Our love story began fourteen years ago. Callum and I were collegiate athletes, and we met during preseason. We were young, in love, and immediately knew we were meant to be together. After graduation, Callum found a great job, but soon he was offered a promotion that required a new work visa. To do it “the right way,” he had to move back to Scotland for six months.
Then came the first challenge to hit us. The company lost the contract he was supposed to work on, and his job and visa were annulled. We were separated by almost 2,000 miles for almost two years, seeing each other every four to five months. The years tested us deeply, but with self-reflection, saving, and hard work, he returned to the U.S. for a master’s degree. Being together again felt like home as we began building our lives as a couple: we got engaged, married, loved traveling, and saved for our first home as a couple with plans for a family later.
But starting a family was far from straightforward. After nearly two years of trying, we faced unexplained infertility. We suffered multiple heartbreaking losses at various stages of pregnancy. Each loss left us wondering: were we even meant to be parents? IVF finally gave us hope, creating six embryos with a high probability of success. Yet, before we could attempt a second transfer, I discovered I was pregnant naturally.
Our hearts were cautiously optimistic. Every appointment brought a mix of hope and fear, the memory of past losses never far. Halfway through pregnancy, I learned I had placenta previa, and later, placenta percreta the rarest and most severe form of placenta accreta. The doctors warned us: the only way for both of us to survive would be a cesarean with a hysterectomy, and the survival rate was less than 50%.
Miraculously, Maelyn arrived at 34 weeks, healthy after eight days in the NICU. We were so overjoyed to finally be parents but I grieved the loss of my ability to carry more children. We still had our frozen embryos-potential siblings for Maelyn. After much consideration and research, we decided to explore surrogacy as a means to grow our family.
It was a process of patience, delays, and uncertainty in finding the right match. Two moves, interviews, waitlists, and the pandemic stretched it longer than expected. We finally were matched with a compassionate gestational carrier and were given the green light to start the process. Now, ten days post embryo transfer, we were pregnant. While I wasn’t carrying this child, the pregnancy became a shared journey. We attended appointments together whenever possible, bonded deeply with our gestational carrier, and celebrated milestones as a united family.
I also started, midway through, inducing lactation. With hard work, patience, and direction, I was able to produce milk for our son. Drops turned into ounces, and ounces into enough to feed him, allowing me to bond as a mom from the first hours on. Although I did not carry him, I nursed him at birth-a profoundly moving experience.
We leaned on each other, our gestational carrier, and her family through every step. The months went by equally as slow as they were fast, nerve-wracking while filled with joy. It was surreal to finally see her belly grow, feel the first kicks, and meet our son. The moments around his birth seemed to stand still. For the first time, we could breathe fully; he was safe and in our arms. But in retrospect, the pain and heartaches fade away, leaving scars and lessons. To any who are on this journey of uncertainty, waiting, or loss, know this: Life can try you in ways that feel really unbearable. There is hope.
Our son Knox completed our family, and the journey lengthy, exhausting, at times devastating made the love and joy on the other side that much deeper. To those who are still waiting, hold onto hope, cherish the family you have, and trust the journey. Life has a way of bringing in love and joy exactly when it’s meant to arrive, and every tear, every struggle, every heartbreak will one day feel worth it.
