For as long as I can remember, I wanted to be a mom. I grew up in a house that was always loud and busy six brothers running around, my mom somehow keeping it all together. She was incredible. I used to watch her in awe and think, that’s who I want to be. Every time we saw a baby, especially at church, I’d whisper to her, “Can I hold the baby?” There was just something about it that felt right, like I was made for that kind of love.
In college, I met Kevin. He wasn’t the loud, outgoing type he was calm, steady, and kind. One evening, we ended up sitting on a dock together in Chattanooga. The water was still, and for the first time, I saw him differently. We talked for hours about life and dreams, and somewhere in that conversation, I asked him if he ever wanted kids. When he said, “Yeah, I’d love to be a dad someday,” my heart just knew. That moment changed everything.
Two years later, we were married. I was 21, standing there in a white dress, holding his hands, full of hope. I thought I had my whole life figured out that love and faith and hard work would naturally lead us to the family I’d always dreamed of.
The early years of our marriage were good. We lived in Dallas, and I worked as a nanny. Every day I cared for other people’s kids packing lunches, wiping tears, reading bedtime stories. I loved it, but every smile and hug made me ache for my own child. When Kevin got a teaching job in Florida, we packed up and moved, both of us certain that this next chapter would bring the family we wanted.
I remember lying in bed some mornings, running my hand across my stomach and wondering what it would feel like to grow life inside me. I’d daydream about hearing a heartbeat, picking out baby names, decorating a nursery. But month after month went by, and nothing.
After a year, the doctor said we were dealing with “unexplained infertility.” Two words that sound so simple, but they crush you. I tried to brush it off, to stay hopeful, but each negative test felt heavier than the last. By the time I turned 30, it wasn’t just disappointment it was grief.
One Sunday morning, sitting in church, it all just hit me. The pastor was talking, but I couldn’t focus. Tears filled my eyes, and I quietly slipped out to the bathroom. I sat there, alone, sobbing into a wad of rough toilet paper, trying to breathe through the pain. I wasn’t angry at anyone just heartbroken. My biggest dream felt so far away.
That day something changed in me. I felt God’s presence so clearly, whispering to my heart: Your children are out there. Go find them.
Kevin and I started talking seriously about adoption. We went back and forth medical treatments, foster care, adoption and I finally told him, “I don’t want to keep doing this to my body. I just want to be a mom.” When he nodded and said, “Let’s adopt,” I knew we were exactly where we were meant to be.
The process wasn’t easy. We were chosen once and then told the birth mother went with another family. That call broke me for a bit, but it also showed us how deeply ready we were to love. Then, a few months later, our phone rang again. A baby girl was due soon. The birth mother had chosen us.
When I first held Eden Renee, I couldn’t stop crying. She was so tiny, so perfect everything I had prayed for. Her name felt right: Eden, a symbol of new beginnings. She brought light back into my heart.
A year later, we got a text from Eden’s birth mother. She was pregnant again and asked if we wanted to adopt this baby too. We didn’t even have to think. “Yes,” we said instantly.
In May 2021, Shiloh Elise came into the world early, fragile, and beautiful. After ten days in the NICU, we brought her home, and suddenly, we were a family of four.
Some days, life feels like a whirlwind bottles, diapers, sleepless nights, little feet running everywhere. But every giggle, every sleepy snuggle, every “mama” whispered in the dark reminds me just how blessed I am.
I may not have carried my daughters in my body, but I carry them in my heart every second of every day. And that’s what makes me their mom.
