Practices of donor insemination have existed since the early 19th century, at least, but until the mid-1980s, no countries regulated the practice (9, 10). During this period of unregulated clinical donor conception, donors were promised anonymity by doctors, and parents were encouraged to maintain secrecy over the details of the conception (11). From the mid-1980s, donor conception regulation was introduced in some jurisdictions, such as Sweden and Victoria, Australia, although legislative regimes were devised to govern clinic-based practices only (9). Attitudes to secrecy and anonymity have gradually shifted over the years and today the importance of donor-conceived people's right to know their donor conceived status and access information about the donor's identity is recognised in some state, national and international policy (see 12–14). Accordingly, in recent years, some jurisdictions have introduced retrospective legislation to facilitate equitable access to information for donor-conceived people conceived in clinical contexts (15).

Outside the clinic, since at least the 1970s, self- or home-insemination has been practiced by lesbian and single women with sperm from a person known to them (16–19). In recent years, social media has facilitated new non-clinical practices, including avenues to finding “online sperm donors” or promoting one's availability and willingness to donate sperm via digital means (18, 20, 21). As such, the scale of non-clinical donation today is much greater than the pre-digital age, oftentimes without the same expectations and obligations between parties (18, 22). Regulators have emphasised the medical, legal, safety, and relational risks of these forms of non-clinical insemination, such as transmission of infections, undesirable legal parentage outcomes, coercive behaviours and large sibling cohorts (23–25). It has been suggested that non-clinical approaches to finding a donor and conducting insemination have democratised donor conception (22), and therefore to some extent threaten the business model of the assisted reproduction industry because recipient parents are able to conceive within the home, for free. In summary, non-clinical conception is difficult to regulate (and monitor) because it is conducted outside the fertility sector, although in some jurisdictions laws dictate maximum offspring numbers (18). In contrast, regulation of donor conception within the clinical context is possible but relatively recent and limited in scope. This means that conflation in terminology of “regulated” with “clinical” obscures the lived experience of those conceived within unregulated clinical contexts, representing an injustice to those generations (see also 26). Similarly, the “known” and “unknown” dichotomy is largely obsolete in an era of direct-to-consumer DNA testing and social media, in which donor-conceived people are able to circumvent regulation to identify donors and donor siblings (27).

Over the last decade a small yet rich body of work has begun to explore the experiences of donor-conceived people (28, 29), with research beginning to capture how this population understand, contest, strengthen, and sidestep regulation (27, 30, 31). Studies conducted with donor-conceived children and adolescents have found that where disclosure of donor conception status occurred during early childhood, youths felt comfortable, positive or neutral about their conception and were curious about their donor or had already established a positive relationship with them (32–34). Similarly, research with donor-conceived adults has revealed that many desire information about and contact with their donor and donor siblings (10, 35–37). Yet, due to the (lack of) regulation in place during conception, or regulation that restricts provision of information until adulthood, many donor-conceived people are not able to access information about their donor or donor siblings during childhood and adolescence. Important scholarship by Klotz (30) has pointed to how donor-conceived people resist “authoritative regimes of ‘kinship knowledge-management’” through digital and genetic technologies (p. 48). Indeed, since 2000, donor-conceived peers have been interacting online, initially via Yahoo groups, which were superseded in the following decade by closed Facebook groups (26, 38, 39). Such social media platforms have not only been key to community formation but also activist organising for legislative reform and exchange of information about direct-to-consumer DNA testing (27, 30, 40, 41). DNA testing offers many donor-conceived people more (timely) information than government donor registries, given that testing can be conducted in a short timeframe, at any age and offer a broader set of “matches” beyond the donor and donor-conceived person (22, 27).

Access to digital technologies for initiating and sustaining donor family relationships raises questions about the role of regulation in a digital age. There is an urgent need for empirical research to inform more rigorously conceptualised understandings of how donor-conceived people imagine their relationships with others (e.g., family members, peers) and with evolving technologies (e.g., reproductive, digital, genetic), vis-à-vis shifting regulatory and policy environments. While researchers have noted that donor-conceived people born in the 1970s and 1980s represent some of the strongest proponents in movements to end secrecy and anonymity, and have long been speaking publicly to educate the general public, policymakers and assisted reproduction providers (9, 29, 42, 43), little research has theorised how donor-conceived people imagine their roles in creating social change in practices of donor conception.

A key concept for understanding relationships and social change is the imaginary. For instance, Smart (2) emphasised the ways in which imaginaries are:

not limited to individual or personal imaginings but also connects with the social and cultural level […] our personal musings, desires, thoughts and emotions about and around relationships are not entirely individual because they are formed in social and historical contexts (p. 49).

