I always had a feeling that getting pregnant might be hard for me. As a teenager, my menstrual cycles were always unpredictable. I went to my doctor, and she told me I had PCOS, which stands for polycystic ovarian syndrome. She put me on birth control and sent me home. During that time, I rarely shared what was on my mind.
At just sixteen, having children or worrying about fertility never even crossed my mind. All I understood was that my cycles weren’t normal, but I didn’t know how it could affect me later in life. At twenty, I met the man who would later become my husband.
After our wedding, we chose to begin building a family together.
I stopped taking birth control, but my periods never came back. A specialist confirmed that my PCOS was the reason, and that I wasn’t ovulating, so I had no chance of getting pregnant on my own. We started fertility treatments. I tried Clomid, but it didn’t work. Then I tried Femara, which helped me ovulate, but that cycle still failed. To my surprise, the very next cycle I got pregnant naturally, and we welcomed our first baby boy.
When we started trying for a second baby, things didn’t go as smoothly. I got pregnant, but it ended very early, a chemical pregnancy. I was crushed. We tried treatment again, this time with stronger medications and injections. The first round failed, but the second worked. Sadly, that pregnancy also ended in another early loss. It was heartbreaking. One of the hardest parts about PCOS is that people often say things like “just relax” or “go on vacation.” They mean well, but PCOS is a real medical condition. Relaxing doesn’t fix hormone problems or irregular cycles.
After two losses, my fear grew. I only told close friends and family because pregnancy loss is still something people rarely talk about, even though so many go through it. Complications with my hormone levels meant I needed a special shot to reset my body, which forced us to wait months before trying again. That next treatment didn’t work, but again, I got pregnant naturally afterward. That time, the heartbeat was visible, and a small spark of hope rose within me.
But at 13 weeks, we learned devastating news: our baby girl, whom we named Jasmine Grace, had a condition called CDH, a hole in her diaphragm. It meant her organs would push into her chest and prevent her lungs from growing. We made plans with specialists, determined to give her the best chance. Then more test results showed she had a rare genetic condition called mosaic trisomy 15, which only a few cases in the world had ever been documented. At 32 weeks, she developed complications, and a few days later, we were told her heart had stopped. I had to deliver her, knowing she would never take a breath.
The most difficult moment of my life was having to say farewell to Jasmine.
The hospital staff were incredibly kind and treated us with so much compassion. We held her, took pictures, and tried to soak in what little time we had. Leaving her behind broke me in a way I can’t describe.
Even though I had amazing support from family and friends, grief often made me feel alone. I knew I wanted to help others going through the same thing, so I began volunteering and writing. I shared my story and started a project called Finding Your Rainbow, where families could take pictures with a traveling rainbow skirt and share their experiences. So far, more than 160 stories have been shared, and it’s been healing for so many.
Six months after losing Jasmine, we tried again and got pregnant with our rainbow baby, a healthy little girl. The pregnancy was filled with fear, but she arrived safe and strong. Holding her in my arms was both a relief and a reminder of everything we’d been through. The anxiety didn’t vanish, I still check on my kids every night, but I’ve learned to live with it.
Now I’m pregnant again, what many call a “pot of gold” baby after a rainbow. The fear is still there with every appointment, but so is hope. I think of Jasmine every day. We honor her birthday and cherish her memory. Sharing her story keeps her close to us and helps others who are walking this painful road.
Grief never disappears, but it changes. Some days are heavy, and some are lighter. I’ve met so many strong women through this journey, and together we remind each other that our babies’ lives, no matter how short, continue to matter.
