Our young and brand-new marriage wasn’t prepared for what came next. Just 11 months in, we were suddenly thrown into the dark and painful valley of infertility. I was surgically diagnosed with endometriosis along with a long list of other autoimmune health conditions. The doctors told us we might never have biological children, and that we should start trying immediately if we wanted a chance. This was the summer of 2015, and we were only 25. We weren’t ready for children yet, but those words ignited a fear and despair in my heart that I couldn’t shake. Suddenly, parenthood consumed every thought. We were still learning how to simply be married, and now we had to navigate supporting each other through deep grief and pain as well.
Over the next three years, there were countless nights I sat alone on our front porch, long after my husband had gone to bed upstairs. I would cry and sob until my chest ached, wondering if our marriage would survive this storm. We processed pain differently and often struggled to walk alongside each other the way we each needed. Through it all, we clung to one another, even when we were a mess, trying to make sense of heartbreak together.
As we walked the long road of infertility, I endured multiple surgeries for endometriosis—including a grueling, last-minute procedure in New Orleans that required an overnight hospital stay. My body endured thousands of injections, pills, ultrasounds, and heartbreak after heartbreak of negative pregnancy tests. We leaned heavily on marriage counseling during this time, and I am eternally grateful for our counselor, who helped us navigate the emotional turbulence. God used him in a powerful way to hold our marriage together when we felt ourselves unraveling.
After exhausting countless treatments and options, we were close to giving up on biological children. As a last resort, we visited a Reproductive Immunologist in Chicago, who focused on autoimmune factors affecting infertility and early miscarriages. I spent the entire day undergoing testing and lab work. At the end, she told us our chances of conceiving naturally were not good. It was heartbreaking—but strangely, it was also exactly what I needed. Hearing the truth gave me permission to release the treatments, the injections, and the emotional trauma I had endured for years.
On the drive home from Chicago, I turned to my husband and said, “I’m ready to adopt. I don’t want to do this anymore. I want to grow our family through adoption.” Adoption had always been part of our story, something we discussed during dating and engagement. I had always been passionate about it, but until now, I had never envisioned it as our only path. Biological children had been my plan A—and suddenly, I needed to embrace a new plan.
A few months later, we completed our home study and became a waiting family with our adoption agency. We were told it typically took two to three years to be matched for an infant domestic adoption. So we waited, preparing our hearts and our home. But three months later, the door to that painful chapter unexpectedly—and joyfully—closed.
One cold winter morning, I woke with a sudden urge to take a pregnancy test. I tried to talk myself out of it, well aware of the heartbreak of seeing a single line. But as I opened our linen closet, a box of pregnancy tests—previously shoved to the back—was now sitting front and center. I took it as a sign and tested anyway. Almost immediately, two lines appeared. I had never seen that before. I shook and sobbed, thanking God over and over for the miracle, trying to process how it was possible when we had stopped fertility treatments.
Then, my phone rang. It was our adoption agency. My heart froze. Through tears, I learned we had been matched with a baby girl due in just three weeks, only an hour north of us. In that single hour, my life transformed: I became a mother to two children—one growing in my belly and one waiting to come home.
A few weeks later, at eight weeks pregnant, we brought our daughter home. She was everything we had ever dreamed of—perfect, tiny, and wholly ours. Our love for her was instant, powerful, and overwhelming. For that first week, we celebrated finally being a family of three, blissfully exhausted but completely in love.
Then came another heartbreak. One morning, as I fed her, our social worker called with devastating news: her birth parents had changed their minds. They would be taking her home in a few hours. In Virginia, birth parents legally have the right to change their minds within ten days of birth, even after signing termination of parental rights. I collapsed to the floor, holding our precious girl and crying out to God in desperation. The pain of three years of infertility paled in comparison. It physically hurt, and emotionally, it was unbearable. I even called my OB, fearing the trauma might trigger a miscarriage. She reassured me it wouldn’t, but the hurt felt limitless. Saying goodbye was the hardest thing we’ve ever done.
Yet, looking back, we can see God’s hand in it. Our daughter was meant to grow up in her family of origin, loved and safe. We had the privilege to step in as her parents, even if just for a brief time. And through it, I learned something vital: there is room to hold grief and joy in the same heart.
Fast forward to October that year, and our miracle baby arrived. As I began pushing, my doula asked how I felt. I said, “This has been a long time coming. I can’t believe we are finally going to meet our miracle baby.” The birth of our son, Noah, was surreal. We didn’t know the gender beforehand, but when he was placed on my chest, we knew his name immediately—Noah, meaning “rest” and “new beginnings.” After years of heartbreak, we finally made it to the other side.
Just over a year later, we received another call from our adoption agency. We were matched with a baby boy who had been born the day prior. We named him Levi, meaning “harmoniously joined together,” and spent a week in the NICU bonding. He is goofy, full of life, and inseparable from his big brother. Our family of four felt like a dream come true after so long wondering if we’d ever have one child.
In 2021, God led us into foster care. The need in our city was overwhelming, and we couldn’t ignore it. On June 29, we welcomed a baby boy from the hospital into our home. Now, I am the mother of three boys under three—wild, adventurous, exhausting, and overflowing with love. Every day, I see God’s redemptive story in our lives.
Foster care and adoption are not without challenges. Both Levi and our youngest carry the pain of brokenness from their birth families. I continue to educate myself on trauma-informed, relational parenting to meet their unique needs. Our role is to love and nurture them, even as we acknowledge the pain of their original families. Little man may not be with us forever, but we rejoice in the time we get to spend with him.
As I write this, little man is snuggled against my chest, and I smile. I couldn’t see the light at the end of the tunnel during those dark years of grief. But here we are—a family of five, each child finding a home in our arms in their own way. To women walking through infertility: there is hope. Your journey may not look like you imagined, but there is beauty, magic, and life waiting for you in ways you can’t yet see. Hold on. This too shall pass, and one day, you will reach the other side.
