From the time I was a little girl, I dreamed of being a mom. I can still remember stuffing pillows under my shirt, pretending I was pregnant, and standing in front of the mirror rubbing my “baby bump.” Growing up as the middle of five children, I never imagined that infertility would become part of my story. I thought my life would go according to plan. I told myself that I would be married by 19, and by the time I turned 25, I would have three boys and one girl.
But life didn’t work that way. I was one of the last of my friends to get married at 26, and I felt so old at the time. When I was 28, I stopped taking birth control, thrilled at the idea of finally becoming a mom before I turned 30. I tracked my cycles, started vitamins, and planned every detail, believing it was only a matter of time.
Almost a year later, in December 2009, I finally got the call I had been waiting for: I was pregnant. I was so happy I could hardly breathe. Jason and I celebrated, and I thought my dream was finally coming true. But just a week later, I began spotting. Doctors ran tests, and on Christmas Eve I was told I was miscarrying. I was devastated. After waiting so long to get pregnant, I couldn’t understand why this would happen.
Soon after, my doctor diagnosed me with PCOS, one of the leading causes of infertility. Hearing those words crushed me. I felt angry at God, confused, and broken. It took more than two months for my body to pass the pregnancy naturally, and it was one of the hardest things I had ever gone through.
The years that followed were a rollercoaster of emotions. I tried to focus on getting healthy, even running half marathons in hopes that it would help reverse my PCOS, but nothing changed. Jason and I eventually tried fertility medication, though I knew in my heart it wasn’t the right path for me. The side effects were painful, and after six rounds of Clomid, I was left even more discouraged.
In the middle of that heartbreak, someone asked if we had ever considered adoption. The idea planted a seed in my heart. Not long after, Jason and I signed up for foster-to-adopt classes. In October 2011, we welcomed our first son, Weiland, when he was just a week old. Becoming parents was overwhelming and beautiful, but I struggled with deep insecurities. I felt like a “Plan B” mom because I hadn’t carried him or given birth. Those lies weighed heavily on me, even though I loved him deeply.
We later welcomed Bella, an 18-month-old girl we were told would be a “slam dunk adoption.” But after eight months, the court returned her to her birth mother. Losing her nearly broke me. I will never forget her wiping my tears that morning, not realizing it was goodbye. That grief was unlike anything I had ever felt.
In time, we opened our hearts again. In 2014, we brought home Marty, a baby boy who had been safely surrendered. A year later, a newborn girl named Molly joined us, though her case ended with her reunifying with her birth mother when she was two. That goodbye was softer because we knew it was the best thing for her, but it still left a hole in my heart.
For three years, it was just Jason, Weiland, Marty, and me. Then, in 2020, we were asked to take in a baby girl who needed a permanent home. We said yes, and she has been with us ever since. Later, we briefly cared for her newborn sister, though she was returned to her birth mother. Today, our sweet Ray remains in our home, and her case is moving toward adoption.
Looking back, I see how messy and painful our path to parenthood has been. Miscarriages, failed treatments, foster care heartbreak, it was not the plan I had as a little girl. But through it all, I’ve learned that motherhood isn’t defined by biology. It is defined by love, sacrifice, and the willingness to keep showing up no matter what.
My journey has not been what I pictured standing in front of that mirror as a little girl. But the children in my life, those who stayed and those I had to let go, have shaped me into the mother I was always meant to be.
