I’ve lived in Michigan for the past 56 years, but today I went back to my hometown, Celina, Ohio, to sign copies of my memoir, Dr. Beare’s Daughter: Growing Up Adopted, Adored, and Afraid, at The Druid’s Library Book Shop.
My memoir describes my growing-up years in Celina in the 1950s and ‘60s as the adopted, only child of Dr. Ralph and Lucinda Beare, who gave me material things and opportunities not afforded most children. My father was a respected doctor and surgeon, and he took me everywhere in town with him from the time I could walk. While my name was “Janice,” most people in Celina knew me as “Doctor Beare’s Daughter.” And most everyone knew I was adopted.
As an adopted child, I believed that my value to my parents was in being that golden child that they had always wanted but never had—their own. For all my growing-up years, I acted the role of Dr. Beare’s Daughter, saying and doing whatever I imagined was expected of her while banishing my own thoughts and impulses from my mind. After all, she was valuable, and real me (whoever that might be) was of no interest or importance. My struggle to fill the shoes of “Doctor Beare’s Daughter” came with an erasure of my own identity.
After high school and college, I moved away from Celina and started a new life as a wife, mother, writer, and editor. When I was in my early thirties, my parents died. Grief blew me apart like a bomb and left me in jagged pieces. Depression made it impossible for me to move forward. I went into therapy in order to keep functioning for my family. In therapy I learned that while I’d been able to push my true self from my mind, she had taken refuge in my heart and still lay there waiting to be freed. And so, I took the long, painful journey of putting together the pieces of real me, by allowing my own likes, desires, beliefs, and values to rise into consciousness. Then I was able to search for and learn about my birth families. Only after I had accomplished both of those things did I finally feel genuine and began to live without wearing a mask.
At the age of 76, I decided to write my memoir to tell my children and grandchildren what it was like for me growing up. I’d become strong enough to give that little frightened princess of long ago, her own voice. Then I held my breath and published her story—giving her a megaphone. I thought it was the bravest thing I’d ever done.
That is, until today. Sitting at a table, my books piled beside me in the Druid’s Library, I thought about how there were still some people living in Celina that likely remembered me and my parents, and that some of them had probably read my book. And they might just show up at my book signing. I suddenly realized that signing my book in Celina was the new, bravest-thing-I-have-ever-done. People who remembered Dr. Beare’s Daughter—having seen her from the outside—now knew me from the inside. I calmed my anxiety by telling myself that no one would show up.
I was amazed at how many people came to have their books signed or to buy one. They welcomed me with hugs and wanted to tell me their memories of my dad and of me and who they had married and what they had done with their lives. They told me that they enjoyed reading my book. And here’s the most amazing part: they didn’t just get their book signed and leave—they sat down and hung out, talking with me and each other about old times. Signing my book in Celina turned out to be one of the best things I’ve ever done. Being genuine means finding out just who you are and what you stand for. And then finding the courage to be that person to others. Validation comes when they like you anyway. And it feels amazing.