“Even kids who aren’t mixed come out different shades to their parents.” That comment, left under a viral Instagram video, cuts to the heart of a conversation that Thomas Dimery, 42, never expected to have so often—whether his daughters are “really” his.
Dimery, a father from Bristol, England, has been asked repeatedly, both online and in person, if Aurora, 9, and Araiyah, 3, are biologically his because their skin is darker than his. “I do get a little sensitive when someone questions if my children are biologically mine,” he said in a video that’s now been viewed 1.5 million times. The remarks range from dismissive—“Those aren’t your kids, they’re black”—to outright insulting, with one stranger calling raising “someone else’s black children” pitiful.
His Zimbabwean wife, Sharon, 37, faces these moments in real life. While shopping, an older white woman overheard Araiyah call her “Mommy” and replied, “That isn’t your mommy.” Sharon, he says, can laugh off such encounters more easily than he can. For him, the comments land heavier, perhaps because they touch a deeply personal journey to parenthood—two ectopic pregnancies, a long pause before trying again, then a smooth pregnancy with Aurora, followed by two miscarriages before Araiyah’s birth, which came with serious complications. “Even though adoption is a beautiful thing, having biological children shouldn’t be undermined,” Dimery told Newsweek.
Their story plays out against a backdrop of rapid demographic change. In England and Wales, the share of people identifying as white dropped from 86 percent in 2011 to 81.7 percent in 2021. In the U.S., the multiracial population surged by 276 percent in a decade, from 9 million in 2010 to 33.8 million in 2020, while the white-alone population declined. Yet, as researchers note, social attitudes haven’t kept pace. Many still view race through rigid, “either/or” categories, a mindset that can make biracial families targets for misinformed assumptions.
Experts in multiracial identity say these encounters are more than awkward—they can be emotionally taxing. Psychologists describe “racial invalidation” and “multiracial microaggressions” as daily slights that question someone’s authenticity or belonging. For parents, especially, these moments can stir protective instincts and self-doubt. Studies show that beliefs about genetic differences influence how people perceive racially ambiguous faces; those who think human groups are genetically distinct tend to struggle more with categorizing biracial individuals, sometimes leading to avoidance or negative judgments.
Podcasters Emma Slade Edmondson and Nicole Ocran, authors of *The Half of It*, have heard countless similar stories from mixed-race families. “People ask you the question, but don’t ask you how you’d like to be identified,” Slade Edmondson says. “It’s othering.” They argue that open dialogue—about history, identity, and the realities of genetics—can dismantle stereotypes.
For parents navigating these moments, resilience often comes from reframing the interaction. Sharon’s ability to laugh off a stranger’s comment is one example; others find strength in calmly correcting misinformation. Educators suggest simple, factual responses—pointing out that skin tone can vary widely even within monoracial families—and, when appropriate, inviting curiosity into respectful conversation.
Family researchers also highlight the importance of modeling confidence in identity for children. That can mean celebrating all aspects of a child’s heritage, sharing stories of ancestors, and building connections in communities where diversity is visible and valued. Such practices echo what racial socialization experts call “cultural pride reinforcement,” a protective factor against prejudice.
Dimery and Sharon share their family life with over 100,000 followers on Instagram and YouTube, not to prove anything, but to normalize what is, in reality, increasingly common. As one commenter put it: “I’m wondering at this point if they don’t explain basic genetics in high school.” For parents like them, every post is a quiet rebuttal to the idea that love and biology must look a certain way—and a reminder that, in a world still catching up to its own diversity, personal stories can be powerful tools for change.
