I went from Sacramento to Spain to find my biological family and myself | Opinion

I boarded a plane to Spain not knowing what I would find. All I had in my hands was a letter, a DNA test and a family surname. I didn’t have an address, a phone number or anyone waiting for me on the other side of the Atlantic, just the name of a small village tucked into the Valley of Valdeón, deep within the majestic Peaks of Europe in Northern Spain.

I left Elk Grove, where I have lived for 17 years, and boarded my plane. The flight felt heavier than any journey I had ever taken. I wasn’t traveling for vacation or research, I was searching for truth.

For most of my life, I had carried a quiet knowing that something wasn’t right. The man who raised me treated me with a distance I couldn’t name. My mother, for reasons of her own, had kept silent.

In 2017, a DNA test revealed what my intuition had always known: the man who raised me was not my biological father. My mother finally confirmed it when I presented her with the results. I learned that my biological family came from Northern Spain — something that both stunned and, in an odd way, completed me.

Armed with little more than faith, I set out to find them. I arrived in Valdeón, a cluster of eight small villages surrounded by green pastures and distant cowbells echoing through the valley. The air was crisp, the scent of the mountains familiar — as though every fiber of my being recognized it. The people spoke in a rhythm that felt like music I’d always known.

When I told the innkeeper my family’s surname, he paused, excused himself and returned with his father, who knew my family. Word spread quickly through the valley, and by the next morning, I was surrounded by cousins who welcomed me with open arms.

When my grandfather left Spain in 1910 to seek a future in America, no one had ever heard from him again. I was the granddaughter who had come home — the missing branch on the family tree.

As I stood in the Valley of Valdeón, breathing the same mountain air my grandfather once did, I knew the circle had closed. He had left in search of a future; I had come seeking a past. And somehow, across more than a century, we met in the middle. The mountains that once watched him leave now watched me return. I didn’t just find my family, I found myself.

A letter to Queen Letizia

One evening, while studying by the window of my rented home in Valdeón — watching the fog roll across the green hills, hearing the cowbells echo through the valley — I felt inspired to write. Surrounded by the same beauty that had shaped my grandfather’s youth, I wrote a story in his honor, “The Man Who Traded a Cow for a Dream.” Feeling a sense of courage and belonging, I sent it to Queen Letizia of Spain.

A few days after returning home, I received an email from Madrid, from Marta Carazo Sebastián, chief secretary to Her Majesty the Queen. The message, bearing the royal seal, acknowledged my story with appreciation and conveyed the queen’s warm regards.

When I read those words, I felt something I hadn’t felt before: seen and validated. At that moment, what had once been taken from me — my sense of belonging and my identity — was finally acknowledged. For so long, I had not been allowed to embrace who I truly was or where I came from. But now, to be recognized by someone I had never imagined would even know my name — the Queen of Spain — made me feel part of something greater.

I had already felt at home while standing on my grandfather’s land, breathing the air he once breathed, walking the same soil he had left behind. But this moment was different. It was as if Spain itself had turned toward me and said, “We see you. You belong.”

An identity rewritten

Today, I am writing a memoir about this journey and developing programs centered on what I call genetic reunification — the process of healing and reintegration that happens when science, story and soul align.

As a mental health counselor, I’ve learned that truth and healing are not separate paths. My goal is to create programs and support groups for those who, like me, have had their identity rewritten by a simple DNA test.

Not every discovery ends in joy, but every story deserves understanding, compassion and a place to belong.

It wasn’t simply validation I felt, but grace — as if both my journey and my grandfather’s story had finally made their way home.

Susan Hutchens has worked as a mental health counselor for over 14 years and is currently pursuing a Master of Arts in clinical counseling at Alliant International University.