I like to write about feminism and being tough, but way down deep in my heart there has always been a little girl who wished Santa would bring me a daddy so I could be his girl. I never had a father who loved me the most, someone to run to when things got hard, someone who knew everything and could fix whatever needed fixing. I walked myself down the aisle at my first wedding, and my son accompanied me at my second.
At ten I found out the distant, unloving man I called dad wasn’t actually my dad. Instead, my father was an anonymous medical student who donated sperm back in 1978 at Oregon Health and Sciences University, years before conceiving with a donor was anything resembling normal. While this was quite a bomb to drop on a tween girl, I primarily felt relief that it wasn’t my real dad who didn’t love me. However, this discovery kicked-off years of fantasies of my real dad. Who was the faceless, nameless medical student? He must be wonderful! Surely if we ever meet, he will get me and love my deeply like a real father should!
Running didn’t bring me my biological father, though I thought it did for a day or so. Running brought me the next best thing: my friend Lonn.