The comparative demographics and conception contexts of the online survey and semi-structured interview participants are displayed in Table 1. The survey sample consisted of 91 respondents: 75 were women, 14 were men and 2 were non-binary people. A total of 13 respondents were conceived in the 1970s (14.29%), 46 in the 1980s (50.55%), 22 in the 1990s (24.18%), and 10 in the 2000s (10.99%). Almost all respondents were conceived with donor sperm (98.9%). The majority of participants were conceived in heterosexual family structures (79.1%), and most were conceived within a clinical context (84.6%). Of the 28 semi-structured interview participants, all participants were sperm donor-conceived, the majority were women (82.1%), from heterosexual parent families (89.3%) and were conceived in a clinical context (96.4%). Like the survey sample, the majority of participants were conceived in the 1980s (67.9%), and 1990s (17.9%), and the remaining participants were conceived in the 1970s (7.1%) or 2000s (7.1%).

The first theme developed through our qualitative analysis encompasses how donor-conceived people imagined their individual and collective identity. New sites of genetic knowledge and emerging reproductive technologies have been found to shape contemporary identity practices, positionings and groupings (27, 51). Our findings revealed how participants attempted to individually and collectively make sense of what being donor-conceived meant to them and their families.

A number of participants conceived in same-sex mother-parented families with a non-clinical context positioned donor conception as a method and indicated that donor conception did not figure in the way they understood themselves:

For me, being donor-conceived isn't a big part of my identity, and I don't feel that it has shaped my experience in a way that makes me want to reach out and relate to others with similar situations (Morgan, same-sex mothers, non-clinical conception, always known, survey response)

Other participants, such as Bailey who was conceived in a non-clinical context by heterosexual parents, explicitly articulated that they imagined their situation as different from other donor-conceived people:

I feel that my situation is different to people who do not know the donor(s) or who were adopted (Bailey, heterosexual parents, non-clinical conception, survey response)

The above excerpts reflect how participants resisted (to differing extents) being defined as a donor-conceived person within the context of research focused on Australian donor-conceived people's experience, perspectives and support needs. Bailey, for example, contrasted their “situation” of growing up with a known donor, with the experiences of individuals who identify as donor-conceived, who do not know the donor and thus have more in common with adoptees who similarly may lack information about their parentage. Indeed, many participants gestured to how secrecy and withholding information could contribute to the extent to which someone identified as donor-conceived. Other participants described how mystery figured in their (new) identity:

It's just added a whole element of like mystery to my life, you know […] but, for the most part, it's something I just kind of like put to the back of my mind and don't think about too much. (Olivia, heterosexual parents, clinical conception, interview)

Olivia highlighted the enigma associated with her donor-conceived identity (see also 52) and although she sought not to focus on or deal with this aspect of her life, it was always in the back of her mind, and to some extent haunted her (see also 26).

A number of participants, both non-clinically and clinically conceived, described being told they were “wanted” and how this formed part of their conception story and identity. Henry, for instance, reflected on the “special circumstances” of his conception:

Here, Henry imagines the donor-conceived “we” as a group united by a shared narrative of an uncommon conception. Importantly, Henry highlights a path to discover or co-create an identity, a process of becoming made possible through access to, and use of, digital technologies.

Others, like Ruth, pushed back against discourses of being “special”:

Ruth critiqued the narrative about how effort and planning in donor conception made her more unique or valuable than any other person. Instead, Ruth pointed to how the donor-conceived child is a “commodity” or, in Ahmed's phrasing, a “happy object”, for their parent/s [(53), p. 27; see also (54)]. While the child is the solution to the parent/s' happiness, participants often felt that ensuring that biological family members could have a meaningful role in the donor-conceived person's life was overlooked by parents. Therefore, the idea of searching for an (collective) identity and belonging was central in many participants' accounts.

Some participants, especially the eldest among the cohort of participants, recalled what it was like to be donor-conceived before the internet. Fay reflected on the years in which she had no contact with other donor-conceived people which made her feel “lonely” in her donor-conceived identity:

In these comments, as well as others later in the interview, Fay painted a before and after picture of an era in which she was not connected to other donor-conceived people. She positioned this experience in contrast with a social media age in which connectivity between donor-conceived people was possible:

Here, Fay describes the feelings of awe and solidarity between donor-conceived peers, made possible through the formation of closed Facebook groups for donor-conceived adults. Fay positions herself as part of a collective of people who “experienced the same thing”, who could then exchange social support and together ascribe meaning to their donor-conceived identity. As such, digital platforms figure in imaginaries of becoming for the donor-conceived collective, a topic also mentioned by Rachel:

Here, DNA testing figures in donor-conceived imaginaries of identity in two ways: as a set of practices that donor-conceived people collectively do, and as a tool for consolidating and strengthening individual identity. This figuration takes place, particularly, in relation to positioning within familial networks, as we now go on to explore.

