Every November, National Adoption Day celebrates families built through adoption. Yet, for many adoptees, this day brings complicated feelings - adoption itself is not always something we feel like celebrating. But I'd like to use this occasion to honor the man whose discovery made it possible for adoptees like me to find the truth that adoption strips away—the truth about who we are and where we come from.

I wasn't prepared to meet scientific royalty the day fate led me to the doorstep of a Nobel laureate. On a work trip with my boss, we were driving from LA to a conference in San Diego, when he exited the freeway and announced we’d be making a quick stop. "Business with my friend Nancy in Newport Beach," he explained as we entered the popular beach town.

"I'll need you to hang out with her husband while I pick Nancy's brain about a new project. I think you and he will hit it off," he said, adding, "Y'all have a few things in common."

And so, as my boss and his associate caught up in a first-floor office, I agreed to remain upstairs, making small talk with the woman's husband, whom I was told was both a chemist and an author. "Sure," I'd said, contemplating how little I knew about chemistry and fully unaware of who I would soon be meeting.

The fit, 60-ish man greeted me with a kind yet rugged smile spread across a tan and weathered face. His windswept hair, laid-back demeanor, and glinting blue eyes gave off a part-mad-scientist, part-California-surfer, part-stoner vibe, which I would learn wasn't too far off the mark.

"Hi. I'm Kary Mullis," he said, shaking my hand and inviting me to join him at his dining table. As I pulled up a chair, the California afternoon sun beamed through tall windows, casting a warm orange glow over the inviting room. My host set a chilled chardonnay before me, and I nervously took my first sip. Had I known the genius company I was keeping, I might have downed the whole thing.

It was then that the Nobel Prize-winning biochemist, Dr. Kary Mullis, the brains behind the polymerase chain reaction technique (PCR), the man whose discovery The New York Times described as "dividing biology into the two epochs of before P.C.R. and after P.C.R.," leaned forward with a question. 

"So Patricia, tell me about you," he asked, as if I was the interesting person in the room.

"You go first," I politely declined, buying time to get my bearings.

I didn't know a thing about PCR or Kary Mullis, but I soon learned that in 1983, not long after my “adoptive” parents confessed they'd never received my birth certificate and didn’t know my true birthday, the psychedelic-sampling, rule-breaking, controversial Berkeley genius was busy finessing the science behind the process that would one day allow me to prove my biological parentage—today's gold standard for nearly any form of DNA testing.

I sat wide-eyed, taking in his story. For an adoptee, this chance encounter was HUGE. When Kary asked again, "Now tell me about you?" all I could think of was seventh grade Heritage Day.

The assignment was simple: wear ancestral attire or your standard uniform, which for me was your typical private school green and blue plaid skirt. But for me, the choice was anything but simple. I could honor my adoptive father's Mexican and Spanish heritage, or my mother's Scottish and English roots.

But in my gut, I knew my outfit was supposed to represent my ancestors. Where I came from. That's when inspiration struck: I'd go as a delivery doctor. "I came from the hospital, didn't I?" I announced to my parents. "I can let people know about adoption!" They thought it was brilliant and creative.

When Heritage Day Shattered the Illusion

Heritage Day came shortly after my parent’s confession. Their revelations had shaken me and led me to really begin to question my origin story. Was I a stolen baby? Heritage Day was just another catalyst to a deeper reckoning with my true identity— my parents' ancestry was not my own. It was a cognitive separation from my non-biological family and my first step toward the murky mystery of my unknown DNA.

In 1982, DNA testing did not yet exist. Adoption books, websites, conferences, and counselors were not yet available, at least not to me. Most adoptive parents didn't know what to say about these feelings, and adoptees had no roadmap.

My identity crisis deepened when I learned the attorney who facilitated my adoption had extorted my parents, threatening to "repo the baby" if they didn't pay more. They paid double and still received no papers.

At 19, I'd discover no adoption had been filed. At 13, however, no apology or explanation could soothe the turmoil in my budding identity. Over the years, I studied my mother's hands, my grandmother's hips, searching for similarities. But no ancestral tree on either of my adoptive parents' sides could hold the weight of my unknown identity. They knew it, and so did I.

Dancing in the Mind Field

So, as I explained to my new famous friend, at 38 years old, with the advent of DNA testing, I found the people I thought were my mother and father—but without DNA, I would never have been able to confirm it. It would have been only a guess. Instead, thanks to his discovery I was able to prove I’d found my people.

"And here I am, well into reunion with both biological parents, thanks to you," I said, raising my glass to the man whose genius made my—and many other adoptees'—reunions possible.

Decades after his discovery, Mullis's big aha moment would earn him the 1993 Nobel Prize in Chemistry and change the world in ways he could scarcely have imagined. His PCR technique would not only allow us to prove parentage, but also make the Human Genome Project possible, empower us to solve crimes using DNA, and perform millions of medical tests for pathogens, including viruses.

And there I sat, seven years before PCR testing would be used to keep us safe from COVID, killing a bottle of California's best with one of the world's smartest human beings—a man generously offering me his kind and full attention.

A born talker, I seized the moment before me. Far beyond idle chitchat, Kary, who invited me to use his first name, shared his love of surfing and his interest in the paranormal. I asked his opinion on time travel and genetic memory, and at my behest, he explained his PCR epiphany in layman's terms, of course.

