I’m 39 years old, and becoming a mom was always my dream. By 36, I was still single and hadn’t met a life partner but I wasn’t willing to give up on motherhood just because I hadn’t found a husband.
In 2015, I learned I had a low egg reserve. My doctor told me I needed to act quickly if I wanted children. Due to health issues, I waited until January 2017 to try. I chose a donor, prepared myself for the journey alone, and became pregnant only to miscarry six weeks later.
A few months later, I was shocked to learn I was carrying twins—a boy and a girl. My family worried how I’d manage as a single mom of two, but I was ready. Then, at 16 weeks, I went into premature labor. My son, Buchanan, was born first. My daughter, Leonor “Nori,” followed three hours later. Neither survived.
The grief was crushing, but I wasn’t ready to give up. That same night, I asked my doctor when we could try again. Two weeks later, I had a moment that gave me peace: while getting their footprints tattooed, the artist revealed his late grandmother’s name was Leonor Buchanan. My babies’ names. I took it as a sign they were okay.
Tests later revealed I had a rare uterine malformation called a unicornuate uterus. Despite failed attempts through IUI, I moved to IVF in 2018. Against slim odds, I became pregnant with twins again—a boy and a girl. My doctors pressured me to “reduce” to one baby, but I refused.
At 17 weeks, my son’s heartbeat stopped. I carried him while trying to keep my daughter safe. I didn’t prepare a nursery, afraid of jinxing it, but at 36 weeks, after weeks in the hospital with preeclampsia, my daughter Leti was born healthy.
Her brother, James, was stillborn. I couldn’t get photos, but I honored him through a special newborn shoot. In one image, Leti looks toward the empty spot where her brother would have been, smiling as if she knows he’s there.
That picture is my reminder: her sister and brothers are with her, watching over her. And my reminder that love can live alongside grief—and that dreams are worth fighting for.
