Genealogy has ruined me in the best way. I can be perfectly content all day, and then I see a hint, a record index, a cemetery photo, or a single line in a probate packet, and my brain flips a switch. Next thing I know, I am down a rabbit hole, zooming in on handwriting that looks like it was written during an earthquake, trying to decide whether that squiggle is an “S” or a “J.” I have learned to accept this about myself.
I am a genealogist, which means I do something most people only do once in a while, and I do it on purpose. I chase names. I follow families across counties and decades. I compare sources that disagree with each other like they are arguing relatives. I build timelines, map migrations, and try to figure out why somebody disappeared from the records in 1900 and reappeared in 1910 with a different first name and the same three children. And when I get it right, when the evidence stacks up, and the puzzle clicks into place, it gives me a kind of satisfaction I do not get anywhere else...
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