When Brigethia A. Guins-Jamison, 31, submitted her DNA to 23andMe in early 2024, she searched for more than percentages. Like many African Americans whose ancestral histories were fractured by slavery and systemic record loss, she hoped the popular genetic tracing service would help her map a deeper story — one that oral family histories couldn’t always tell.

“I was just really eager to know what my background is,” said Guins-Jamison, founder of podcast Culture & Conversations. “But I really didn’t think about the trust factor of giving them my DNA. I didn’t think about what they’d do with it later. Now I feel foolish.”

That unease has only grown in recent weeks after 23andMe filed for bankruptcy and announced plans to auction off assets — including, potentially, the genetic data of over 14 million users.

The company stated to BET that “to constitute a qualified bid, potential buyers must, among other requirements, agree to comply with 23andMe’s consumer privacy policy and all applicable laws with respect to the treatment of customer data.” However, for many, especially Black consumers, the damage to public trust may already be done.

Consumer rights attorney and legal analyst Areva Martin says Black communities have reason to be alarmed.

“When Company A gets bought by Company B, will that new company abide by the same policies? There’s no guarantee,” Martin explained. “And unlike with your doctor, HIPAA laws don’t protect you here. This was a consumer transaction, not a medical one.”

In 2024, the company suffered a massive data breach affecting millions, which resulted in a $30 million class action settlement. Not long after, its entire advisory board reportedly resigned. For some, the bankruptcy filing is just the latest chapter in a saga of eroding accountability.

Martin points out that 70–80% of 23AndMe users opted into medical research through the platform, many unaware of how far-reaching that permission might be. “Your genetic material, even more than your Social Security number, should be guarded closely,” she said. “But too often, people don’t know what they’re signing up for.”

The backlash is particularly sharp among Black Americans, who were explicitly courted by 23andMe’s marketing efforts. Through ad campaigns promising ancestral reconnection and cultural pride, the company gained ground in a community long underserved by genealogical tools.

But for Guins-Jamison, the results felt lopsided. “I had 13% European DNA, and they were able to tell me exactly where that came from — down to the region,” she said. “But for the majority of my DNA, which is West African, they couldn’t tell me the tribe or anything specific. That was frustrating.”

It’s a sentiment echoed by many who feel the company profited from Black curiosity while offering an incomplete picture in return.

S. Monique Smith, a former missing child and survivor of a decades-long identity mystery, has a more complicated relationship with genetic testing platforms like 23andMe and Ancestry.com. For her, DNA testing helped unlock her true identity after years of searching.

“Ancestry.com was able to match me with my biological mother,” Smith said, recalling how law enforcement collaborated with genetic genealogists to help her crack the case. “So for me, having my data in the system saved my life.”

Still, even she acknowledges the broader privacy concerns. “People say delete your information, but you really think they don’t already have a massive IT backup? You need to ask: if something does happen with my specimen, will I be held harmless?”

California Attorney General Rob Bonta has issued a consumer alert under the state’s Genetic Information Privacy Act, urging residents to request their data be deleted before 23andMe’s sale is finalized. But similar protections aren’t available in every state.

Martin says broader policy reform is critical. “The remedy after a data breach will never be enough. The safeguards must be in place to prevent the harm in the first place.”

As conversations around reparations and lineage-based justice continue, the stakes of genetic data ownership will only grow more urgent. For many Black Americans, 23andMe was more than a novelty — it was a potential lifeline to stories they’d been denied for generations.

Now, as the company teeters on the edge of extinction, that promise feels broken.

“I should’ve listened to my grandmother,” Guins-Jamison said. “She told me, ‘Your family is from Alabama — that’s all you need to know.’ I didn’t get it then. But now I do.”