On May 30, 2015, I married the love of my life, Justin. From the beginning, we dreamed of building a family together. We decided not to stress or plan too much — we’d simply see what happened when the time was right. Month after month, I took pregnancy tests with anticipation and hope, convinced each one would be the moment our story changed. But it never did, and the disappointment grew heavier with time.
In the fall of 2016, we felt called to foster. Our first placement stayed with us for seven months and changed our hearts forever. A month after that child left, I had surgery to remove a large ovarian cyst and received an endometriosis diagnosis. It was a new reality I wasn’t prepared for. That December, another foster placement arrived and stayed until April 2018. A month later — on our third wedding anniversary, May 30, 2018 — I learned I was pregnant. I took seven tests because I could hardly believe it, then surprised Justin that evening with a small gift box. It finally felt like our miracle.
Just a week later, everything unraveled. I miscarried, and at the ER my body finished what my heart desperately wanted to hold onto. Losing that baby crushed us. We had imagined a lifetime in just a few days — all gone in an instant. Months passed, and by April 2019, endometriosis pain returned. In May, I had another surgery to clear the tissue that had taken over my uterus, praying this would give us another chance.
During that season, the well-meaning questions came — the ones childless couples learn to dread. “When are you having kids?” “Are you trying?” “Just relax and it’ll happen.” People meant kindness, but each comment cut deeply, reopening wounds I was still learning to live with.
Each surgery created a short window of better fertility. That proved true again when, on November 1, 2019, I found out I was pregnant. This time, we were cautiously hopeful. I contacted my OB-GYN immediately, did bloodwork, and started twice-daily progesterone to support the pregnancy. Two days later, I began bleeding. I looked at Justin and whispered, “It’s happening again.” My levels rose, but not enough, and the doctor wanted to rule out an ectopic pregnancy.
The drive to the office was nearly silent except for my tears. I prayed, negotiated with God, and tried to cling to faith that already felt fragile. I searched what an ectopic pregnancy meant and learned it often requires a chemotherapy drug, Methotrexate. I tried to prepare myself.
During the ultrasound, pain radiated through my body. The tech gently explained she saw something concerning in my right Fallopian tube — likely an ectopic pregnancy. We waited for the PA, but instead were taken to another room, where we learned my OB wanted to speak with us personally. She had rushed from delivering a baby — the irony wasn’t lost on me — and soon came in with urgent news.
“This is an ectopic pregnancy, and it requires emergency surgery. Right now.” She feared a rupture that could cost me my life and said another doctor would perform the surgery since she had more deliveries coming. Before we left, she hugged me and told me the words I didn’t know I needed: it wasn’t my fault and nothing I had done caused this. Surgery went well, but my Fallopian tube had to be removed.
Shortly afterward, the world shut down in a global pandemic. In that quiet, Justin and I learned to just be together and be grateful my life had been spared. We eased off thoughts of growing a family, choosing instead to breathe and heal.
Then, on August 11, 2020, everything changed with a single phone call: would we be willing to take a two-day-old baby boy through foster care? Our home had been closed for years, yet instinctively, we said yes. As we rushed through paperwork and reopened our home, I realized his due date matched the baby we had lost the previous November. It felt like something sacred.
On August 13, after a home visit that morning, I walked into the NICU at OU Children’s Hospital to meet him for the first time. Because of COVID restrictions, I went in alone while Justin waited in the car. In hours, we went from a married couple to new parents — with absolutely nothing baby-related at home. Within days, our porch filled with packages from family and friends, each one a reminder of how loved this child already was.
We tried to stay guarded, but once that seven-pound miracle was in our arms, there was no separating our hearts. His birth had been traumatic; doctors reminded us how truly miraculous it was that he was even here, thriving. We fostered with hope and caution, knowing how unpredictable the process can be — yet feeling deeply that he belonged with us.
Nine months after his birth, parental rights were terminated. Those months felt endless — filled with setbacks, fear, and uncertainty — yet in hindsight, they were only a small fraction of time. Even after being told we would be his adoptive family, I battled that lingering voice asking, “But what if?” Finally, in May, it began to feel real — like forever was actually coming.
The process stretched us more than anything else we had ever faced. It demanded patience I didn’t naturally have, and faith I had to rebuild piece by piece. But it also grew me in ways I never expected. Experiencing infertility — realizing my body couldn’t do what it was biologically designed to do — forced deep healing. And because of that pain, motherhood now feels even more sacred.
On November 16, 2021, after 464 days in foster care, we finalized our adoption. Our son officially became Koepka Jayce Williams — Koepka for one of our favorite golfers, and Jayce for my brother, Cameron Jayce, who passed away in 2002. Celebrating our first holiday season legally as The Williams felt indescribably special.
I also hold profound love and respect for Koepka’s birth mother — his first mom. She is brave and strong, and her love for him runs deep. She will always be part of him, and therefore part of us. I will make sure he always knows where he came from and how loved he has always been.
To anyone considering adoption: learn, listen, speak with adoptive parents, adoptees, and biological families. Be patient. Be flexible. Be ready to love even when it is hard. Adoption cannot coexist with resentment — its foundation must always be love. No two journeys look the same, and our experience is simply ours.
If there is anything our story has taught me, it is this: every single day, choose love. Spread it. Give it freely. Be it — wherever life leads.