The second theme derived from our analysis relates to donor-conceived people's imaginings of donor families over time. Perspectives on who constituted parents and the role of the donor were discussed by all participants, according with previous research that has shown that donor-conceived people's attitudes and experiences differ according to the family structure the person grows up in (10, 36, 55). Therefore, it was somewhat unsurprising that participants gestured to how their parents' sexuality and preferences for (alternative) family forms contributed to their imaginings of the donor family. This was especially the case for participants who were conceived in non-clinical contexts – many of whom were raised knowing that they were donor-conceived in LGBTQ+ and/or solo parent families. For example, Ash had always known that they were donor-conceived:

The embodied imaginary of donor families above is characterised by openness and underpinned by the belief that family included other LGBTQ+ families, friends, and community. Put differently, some participants highlighted the value of chosen families over bio-genetic relationships (56, 57).

However, not everyone conceived outside a clinical context understood that they were donor-conceived or grew up alongside members of their donor family. For example, Bobbie described her feelings of shock upon learning she was donor-conceived at eight years old:

Here, Bobbie's family consisted of her two mothers until she learnt that her mothers were not able to conceive alone. In this sense, the pre-established embodied imaginary of family was disrupted through this lesson in biology. More broadly, Bobbie's account challenges the widely held assumption that it is obvious to children born in single/solo and same-sex parent families that their conception story is non-normative. This account also suggests that disclosure in childhood (e.g., age eight), can be met with negative emotions such as shock (see also 55).

Bobbie went on to explain how, in order for her existence not to threaten the donor's nuclear family dynamic, an arrangement in which contact was prevented was forged:

Bobbie describes her negative attitudes towards the conception pact and how such an arrangement impacted her sense of trust in her parents (see also 27). More broadly, Bobbie's experience aligned more closely with that of many participants who were conceived in a clinical context in which doctors promised donors anonymity and encouraged parents to keep the information about the child's conception a secret.

Many clinically conceived participants also described a longing to have identifying information about their donor, often initially couched in a need to better understand their health:

Here, Rob positions information about his donor as critical to understanding himself. We see how from the donor-conceived person's perspective, the donor has a presence in the donor family, albeit a nameless, faceless presence (26).

Another participant, Shane, described identifying and meeting their donor and donor sibling in their thirties using information from the donor register, DNA testing, and a Facebook group. Initial digital interactions “through Facebook, Messenger, Skype; all that kind of stuff” eventually led to an in-person meeting:

In their account, Shane underscored the feelings of peace that surfaced as the donor transformed from abstract to material. What would normally be an unsettling experience – meeting such a significant (and formative) figure for the first time – instead was filled with familiarity, predictability and understanding.

In contrast to those who forged donor family relationships later in life through digital means, several participants conceived in a non-clinical context described how they had formed relationships with their siblings and/or donor from a young age:

In the excerpt above, Max emphasises the closeness between him and his siblings, in that they belonged to the same “community/friends”. As such, the imaginary of community was more prominent than the imaginary of the donor family for some respondents.

Interestingly, some of the donor-conceived participants conceived via clinical routes viewed non-clinical donor conception as a more positive method in ensuring the donor-conceived person could have a relationship with their biological family from a young age. For example, Monica described learning about a younger peer's experience of non-clinical conception on a Facebook group for donor-conceived people:

Likewise, Athena highlighted the challenges of initiating relationships with biogenetic relatives at age 37:

I get a bit, I don't know that ‘resentful’ is quite the word but maybe envious of kids who grow up connecting younger or with known donors who have parents to navigate this and set relationships so that, by the time they're older, the relationships are established. And I'm 37, and my mum can't do that for me. And I have to do it myself (Athena, heterosexual parents, clinical conception, interview)

The third theme developed through our analysis related to participants' views about the practice of donor conception. Previous scholarship with donor conception studies has considered gamete donors' motivation talk and how donors “do morality” in such interactions (58, 59). Just as donors used moral discourses and positionings, donor-conceived people also reflected on the moralities of the practice of donor conception. Participants both reflected on their own conception, as well as how they had conceived or would conceive children themselves. For example, one participant, Lindy, who discovered she was donor-conceived via a direct-to-consumer DNA test in her thirties, described passively participating in a Facebook group for prospective recipient parents searching for donors. Lindy deliberated on the moral plausibility of choosing to conceive via donor conception herself:

Here, Lindy outlines the “right way” to conceive via donor conception: with a donor who agrees to be identifiable and contactable from the start of the child's life and whose (other) children are equally identifiable and contactable. In doing so, she also reveals the “wrong way” to conceive – with secrecy and separation – made clear to her through her lived experience of late disclosure.

