Part 6: A Journey of Faith and Discovery

The moment had arrived. Stepping off the plane back in Iowa after a transformative 30-day journey, I could hardly believe that senior year of high school was just around the corner.

World Youth Day had left me in a state of awe, grappling with the profound experiences and connections I had made. I was still buzzing from the energy of it all, especially after my conversation with Fr. John. His words about my unique calling echoed in my mind, stirring a whirlwind of thoughts about what my vocation could truly be. What signs was I meant to discover?

But amidst the excitement, there was a silver lining: school was about to start again. I was ready to dive into my senior year, and with it came my final season of softball. My heart raced at the thought of playing at the collegiate level; Division I Athlete was my dream, and every ounce of my energy was directed toward that goal.

I had been training hard at Morningside College with my cousin Beau, an all-American football player turned coach for the Varsity Softball team. No one knew how to push me quite like he did. He recognized my competitive spirit and passion, always helping me channel it effectively. Our sessions were intense; it was a full workout that often left me breathless and sometimes puking! If I didn’t give it my all, it wouldn’t be due to a lack of effort!

As I looked forward to the challenges ahead, I felt ready to embrace whatever came my way. This was going to be a year of growth, determination, and maybe even a few surprises along the way!

The most challenging aspect of my life was navigating this newfound faith and insatiable curiosity while trying to balance the other side of me that craved time with friends. I wanted to stay socially engaged and truly savor my senior year.

It felt like a constant struggle, like a tug-of-war within myself. One moment, I was filled with a desire to learn and grow spiritually, and the next, I was caught up in the laughter and camaraderie of my friends.

Luckily, playing Varsity Basketball kept me occupied and in shape. I’ve always loved the game; it was where I poured my heart and soul, and it became a crucial part of my identity.

Amidst all this, I was fortunate to have an incredible guidance counselor. She encouraged me to channel my energy into something positive, something that could make a difference.

That’s when inspiration struck. Out of twelve students selected from across the state of Iowa, I was chosen for the Herbert Hoover Uncommon Student Award-from a literacy program project I created. My goal was to send gently used children’s books to Guatemala. The idea blossomed after my counselor shared her experiences on mission trips, revealing how books were a luxury in those communities.

I teamed up with our Spanish teachers, and together, we engaged our classmates in translating the books. The thought of creating a library for orphaned children, giving them access to stories and knowledge, felt monumental. It was a huge accomplishment for me, and I owe so much to her. She was my rock, supporting me in ways she may not even realize.

This year was already shaping up to be one of growth and genuine connection.

I wasn’t confirmed yet, but I felt a strong pull to join the confirmation class. Confirmation is known as the third sacrament of initiation in the Catholic Church, and I was ready to make that outward sign of faith.

One of the requirements was to provide a copy of my baptism certificate. So, I headed to St. Michael’s Church, where I knew I had been baptized. When I received the certificate and pulled it out, I was stunned to see the name Katie Ann Graves written on it.

Graves?!? That was my mom’s maiden name. How could my baptism certificate be in my mom’s maiden name if my parents were married? Something didn’t sit right with me. An overwhelming sensation washed over me, and without hesitation, I rushed over to my grandparents’ house. They were my rock, my biggest supporters who never missed a single one of my games.

As soon as I arrived, I quickly greeted them and dashed straight to the attic, where the boxes of my baby pictures were stored. I dumped them out, frantically searching for a picture of my dad and me when I was a baby. I had to find one! But as I dug through the piles, I realized I couldn’t find a single one that seemed to be from before the age of three.

Then, two vivid memories struck me like lightning. The first was from when I was around four years old. I was at a daycare center, eating my cinnamon graham crackers and milk, my feet swinging back and forth from the chair. During a conversation, one of the workers casually mentioned, “You know you were adopted?” Adopted? The word hung in the air, and I innocently asked what that meant. She explained, “Your dad is not your real dad; he adopted you.” In that moment, my spirit shattered. I couldn’t fully comprehend the weight of her words, but the phrase “not your real dad” echoed in my mind, leaving a deep mark on my young innocent heart.

My dad was my hero—a man who would give everything for anyone, who loved me unconditionally. Who shaped me into the person I was today. How could this be happening!? Tears streamed down my face as I continued to search through the box of pictures, my emotions swirling around me.

Then, another memory flooded back. I was in middle school, competing in sports when a fellow athlete, consumed by jealousy, lashed out at me during practice. She said, “At least I’m not a bastard child.” What was happening? This couldn’t be real life. I felt unmoored, desperate for answers.

In that frantic, emotional state-I knew I had to confront the one person who could tell me the truth—come hell or high water. I was ready to uncover the reality behind my past I desperately needed the truth and I was set out to find it.