I never pictured this would be my life. I thought I’d have the simple story: get married, pray about timing, have kids when we felt ready. That was supposed to be it. Instead, one day I heard words I’ll never forget: “Unexplained infertility. We don’t know why, but chances are you won’t conceive without help.”
Unless you’ve lived through it, you can’t really know the sting of that. It’s not just medical, it’s personal. As a woman, your whole body screams for something it refuses to do. It felt like betrayal.
Adam and I tried for years. Nothing. Seven years of hoping, of tracking, of disappointment. The doctors found no reason at all. And somehow that made it worse if nothing was wrong, why wasn’t it working? I even caught myself wishing they’d find something they could fix.
Money was tight, IVF seemed impossible. Then we found a program: I’d donate half my eggs, keep the other half. It felt risky but doable. I went through the endless testing, the nerves of wondering if anyone would “pick me.” Finally, we retrieved four eggs. Two went to the recipient, two to me. Only one survived the process. It failed for both of us. I can’t describe the emptiness. I told Adam I was done. No more IVF.
We moved forward with adoption and welcomed George. He was our joy, our answered prayer. But then a friend called. She’d overheard someone talking about donating their leftover embryos. Embryo adoption. I had never even thought of that. We talked with the family and it felt right. I traveled alone to meet their doctor, ready to sign papers. But instead, he looked at me and said: “I’d be doing you a disservice. I think we can get you pregnant with your own embryos.”
I was stunned. Terrified, honestly. After talking with Adam, we realized the cost was actually manageable this time. So we went for it. The process was brutal shots, scans, appointments but in the end we had six embryos. We transferred two. Both stuck. Twins.
I was over the moon but also scared. My pregnancy was smooth though, and at 38 weeks, Lincoln and Vale were born. Small, but healthy enough to skip the NICU. Suddenly, I was a first-time mom to two babies at once. It was overwhelming. I battled anxiety and postpartum depression, but we got through it thanks to family and support.
When the twins turned two, we tried again. Another transfer, another positive. I let myself hope until I started bleeding at six weeks. The ER confirmed it: miscarriage. I needed surgery. That loss nearly broke me. But we still had two embryos left. We tried again, and this time, it worked. Our daughter Via was born tiny, beautiful, perfect.
A couple of years later, we attempted another IVF cycle, hoping for one more baby. Two retrievals, both failed. At that point, I knew my body had given enough. We decided to stop. If another child is meant for us, it will have to happen naturally.
Looking back, I see how much my body endured. The needles, the hormones, the endless hope and heartbreak. The truth is, motherhood often begins before a child is even born. Every sacrifice, every tear, every ounce of strength is part of it. Today, when I look at George, Lincoln, Vale, and Via, I see miracles.
Infertility whispers lies: that you’re broken, unworthy, punished. I believed those lies for years. Now I know better. My story isn’t what I imagined, but I don’t regret it. It shaped me, shaped Adam, and brought us our children.
If you’re in the middle of it, please hear me. You are not broken. You are not forgotten. You are seen, you are loved. Your story isn’t finished yet. The plot twist may be closer than you think.