His eyes lit up as he recalled how he'd been headed to his cabin for the weekend, pulled the car over, found a scrap of paper, and began scribbling out the series of chemical reactions later known as the polymerase chain reaction, or PCR—the technique used to make millions of exact copies of genes almost instantly detectable. It would change the world.

That's right, before me sat the single solitary man who, in my lifetime, enabled me and every adoptee I knew to use DNA to prove who we are and where we came from.

"I don't know if anyone from the adoptee community has ever told you this, Kary, but your discovery is priceless to trafficked babies like me and every adoptee who's ever tried to find their family," I said, eyes brimming with gratitude.

"Without DNA testing, we could never truly know our ancestry, or verify biological parentage. I can't thank you enough."

Dr. Mullis bowed his head, smiled thoughtfully, and said, "You are very welcome." A photo with Kary Mullis taken in his home the day I met him, just after he gave me an autographed copy of his memoir Dancing in the Mind Field.

I went on to explain how his PCR epiphany had allowed me to confirm my biological parentage on both sides, share the highlights of my two biological reunions, and describe the memoir I'd just started writing about the whole experience. Kary noted he'd also written a memoir and offered me a signed copy of Dancing Naked in the Mind Field.

An image of him bare-chested on the beach, his surfboard tucked under one arm, graced the cover and promised a lively read. His inscription: "To Patricia, good luck. It's nice to meet you. I guess it's nice for you and I to know who you are."

The DNA Revolution That Followed

Unfortunately, Kary Mullis died a handful of years after we met, on August 7, 2019, just months before the COVID pandemic, unaware of how many lives his PCR epiphany would save in the coming year.

Having read his book, which lived up to its title and cover, I felt I truly knew him, and the news of his death hit me hard. But his legacy lives on in ways he might never have fully imagined.

Pioneers like genetic genealogist CeCe Moore—who founded DNA Detectives—developed the genetic genealogy methodologies that would become the foundation for how search angels help adoptees identify biological families.

Organizations like DNA Angels and Search Angels help adoptees navigate the complex world of genetic genealogy and use these same tools to reunite thousands of adoptees with their biological families every year. 

Advocacy groups like Right to Know fight for the rights of adoptees, donor-conceived individuals, and others impacted by DNA surprises to access their genetic identities.

When Ancestry.com and 23andMe made consumer DNA testing accessible to the masses, they democratized a technology that had once been available only through expensive paternity tests or criminal investigations.

Today, Ancestry.com's database alone holds DNA from over 25 million people worldwide, with thousands of new users finding biological family connections every single day. For adoptees and others separated from their families of origin, this shift has been revolutionary, though it is still far from easy.

While DNA testing has given us a powerful new tool, it hasn't totally eliminated our struggles. We still beg for sealed records to be opened. We still hire search angels and private investigators. We still face dead ends when our biological families haven't tested or when matches are too distant.

But for many of us, DNA has made the impossible possible. What adoption agencies destroyed in "fires," what sealed records have hidden for decades, science has finally given us a way to uncover, even if the journey remains difficult and the outcome is never guaranteed. The impact cannot be overstated.

Adoptees who were told their records were destroyed, or simply "unavailable" have found their biological families through DNA matches. Donor-conceived individuals are connecting with half-siblings and biological parents. Children of affairs, rape, and one-night stands are discovering the truth about their origins. And yes, paperless black-market babies like me—sold through illegal adoption schemes—are finally able to prove who we are and where we came from.

With the help of his groundbreaking discovery, it turned out I share my adoptive mother's Scottish roots. The green and blue plaid skirt I wore to middle school each day was about as close as I could get to my true ancestry—well, at least a quarter of it.

Last year, on my first visit to Scotland, an unexpected familiarity overtook me; I sensed a kinship, perhaps a genetic memory. The country and her people felt like home.

With DNA markers indicating additional Irish and German heritage, I also understand my affinity for a good Irish coffee and sticky strudel.

Still, I can't stop thinking about returning to the Scottish Highlands for another dram of Balvenie, and traveling to the Isle of Lewis to plant my palms on the famous Calanais stones (made famous by the Outlander series) and hopefully capture a bonny memory of my long-lost origins and ancestry.

What I’m Grateful for on National Adoption Day

Every November, National Adoption Day celebrates the formation of new families though adoption. But for adoptees like me, on days like today, I am not thankful I was adopted.

I am thankful for the man whose genius today helps adoptees find their people—the scientist whose discovery makes it possible and gives us the hope and truth that the adoption industry won't: the truth about where we came from.

And all this hope and possibility, traces back to a day decades ago, when a brilliant biochemist pulled his car over on a California highway and scribbled out an idea that would change everything.

Today I look forward to returning to the Scottish Highlands to visit my people, a place once as lost to me as any time-travel destination could ever be, if not for the work of one real-life chemistry god who did me the honor of allowing me to momentarily dance along in his mind field.

Thanks to Kary Mullis, millions of adoptees no longer have to dress up as delivery doctors on Heritage Day. We can finally wear the tartans, the lederhosen, the hanboks, the saris that our DNA says are truly ours.

We can finally know who we are. And that, I think, is also worth celebrating.