Somewhere between the swirling ice cubes and the first chewy sip, I find clarity. There’s something comforting about boba, the way everything settles at the bottom until I stir it up. Every drink is a choice. Strawberry green tea or peach? 25 percent sweetened or 50? Popping pearls or tapioca? There are infinite combinations, none of them wrong, and the only rule is that I get to decide what feels right to me. But outside of boba shops, choice isn’t always so simple, especially when it comes to explaining who I am or how I was conceived.

When I was in the third grade, my teacher passed out pink flyers for the daddy-daughter dance. The girls squealed, planning glittery outfits and cutting their heart shaped invitations. I sat there wondering if I should bring my grandpa or my 11-year-old brother, Jackson. But mostly I sat hoping no one would ask me why I wasn’t going. At the time, I felt left out and sad. That’s when I realized I was different. I tried not to cry, because at 9 how do you explain something people often overlook or take for granted?

I don’t have a dad. That one fact, though completely ordinary to me, has shaped the way people react to my existence. 

My dad didn’t leave. He didn’t die. He was never in the picture. My mom chose to be a parent on her own. She picked a 6’3”, green-eyed donor with Irish roots from a spermbank. At 36, she believed she could raise good kids without waiting on the “perfect” man to show up. I have two brothers who were also chosen into a life built not on convention, but on intention.

Strangers assume I must be searching for my “real” father. The internet is quick to remind me that kids without dads are more likely to be “depressed, arrested, or pregnant before 18”. And even well-meaning adults have told me, “every child needs a father,” suggesting there’s something missing in me, something broken.

But I don’t feel broken. I am really happy with who I am. I’ve never known anything different. Sure it would have been great to have another adult in my life who loves me more than anything but it’s not something I fret about. I’ve never lacked love or stability. 

I have great friends who love to tan at the beach, bake, and go thrifting as much as I do. I get to babysit chubby two year olds. And some days I drive to my favorite bench on the bank of Biscayne Bay alone to study and watch the sun set. These small rituals ground me and remind me how full my life already feels.

I’ve learned to awkwardly laugh off uncomfortable questions and gently divert the conversation. But most importantly, I’ve developed empathy, because when you don’t fit the mold, you notice when others feel boxed in too. For example with my friends whose parents are divorced, I don't ask them “Do you wish your parents were still married?” or  “Do you wish your dad lived closer?” I just listen. 

If you let it, assumptions can sink like tapioca to the bottom of your life, quiet and heavy. But I’ve learned to stir it up. To take what people assume about me and remix it into something uniquely mine. That’s how I move through the world now, with curiosity, creativity, and a refusal to flatten my identity into someone else’s template.

Like building the perfect boba order, I craft my life through choice. I embrace the sweet, the unexpected, the weird textures and the messy feelings. And just because my story doesn’t come with a father doesn’t mean it’s incomplete. It just means it’s mine.

So if in twenty years I’m not actually “depressed, pregnant, or in prison” and I’m instead sitting somewhere with a cup of “strawberry green tea, 25% sweetened, with tapioca and passionfruit pop, and light ice,” doing something I love with people I love, maybe people will finally stop asking, “But where’s your dad?” and start asking the better question: “Who are you becoming?”

And I’ll answer, with full confidence: someone worth stirring for.