend. Instead, it was difficult, and I minimized my feelings, going on about my days as if my life hadn’t blown up in my face again.  

Sixteen years after the reunion, a DNA test taken “for fun” revealed my brother and I had different fathers. Devastated, I was once again alone in my grief, and I was happy not to have the sobbing witnessed, but a pair of arms to hold me would have been so welcome.  

I dusted myself off, worked the DNA matches, and found my father. At age 64, I was in a room for the first time with my half-sister and half-brother, who looked like me, a moment forever imprinted on my heart,   

As I look back at this self-portrait I painted of my happy place all those years ago, it feels right that I’m alone on the bench with my coffee.  I sit staring out over the water, mesmerized by the Fall leaves, finally starting to understand how I have spent most of my time minimizing my life’s significant events.  

An adopted friend got me thinking about the question: Did having wonderful adoptive parents extend my time in the fog? I lacked for nothing, except the truth I didn’t know I needed to know. The truth might have set me on a path to self-esteem, perhaps without overeating to self-soothe. I might have learned about the trauma of adoption sooner when I could have accessed help before half my life was over.   

I spent the first 49 years with Kathleen Shea Kirstein’s narrative, where I have my mother’s hands and my father’s love of fishing. Yet, I let my mother down, as I could never live up to her Christmas spirit, her interest in crafting, or her exquisite gift-wrapping skills. Gifts from mom were opened with great anticipation because you knew it would be what you were hoping to open. I continue to dread Christmas because it shows all my flaws. I am a lousy shopper and wrapper.  

I never cried, and I remember getting yelled at by my mom at my grandfather’s funeral. My not crying was seen as simply not caring, which was furthest from the truth.  

I was a good girl who was always attentive to others’ needs, my own needs slipping away unattended. That’s the person I learned to become and embody, but at age 65, I now realize that wasn’t my truth.  

My authentic story is that of Wendy Dudley Reynolds, whose love of driving comes from both maternal and paternal sides. My uncle drove for Standard Oil. My brother drove taxis and propane trucks. I share my love of exploring new locations with my new sister. I learned my birth mother (Mama) was never a crier. I never cried, and knowing this is so validating.  

One Christmas Eve, after I had spent two hours berating myself for my lousy gift-wrapping, I called my brother and asked, “How was Mama at Christmas time?” 

“Well, I hate to sound ungrateful, but she wasn’t very good at selecting gifts or wrapping them, but she was great during the year with stuff we needed or wanted,” he replied.  

I hung up the phone and dissolved into deep sobs. He had just described me. I wish I had asked that question years sooner. This would have saved me so much angst. All those years of degrading myself for what may simply be something that was lacking in my DNA.   

 Growing up in a home that wasn’t perfect but loving in its own way makes it easy for me to cling to the known, the comfort zone, rather than branching out into the unknown. The unknown can be a scary place. To grow, I had to take those nail-biting steps. After living as Kathleen Shea Kirstein for 49 years, I need to tell the story of Wendy Dudley Reynolds for the next however many years I have left.  After all, together, for better or worse, we make one person.  

 Now, in the company of other adoptees, I am learning that adoption carries trauma. I am finding my footing with a new mantra: “You have to feel it, to write it, to heal it.” Despite the adoption trauma, the complex emergence from the adoption fog, and the tremendous grief that has a presence in my life, I have resilience.  

Looking back, I have the knowledge that when I originally sat at my easel to paint Morning Coffee at Wit’s End I was a different person.  I found comfort in not drawing attention to myself. I did what I was told. I couldn’t access my voice to speak up for myself.  

Now I have found my voice, speaking up for my needs, wants, and desires. I discovered that I like five minutes of attention every now and then. I find dyeing my hair in rainbow-colors is bold and my self-care. I have turned collecting first names into fun. I even turned my name on social media to Wendy Kathleen Janet, WKJ for short. (Janet is a name a colleague called me for years as he kept confusing me with someone else in our office.) Each step forward brings me toward my inner happy place.