“And how are they related to us?”
I 100% blame this sentence for my nosedive into genealogy.
Because what started as a simple family question has somehow turned into years of research, mystery-solving, record-hunting, accidental spiraling, and me becoming the person who hears a random surname and immediately wonders:
“Wait… are they one of ours?”
At this point, I’m so deep into the genealogy rabbit hole I’m not entirely sure I can still see the surface.
Honestly?
I’m not mad about it.
The Origin Story
It’s hard for me to remember the exact moment I became interested in family history.
I’ve asked “how are they related to us?” so many times that it all kind of blends together now. But I do remember this: I’ve always wanted to understand things. To find the pattern. To solve the puzzle.
I’m a problem solver.
Which is a great personality trait in many ways…
And an absolutely terrible shoulder devil in others.
Because genealogy is basically one giant puzzle where half the pieces are missing, a dozen people have the same name, someone moved states without telling anyone, and at least one record was apparently written by a person allergic to legible handwriting.
So naturally, I was hooked.
Two Very Different Sides of the Family
My parents’ families are almost complete opposites in a subtle way.
Not necessarily in the dramatic, Hollywood-style way — although maybe a little.
My mom’s side is very much “born-and-bred, land-worked people.”
She was born in a small town of maybe 200 people, just down the road from the “big town” of about 1,000 people.
She grew up in a small country home in a family of six, surrounded by cousins, aunts, uncles, grandparents, and neighbors who were somehow “related” if you looked hard enough.
The kind of place where if you hadn’t seen your cousin in 48 hours, unofficial home inspections were launched.
My dad’s side, on the other hand, was more suburban/city. He was born in the city center of a major Midwestern metropolis and grew up in a more standard family of four.
His family was still close, but the togetherness seemed more tied to events:
Thanksgiving at Uncle Dick’s.
Christmas at Grandma and Grandpa’s.
Spring Break with Aunt Mardelle.
The family was there, but it felt more scheduled.
Mom’s side felt like family just… existed everywhere.
At holidays. On farms. Down the road.
In town. In stories.
In every conversation that started with:
“You know so-and-so…”
No, Grandma.
I absolutely did not.
But now I want to.
The First Rabbit Hole
Mom’s family definitely started it.
When you show up to Thanksgiving and Christmas every year and there are what feels like 100 “family members” there, you get used to it pretty quickly.
But eventually, at least for me, it hits you:
“Who the heck are all these people, and how are they family?”
Every time I listened to my grandma tell my mom about how Cousin Brian was doing, or heard Grandpa say we should stop and see Aunt Reba, or drove past a house while someone mentioned that the old Smith cousins’ farm needed repairs — even though the Carters lived there now — my curiosity grew.
I didn’t just want to know the names.
I wanted to understand the connections.
Who belonged where?
Who married into which family?
Why did every conversation seem to involve at least three branches of the family tree?
And why did my mom’s hometown have a running joke that everyone was related by blood or marriage if you looked hard enough?
At some point, my young child-to-teenager brain decided there was an obvious solution:
“I’ll just write it down.”
Sure. That sounds simple.
Famous last words.
I Thought a Family Tree Would Solve Everything
I had seen family trees before.
I understood the basics:
Children connect to parents.
Parents connect to grandparents.
Grandparents connect to their parents.
Easy enough, right?
I knew the terms:
Cousin. Aunt.
Grandfather. Great-grandmother.
And I thought if I could just map everyone out, I would finally understand why every family reunion felt like half the town had shown up with a casserole and a vague explanation of how we were connected.
My first attempt was on the first page of one of those yellow Office Depot writing pads.
At first, it probably looked manageable.
A few names here. A few arrows there.
Maybe a cousin line or two.
Then suddenly:
“Wait… how do the Cases fit in?”
Then:
“How many siblings did Dad’s grandparents have?”
Then:
“What do you mean William II?”
And that was the moment I realized this was not going to be a cute little chart.
This was going to be a project.
A big one.
Possibly with emotional consequences.
Wait… What Do You Mean “The Second”?
The title of “the Second” or “II” felt like something for royalty.
Or really rich fancy families in movies.
Not my common, standard, normal family.
But if there was a William II…
There had to be a William I somewhere, right?
And if there was a William I, then where was he?
And why had no one mentioned him?
And who else was hiding in the branches?
That was the point where I started moving from:
“I just want to answer this one question.”
to:
“Who else is out there that I don’t know about?”
Which, as any genealogist knows, is how they get you.
One question becomes five.
Five becomes fifty.
And suddenly you’re emotionally invested in people who died 200 years before you were born.
The Moment I Accidentally Became the Family Historian
This wasn’t an overnight obsession.
It built slowly.
But there was one moment when I realized I had crossed some invisible line.
Grandma called me to ask how Cousin Bill was related to her.
I was about 20 at the time, sitting in my college dorm room in college.
And I knew the answer.
Not guessed.
Not “let me ask someone.”
I knew it.
Cousin Bill was her second cousin through her father’s side.
That was the moment.
It was over.
I had been promoted.
No formal ceremony.
No plaque.
No handwritten certificate.
Just the quiet realization that I had somehow become the new unofficial family historian.
And that flipped the switch to:
Grandma, I’m going to need all those photo albums and binders with the letters in the closet.
Thanks.
Where I Went Wrong the First Time
Of course, there were mishaps along the way.
And by mishaps, I mean:
Mistakes.
Confusion.
Occasional curse words.
The usual.
