Meeting a Biological Parent: Let Go of the Expectations

At age 57, I met my biological father for the first time. He was 86.

Even now, those words feel both miraculous and impossible. The experience was deeply human—equal parts awkward and sacred, tender and tangled. There were no movie-moment reunions, no tidy scripts. Just a real person with a story of his own, sitting across from me, rewriting mine.

For those stepping into a reunion with a biological parent later in life, know this: the journey is complex, and your feelings may change daily. You may feel elated one moment and heartbroken the next. You may wonder where to start, what to ask, what to say. And that’s okay.

What helped me most? Slowing down. Letting go of expectations. Staying grounded in who I’ve become, while remaining open to what this new connection could be. It wasn’t about rewriting my life—it was about allowing room for an unexpected chapter.

This wasn’t a reunion. It wasn’t a homecoming. It was a beginning—quiet, complicated, sacred. And like many beginnings, it didn’t come with a script or a guarantee. It came with a heartbeat, a nervous breath, and the slow realization that this was real.

When I opened the door to that initial meeting, I also opened the door to the story I had carried for decades—the story of who I thought I was, who I was told I came from, and what it might mean to meet the person whose absence had always been felt but never fully understood.

For anyone who’s experienced something like this, you know: it’s not just about the facts. It’s about the feelings underneath. The longing. The questions. The wondering if you're anything like him. Or nothing like him. Or somewhere in between.

And it’s about expectations—spoken or silent—that come crashing into reality.

I’d love to tell you that everything made sense the moment we met. That we hugged, cried, and filled in all the missing years. But the truth is, it was more tender and more tangled than that.

There was no dramatic reunion music. No movie-ending moment (even though my dad has many Clint Eastwood qualities and characteristics). Just two people, sitting across from each other, realizing they shared DNA but not a history. And what I learned—what I’m still learning—is that to truly meet someone, especially under these circumstances, you have to let go of who you hoped they would be.

Letting Go, Gently

Letting go of expectations doesn’t mean letting go of hope. It means releasing the pressure for the moment to look a certain way. It means allowing people to be human—flawed, awkward, unsure. It means letting the relationship be what it is, not what you dreamed it might be.

I had to release the image of the father I’d created in my mind—the one who might swoop in and make sense of everything. I had to stop expecting answers to every question, or healing to come in one conversation.

Instead, I began to notice small things: a shared expression, a similar sense of humor, a way of thinking that felt oddly familiar. I found meaning in the now rather than in the years we’d lost.

And with that shift came something deeper than closure. It was acceptance.

Not of the circumstances, necessarily—but of the truth. The truth that he is who he is, and I am who I am, and what we choose to build—if anything—will be shaped by mutual grace, not obligation or fantasy.

If You’re on a Similar Path

If you’ve found a parent later in life—or discovered that someone you loved wasn’t who you thought they were—I want you to know this: You don’t have to force a fairy tale.You don’t have to perform forgiveness or chase connection.You are allowed to hope, to hurt, to take space, and to proceed slowly.

And most of all, you are allowed to let go of expectations so that you can hold what’s real—with both hands, gently.

Meeting my father didn’t complete my story. But it added a new chapter—one I never thought I’d get to write. And maybe that’s the grace in all of this: not in tying up loose ends, but in being brave enough to begin again. Be strong, my friends.