In 2018, after more than a year of trying to conceive, we sat across from a fertility specialist hoping for answers.
And we got them just not the ones we were expecting.
A semen analysis revealed my husband had azoospermia, meaning he was sterile and would not be able to biologically father children. Our infertility was male factor, something we later learned so many people know little about.
For some, that kind of diagnosis might pause everything.
For us, it only shifted the path forward.
We gave ourselves time to grieve. Time to sit with the loss of the life we thought we’d have. Then, we began to explore our options. We looked into sperm banks and donation—but quickly discovered how few African American donors there were, especially those who allowed for contact with children once they turned 18.
Still, we pressed on. We picked a donor. We made plans. But every attempt to inseminate hit a roadblock shipping delays, scheduling conflicts, logistical mishaps. Every time, it fell through.
Just when we began to wonder if donor sperm wasn’t meant for us… I got a text.
It was from my best friend.
“If it came down to it, would you ever foster or adopt a baby?”
I told her yes, of course but reminded her that adoption is often as expensive, if not more, than IVF.
“Well… a friend of mine and her boyfriend are considering adoption for their son. I told them I thought you guys would be a great fit.
And just like that, our world flipped.
One moment we were grieving the possibility we’d never be parents. A week later, someone was asking if we wanted to be.
The first time we met our son Ezra, a NICU nurse greeted us with a simple instruction: “Please wash your hands.”
He’d been born seven weeks early and needed time to feed and grow. For the next three weeks, we visited him before work and after work, watching our tiny boy fight through tubes and wires.
One morning, I noticed a red mark on his cheek and immediately turned into Mama Bear.
“What’s this red spot on his face?!”
The nurse smiled.
“Do you notice anything different?”
It hit me. I gasped.
“His feeding tube is OUT!”
The next day, we brought him home.
After we shared our adoption online, the support flooded in. So did the questions.
“Are you the nanny?”
“Where are his real parents?”
“How dare you adopt a white baby when there are so many Black children in the system?”
We learned quickly that transracial adoption would come with stares, assumptions, and judgment. But Ezra was our son. And we were his parents.
And we knew we wanted to grow our family.
Around the time Ezra was three months old, we discovered embryo donation.
Since our fertility issues were male factor, I still had the desire to experience pregnancy. I wanted the chance to carry a child. And embryo donation offered us that opportunity. Families who’d gone through IVF often had embryos left over, and many chose to donate them to help others grow their families.
We didn’t care about biology—we just wanted to be parents again.
We put out the word on social media, sharing our heart for an open relationship with any potential donors, where any future children could know their genetic roots and siblings.
Soon after, we joined NRFA.org—a site dedicated to embryo donation—and within three weeks, we were matched. The donor family had twin boys and three remaining embryos. After getting to know us, they chose to donate them to us.
Then—another message.
A local couple, also wanting to donate. They had a miracle second child after IVF and decided to donate five of their remaining ten embryos.
Suddenly, we had gone from no hope to the possibility of eight babies.
After months of testing, on August 19, 2020, we transferred two embryos from our first donor family. A week later, I took a pregnancy test.
It was positive.
For the very first time I was pregnant.
But three days later, we miscarried.
Our joy was quickly replaced by heartbreak. And because we’d shared so publicly, we had to grieve not just with our family, but with thousands of followers online.
Still, we knew: our story wasn’t over.
