Her family did not arrive the way she imagined, but love kept opening new doors, and she walked through each one until the house was full. They were newly married and still learning how to be a team when the ground dropped out from under them. At twenty-five, only eleven months into marriage, she was diagnosed with endometriosis and other autoimmune issues. Doctors warned they might never have biological children and urged them to try soon. Fear moved in. Grief followed. For three years, she endured surgeries, injections, pills, scans, and month after month of no. Some nights she cried on the porch until morning. They went to counseling, fought to understand each other’s pain, and slowly found their footing again.
When treatments kept failing, they saw a specialist in Chicago who gently said the odds were poor. The truth hurt, but it also set them free. She told her husband she was ready to adopt on the drive home. Adoption had always been in their hearts; it just wasn’t supposed to replace biology in her plan A. They finished their home study and were told to expect a wait of two to three years. Three months later, everything changed in one hour. She took a pregnancy test on a quiet winter morning, almost against her will. Two lines appeared for the first time in her life. She shook, cried, thanked God, and tried to understand it. Then the phone rang. Their social worker said they had been matched with a baby due in three weeks, just an hour away. She wrote details with trembling hands. In sixty minutes, she became a mother in two ways, one baby in her body, one through adoption.
They brought their daughter home when she was eight weeks pregnant. For seven days they lived in a glow of sleepless love. Then the call came. In Virginia, birth parents have ten days to change their minds. Their daughter was going back to her first family. She sat on the floor and wept, afraid even for the baby she carried. Goodbye was the hardest thing they had ever done. Later, with more light and distance, they could honor the truth that a safe and loving first family is the best place for a child. They still miss her and speak her name. In October, their miracle baby arrived. They didn’t know the gender until she pulled him to her chest and whispered his name: Noah, meaning rest and new beginnings. Relief washed through the room. They had made it to the other side of infertility.
When Noah turned one, another call came. A baby boy had been born the day before and needed a family. She drove to the NICU every day for a week to hold him, sing to him, and memorize his face. They named him Levi, meaning harmoniously joined together. He is silly and bright and wants to do everything his big brother does. Their hearts kept widening. They learned about the need for foster parents in their city and decided they could not look away. They said yes to a newborn who was ready to leave the hospital in late June. Now there were three boys under three at home, along with piles of laundry, belly laughs, toy cars, and a new kind of tired that feels like joy.
She is honest about the complex parts. Adoption and foster care begin with loss. Trauma leaves marks. She studies trauma-informed care and practices connection-based parenting. She holds space for first families and honors reunification when possible and safe. Their foster son may not stay forever, but she counts it a gift to be his mother for as long as he needs one. Sometimes she looks back at the woman on the porch, crying through the night. She wishes she could wrap her up and whisper what was coming: one son born after years of no, one son brought home through adoption, and a little one entrusted through foster care: different paths, the same love.
