'Inconceivably Connected' podcast helps donor-conceived people tell their stories

When Nick Ludwig was given a 23andMe DNA test for his birthday in January 2023, his parents said there was something he needed to know.

Ludwig, 38, of Lindenhurst, said that while sitting in his parents’ Massapequa kitchen, they revealed a possible chance he and his brother were not biologically related to their father.

“I was replaying my whole life,” Ludwig recalled. “It was like my life flashed before my eyes.”

Ludwig’s parents said they used a process called sperm washing, in which healthy sperm are isolated from dead sperm, to conceive him and his brother. But both times, their father’s sperm and a donor’s sperm were mixed together.

“I guess they convinced themselves that there was a possibility that my brother and I were connected to our father biologically,” Ludwig said.

DNA test results later revealed that his brother was related to their father, but Ludwig was not.

Ludwig is just one of at least thousands of people who have experienced grief, shock, isolation and a multitude of emotions upon learning in adulthood that they were donor conceived. They often find themselves reevaluating their relationships with their families and their own identities.

Ludwig is hoping to normalize and create awareness about donor conception and infertility through a memoir and The Inconceivably Connected Podcast, on which adults who were conceived via donors share their discovery stories and how it may have affected the trajectory of their life.

“There’s just so many people that are going through this and still feel alone, still feel like they have been cheated out of something,” Ludwig said.

In addition to learning he was donor conceived, Ludwig found out he had 13 half-siblings who had basic information on the identity and health records of their sperm donor. They said he asked not to be contacted. Ludwig also learned he was of Ashkenazi Jewish descent.

In February 2025, Ludwig, who works in tech sales, self-published his book, “Inconceivably Connected: A True Story of Shocking DNA Results and Chasing the Unknown.”

Ludwig said he began writing as a kind of therapy, to help him process this “crazy time” of his life, and that became the basis of his book.

“Writing and eventually publishing what I went through was such a cathartic experience, and one that felt healthy . . . almost like reintroducing myself,” he said. “I thought, You know what? There’s got to be a way to help other people do this too.”

Podcasts guests

Each week on the podcast, Ludwig interviews a donor-conceived guest using the online platform Riverside. Guests contact him through his website, inconceivablyconnected.com.

Guests share their stories, with Ludwig asking minimal guided prompts and follow-up questions.

Ludwig said he wanted this “raw, authentic and honest” format of allowing guests to take control of their stories.

“I want it . . . close to reality as it could possibly be because I think that is what resonates with people,” Ludwig said.

Aside from editing out a stumble or cough, Ludwig said he keeps most interviews intact.

“I always say to my guests . . . [that] the less I talk, the better, because it means you’re really covering all the bases and going deep with your story,” Ludwig said. “My job is . . . just to steer the conversation and ask the right questions that kind of uncover more of the guest’s story.”

Since the podcast’s launch in May, Ludwig has interviewed 15 donor-conceived people, including those who reside on Long Island, across the country and even a brother and sister who live in Australia. He said he has listeners around the globe, including in the Philippines and Mexico. He has also found solace in social media support groups and has had meetups with other donor-conceived people on Long Island.

Like Ludwig, most guests discovered they were donor conceived after taking a DNA test in adulthood.

A New Zealand woman who knew since the age of 11 that she was conceived via sperm donor shared how she learned as an adult that her childhood best friend was her sister.

“No one should have to discover something like that,” Ludwig said. “That should be an upfront thing that you’re able to live with from the earliest days.”

The Washington D.C.-based American Society for Reproductive Medicine, in a 2018 opinion, said disclosure to donor-conceived people is “strongly encouraged” but ultimately up to the parents.

Donor Sibling Registry

Upon making their discovery, a donor-conceived person, also known as a DCP, can have feelings of shock, anger, grief and even betrayal, said Wendy Kramer, founder of the Donor Sibling Registry.