One minute I was researching a great-grandfather named John, and the next I was trying to figure out how his wife could have had a baby at 55.
Surprise.
She didn’t.
But their son John’s wife could.
Which meant I had two Johns.
And now I had to figure out which record belonged to the senior John and which belonged to the junior John.
Because apparently, my ancestors heard the concept of “unique naming” and said:
“No thank you.”
Also, side note to any of my ancestors beyond the grave:
Why on earth were you allergic to every name except the same five?
Did Mary save the family from complete destruction?
Would the curse of William be released if you stopped using his name multiple times each generation?
Honestly, it’s amazing how I now question any “Martin” that pops up in our family.
Like:
“He’s not ours. He’d be named John.”
Genealogy changes you.
What Kept Me Hooked
So why didn’t I quit?
Well…
I did, for a while.
Genealogy has always been one of those things that pulls me back in waves. Sometimes I’m actively researching, sometimes I step away, and sometimes I see one tiny clue and suddenly I’m back with 37 browser tabs open and a deeply unreasonable amount of questions.
But the reason I always come back is simple:
At some point, the names stop being just names.
They become people.
People with personalities.
Ideas. Dreams.
Regrets. Grudges. Bad decisions.
Favorite cows.
Which brings me to one of my favorite family stories.
The Cow That Started a War… Sort Of
One story that really sealed genealogy as a lifelong puzzle for me was about a many-great-uncle named Jacob.
From what little I know about him, Jacob and his family were farmers in the late 1700s. They lived in the British Colonies on a farm in what is now the American South.
He was there during the American Revolution.
And according to his obituary, he apparently didn’t intend to fight at first.
He didn’t seem like a particularly political guy.
I stumbled upon a photocopied snippet of his obituary in one of Grandma’s binders. (Thanks Grandma!)
Then the British came.
They demanded a place to stay in his home and had soldiers on his farm. At first, Jacob welcomed them.
But when they left, he realized they had shot his favorite milking cow.
Unclear if it was for meat.
Target practice.
Boredom.
General British soldier nonsense.
Doesn’t matter.
From that moment on, Jacob decided he and the family were against the British and would fight in the Revolution.
At first, I couldn’t imagine signing up for war over a cow. Even a favorite cow.
I’ll be honest I may have laughed a little in confused disbelief.
But then it hit me.
At that time, a milking cow wasn’t just “a cow.”
It was food.
Milk. Butter. Cheese.
A resource.
A major piece of a working farm.
Possibly the difference between feeding your family well and struggling harder than you already were.
So no, Jacob wasn’t just mad about a cow.
He was mad because someone had destroyed something essential.
Something personal.
Something his family depended on.
So suddenly,
I respect the pettiness and the principle.
That was the moment genealogy shifted for me.
These weren’t just names anymore.
The Moment It Became Real
Once that clicked, I couldn’t unsee it.
These people weren’t waiting around in history for me to discover them.
They had already lived. They had loved.
Laughed. Cried. Worked.
Made mistakes. Held grudges. Lost things.
Built lives. Raised families. Moved towns.
Celebrated new family members. Buried people they loved.
Made choices that eventually, somehow, led to me existing.
Which is both obvious and completely wild if you sit with it too long.
We all know there were people before us.
History class covers that part.
But genealogy makes it personal.
It makes you realize:
“They existed in a time where I never did. And now I exist in a time where they no longer do.”
People weren’t real because I found their names.
They were real already.
I’m just piecing together whatever remains of their story so they aren’t forgotten.
And that is both relaxing and pressure-increasing in the exact way genealogy likes to be.
Because suddenly I’m not just collecting names.
I’m trying to document lives I never saw.
Lives that mattered.
What I Know Now That I Didn’t Then
If I could give anyone starting genealogy one piece of advice, it would be this:
Write. Things. Down.
The number of times I remember thinking:
“I’ll remember where this came from.”
is staggering.
What was I trying to remember?
No idea.
Where did I find it?
No clue.
Will I ever find it again?
Even time may never tell.
So if you’re just starting, here’s my lovingly-earned advice:
Start small.
You do not need to trace your family back to the beginning of time by next Tuesday.
Though I completely understand the temptation.
Write things down.
The who.
The where.
The how.
The why.
The “I’m not sure but this feels important.”
All. Of. It.
Do not trust names.
Or spelling.
Or ages.
Or the idea that “surely this family wouldn’t reuse the exact same name six times.”
They would.
They did.
They will humble you.
Expect chaos.
It will come whether you’re ready or not.
But if you prepare even a little, you can harness the chaos instead of letting it completely take over.
Most days.
Maybe.
If You’re Just Starting
If you’re just starting your genealogy journey, I am genuinely excited for you.
It can be frustrating.
Confusing.
Messy.
Occasionally ridiculous.
But it can also be incredibly rewarding.
You may start with one question and end up uncovering stories you never expected.
You may find people you didn’t know existed.
You may finally understand why half the town showed up at family reunions.
Or why everyone was named John.
Still working through that one personally.
If you’re not sure where to go next, I put together a simple guide to help you start without immediately spiraling into chaos:
And if you’ve been doing genealogy for a while and are just stopping by for a visit:
I stand with you, my friend.
This journey may not always be glamorous, but I do believe it strengthens the way we understand and remember the past.
We may not be able to recover everything.
But we can remember what we can.
And sometimes, that starts with one question:
“And how are they related to us?”
Just don’t forget to watch out for rabbit holes.
They’re always inviting.
But there is a time and place to be Alice.
Choose wisely.