In the same interview, Lindy also gestured to how she rationalised the decision to conceive with a donor both to herself and her peers. Lindy later explained how, as a donor-conceived single woman in her mid-30s, she could justify to herself the decision to have a donor-conceived child, yet she feared that if she mentioned the conundrum to her peers in the donor-conceived Facebook group she would face moral judgement:

Lindy, like other participants, reflected on the negative views held by donor-conceived people toward the practice of donor conception. Specifically, this excerpt illustrates the perceived underlying belief that donor-conceived people should learn from what “we’ve been through”; that is, never repeat the reproductive decisions made by their own parents, which for many donor-conceived people, have contributed to emotional turmoil and hardship associated with (re)establishing identity. Yet, in some cases, and especially for those who would need a donor due to their sexuality or single status, this created moral tensions.

Beyond donor-conceived people's own reproductive choices, it became clear that many donor-conceived participants had sought to shape the conditions for future generations of donor-conceived people. One participant, Sam, described how the representation of queer families had shifted over the years, and how they had actively contributed to change social attitudes:

Similarly, Athena, described how she sought to influence prospective recipient parents' reproductive decisions through her participation in a mixed or triad Facebook group, which include gamete donors, (prospective) recipient parents and donor-conceived people:

Athena's attitudes, as visible in the above quote, aligned with those of Lindy: that known donation or co-parenting was the best possible donor conception outcome, and therefore the free labour required to encourage prospective parents to act accordingly was worthwhile and meaningful to her (see also 60).

Other participants also felt that parents were investing more time in understanding donor conception and its impacts on the child prior to conceiving:

At the same time, other participants held strong opinions that, even for those conceived in the “right way”, support and services would always be necessary in the context of donor conception:

Even if we think we're creating people with ART [Assisted Reproductive Technologies]in what we think are the best possible circumstances, recognising that there might still be a need for support. It's gonna be particularly important in the future I think. I feel like there's still a bit of a narrative within ART that, if we do it in the right way, then the people that we create as a result of these practices aren't going to need support, and I just don't think that's true. (Rosie, heterosexual parents, clinical conception, interview)

Across the study, participants acknowledged the progress achieved in donor conception while also foreshadowing the increasing challenges:

This excerpt reveals participants' sensitivity to how regulations within a jurisdiction were circumvented through importation/exportation of gametes as well as travel to access assisted reproduction in locations where the practice is unregulated. This suggests that the “problem” of the unregulated landscape and secrecy has now been replaced with the “problem” of international flows of gametes and geographical distance between members of the donor family.

Several participants described feeling disillusioned with a lack of progress in reform on donor conception and detailed how they had experienced burnout from advocacy efforts:

The above excerpt, like the one below, reflects the resignation felt among some donor-conceived people. Participants recognised that the extent to which they could influence policy was limited as donor-conceived people, compared to other stakeholders, including the power and influence of the reproductive industry:

I think there are many injustices for donor conceived people and would like to see those rectified. I don't think any of my efforts (small though they admittedly are) have had any impact. In fact, I think that general attitudes in society and government's approach to donor conception is slipping backwards and many are increasingly willing to accept flawed outcomes for donor conceived people to ensure that the fertility industry thrives. (Louisa, same-sex mothers, clinical conception, survey response)

Despite the sense of defeat at the “thriving” fertility industry, which was perceived to prioritise profit over positive outcomes for donor-conceived people, participants found solace knowing that the industry was “creating their own enemy”, that the growing population of donor-conceived people would lead to an increased pool of future advocates:

It might end up being that the clinic might have cut off their nose to spite their face a bit by creating so many of us who then will potentially stand up and say, “Actually, this isn't good the way you’re doing things.” I actually think they might be creating their own enemy. Well, literally. (Mabel, heterosexual parents, clinical conception, interview)

These examples demonstrate the range of imaginative practices donor-conceived people engaged in, and how they positioned themselves temporally and morally. Participants hoped for a more responsible form of donor conception whereby donor-conceived people grew up knowing they were donor-conceived, had access to support and services, and could connect with their biological family members across the life course.