But a common theme of each story is that most of those who discovered later in the life they were donor conceived aren’t angry about how they were conceived but that their families kept it a secret for so long.

“It’s anger about being lied to,” Kramer said.

Lori Tirado, 43, of West Islip, said her relationship with her parents became strained after they refused to admit they used a sperm donor even after a DNA test indicated otherwise. Tirado, a cardiology nurse, said despite her pleas her parents denied sharing what they knew about the donor during her third pregnancy in 2020, after her second pregnancy resulted in a miscarriage.

“It really affected my mental health,” Tirado recalled. She said she underwent therapy to process her experience.

Tirado also said she wished she had known the health history of her sperm donor at an earlier age.

After Tirado and her half-siblings connected with their 92-year-old paternal grandmother, they learned their sperm donor had died of multiple sclerosis, or MS, at 49.

She and her two half-sisters have since been diagnosed with an autoimmune disease.

Kramer said those people can experience anger about the lack of accountability in the fertility industry to track donations, successfully conceived offspring and provide accurate health history.

“People will tell you, ‘Oh, your parents wanted you so much, or you’re so lucky to have been born. What are you complaining about?’ ” she said. “Your grief over this new identity is not acknowledged properly. . . . It can be very difficult for some people who don’t understand the magnitude of having to rearrange your identity. It’s a big deal.”

Kramer, a Cold Spring Harbor native who lives in Colorado, created the registry in 2000 after realizing there was no official directory of donor-conceived people when trying to find her son’s sperm donor. The registry allows donors, recipient parents and the donor conceived to create accounts using what information they have.

In 25 years, she said it has made more than 28,000 connections and has about 100,000 members.

But there is no concrete number of how many donor-conceived people exist.

Fertility clinics are not legally required to track successful donations or provide information about or to a donor, Kramer said.

She said her son’s donor was told by their clinic that he would sire no more than 10 children. However, Kramer’s son has at least 30 half-siblings.

More transparency

Nowadays, donor-conceived people, especially children of single mothers or same-sex couples, grow up knowing their origin, Kramer said.

But in the late ’80s and ’90s, when majority heterosexual couples used gamete donation, many recipient parents felt a great sense of shame about their infertility, Kramer said. Some, like Ludwig’s parents, were advised by doctors not to tell their children.

Because of the growing accessibility of DNA tests, many families’ secrets were forced to come to light.

Kramer, who has written guides and gives workshops for these families, said recipient parents should share this information early on in an age-appropriate manner. For example, her son always knew he was donor conceived.

“He would say, I don’t know, what was it like when you found out you had blond hair?” Kramer said her son would say after being asked about being donor conceived. “It’s just a part of who I am.”

‘Our relationship actually got better’

Ludwig said that every late discovery is different, and some have had stronger reactions than others.

At first, Ludwig said his father was reluctant about him openly talking about his conception, but Ludwig told his parents that it does not change their relationship.

“I think the more he realized this was a good thing to not only know this, but to own the truth . . . that our relationship actually got better because of it,” Ludwig said.

He also said his bonds with his siblings grew stronger.

One podcast guest conceived via sperm donor, Cassandra Adams, 42, of Jersey City, converted to Judaism after learning she was biologically half-Jewish.

“The ethnicity discovery was as significant to my journey as the discovery that my dad wasn’t my dad,” Adams said. “There were . . . traditions and values of Judaism that was somehow in me, and I just didn’t realize it until I found out this information.”

Ludwig cautions that reactions vary.

“The ways that people can experience this are far and wide,” Ludwig said. “There are so many different paths that people can take once they find this information out.”

Of his podcast, Ludwig said, “I think if we are able to use our voices to change the system that still somehow exists, then that’s kind of the goal.

“But I think more than anything,” he continued, “it’s just creating that safe space for donor-conceived people who maybe haven’t had the chance to open up about what they’ve gone through, to really say, hey, in this space you have permission to talk about this.”