My name is Kerri, and this is my story the story of how I became a single mother by choice. I’m 31 years old, living in the Atlanta area, and I work as a flight attendant. I love my job the energy, the people, the freedom of flying. But even as I soar thousands of feet above the ground, the dream that’s always grounded me has been motherhood.
I grew up in a household led by a strong single mom. She raised my sisters and me to be independent, to believe that having a partner was a want, not a need. Maybe I took that message to heart a little too much I never dreamed of the white dress, the wedding aisle, or the picket fence. I dreamed of a baby in my arms. From the moment my youngest sister was born, I knew that nurturing was my purpose. I was only ten when I helped care for her after my mom’s serious accident left her unable to. It wasn’t what most ten-year-olds were doing, but it lit something in me an instinct that never faded.
By sixteen, I had already made up my mind. I told everyone that if I wasn’t married or in a serious relationship by thirty, I’d have a baby on my own. Everyone laughed, but I wasn’t joking. I meant every word.
In my twenties, I dated a little nothing serious, nothing lasting. One relationship turned abusive, and it shattered a part of me I didn’t know could break. I closed myself off from love after that. The idea of depending on anyone again terrified me. So when I found out I was pregnant in 2019, after casually seeing someone, I was overjoyed. He wasn’t. He wanted me to have an abortion, but I refused. I told him, “You don’t have to be involved. This baby is mine.”
Eight weeks later, I miscarried.
That loss broke me open. When you find out you’re pregnant, your mind starts spinning with plans doctor appointments, baby names, nursery colors. Then suddenly, it’s all gone, and you’re left asking yourself why? What did I do wrong? Could I have stopped it? It’s a pain I wouldn’t wish on anyone.
I started therapy to heal, and slowly, by the end of that year, I knew I was ready to try again. I wanted to be a mom not someday, but now. I began searching online for known sperm donors, sorting through the mess of profiles and messages until I found someone genuine. We met in person, and I felt hopeful. I thought it would happen quickly. It didn’t.
After months of trying, I reached out to my doctor. My tests came back normal, but I was diagnosed with “unexplained infertility.” The words hit me like a punch. How could something I wanted so badly be just… out of reach? I prayed every night for a miracle. Then, one day, my sister called to tell me she was pregnant. I was happy for her, but I’d be lying if I said it didn’t hurt. I cried harder than I ever had. Why her? Why not me?
Eventually, we mended that wound, and funny enough, we ended up pregnant together later our sons born just months apart. But before that, in mid-2020, I turned to a fertility clinic. My doctor suggested IUI a less invasive, more affordable procedure with the possibility of IVF later. I told myself not to get my hopes up. I’d been let down too many times.
Then came August 28th, my IUI day my great-grandmother’s birthday. That morning I whispered to the universe, I’m getting pregnant today. Baby E is coming home.
Two weeks later, my nurse called. “You’re knocked up, girl!” she laughed. I burst into tears. Relief, disbelief, joy all of it.
Pregnancy wasn’t easy. I worried constantly, terrified of another loss. But every appointment, every heartbeat on the monitor, reminded me that miracles do happen. On May 20th, just four days after my 31st birthday, I met my son. After an emergency C-section, they brought him to me, and through my tears, I whispered, “I’ve been waiting for you.”
Now, ten weeks into motherhood, every day feels like a blessing. The recovery was rough, but I wouldn’t change a thing. My favorite part? I get every snuggle, every sleepy smile, every decision all mine. I don’t have to compromise or share him with anyone. It’s just us.
Of course, there are worries. I wonder if he’ll ever feel like he missed out on having a “traditional” family. But I’ll make sure he always knows this truth: he was so wanted, so loved, that I built an entire life around bringing him into this world.
Being a single mother by choice isn’t easy, but it’s powerful. It’s freedom. It’s love. It’s rewriting what family can look like. If I could give anyone thinking about this path a piece of advice, it would be simple do it. Don’t let the world’s version of normal stop you from becoming the person, and the parent, you’re meant to be.
My son is my miracle. He’s the proof that love doesn’t have to follow rules or timelines. If I never do anything else perfectly in this life, I’ll be at peace knowing I did this right.
He was worth every tear, every prayer, every moment of waiting. He is my everything.
