When I became a mom at just 19, I had no idea that my first birth experience with my son would be the only time I would carry a child myself. I found out I was pregnant shortly after finishing high school, at only 18 years old. The doctor, as part of his routine, felt it necessary to tell me I had “options,” fully prepared to offer all the abortion information he thought I might need. What he didn’t know was that, even at that young age, I had secretly hoped the test would come back positive. It might sound naïve or surprising, but I had always wanted to be a mom. I felt ready to step into that role—even if I didn’t yet have the life experience or wisdom that comes with age.
My son’s biological father was in the picture, at least somewhat, during the first years of his life, though we were never married—a fact that, in hindsight, was a blessing. Those early years were challenging as I tried to grow into motherhood while still growing up myself. Navigating a relationship with his father, who was battling addiction, added another layer of stress. Everything changed in the spring of 2000 when I moved into my first apartment on my own with my son. For the first time, I could fully focus on building a stable life for Joe and myself. It was liberating, exciting, and a time I look back on with gratitude. I was a single mom in my mid-20s, learning to enjoy life, meet new people, and take charge of my future. And that’s when my story—as it relates to this particular journey—really starts to take a turn.
In February 2003, I met Kyle. Our connection was instant, and we quickly started a relationship. At the time, if anyone had told me we’d be married just two years later, I would have laughed it off. We shared joy and laughter, but I never imagined it would lead to a traditional “happily ever after.” Yet, on July 2, 2005, we said our vows, and our life together began. Within a year, we began the process of Kyle adopting Joe and started trying to have a baby of our own. From 2006 into 2007, we were filled with hope and excitement. I felt blessed beyond measure—married to a man who had become my son’s father, and anticipating the arrival of our own child.
After a few months without success, I began tracking my cycles and charting my temperature, hoping to increase our chances. I stayed hopeful, not allowing worry to creep in. But at my next OBGYN visit, my doctor mentioned that, at 32, my age could present challenges. He reassured me that if I relaxed, it would “happen naturally.” Unsatisfied, we decided to consult a fertility specialist. With limited finances, I opted for basic testing and a short course of medication to give us a chance.
Yet month after month, nothing changed. Negative pregnancy tests piled up, and the medications did not help. After exhausting our resources, I clung to hope, praying and waiting, all while starting to accept the possibility that having another child might not be in our cards. I remember a moment in 2008, driving home from work lost in thought, when I nearly caused an accident at a four-way stop. A police officer pulled me over, gave me a warning, and let me go. The very next day, a pregnancy test confirmed the miracle we had been waiting for—I was pregnant. I was thrilled, overwhelmed, and immediately shared the news with those closest to me.
But joy quickly turned to fear. Slight spotting began, and soon escalated. Blood tests confirmed I was indeed pregnant, but my body was not cooperating. I was experiencing a very early miscarriage. The grief was unimaginable. Over the next couple of years, heartbreak repeated itself two more times. Each loss left me feeling empty, hopeless, and questioning why God wouldn’t allow us to have a child together. I even explored joining a research study for infertility, hoping it could offer free care, only to discover I had a blocked fallopian tube, making me ineligible.
Eventually, Kyle and I made the difficult decision to step back from trying. We adjusted to the reality that parenthood might not happen again, focusing instead on our lives, our son, and our marriage. Life continued, and we celebrated milestones like Joe’s high school graduation in 2012 with pride and gratitude. Yet, deep down, a desire to grow our family still lingered.
By the end of 2013, I began exploring adoption. Initially, we thought it might be out of reach financially, but we shifted our focus to foster-to-adopt options. Kyle surprised me by embracing the idea fully. Together, we attended an orientation and, by the end, he boldly asked, “What do we need to do to start this process?” It was a moment of shared hope and renewed determination—our dream of having a child together was not over.
Fostering for adoption is never easy. The ultimate goal is always family reunification, which can make the process emotionally challenging. After six months, we became fully licensed and ready for placement in October 2014. The first potential placement was a 10-month-old boy, but we passed, trusting that the right child would come. Weeks later, we were contacted about a newborn in the hospital named William. Something about his name felt like destiny. On December 12, 2014, he came home with us, and from that very first moment, we were utterly in love.
The following months brought uncertainty and court dates. At one point, we were told William might be leaving for a family member. The heartbreak was nearly unbearable, but the next day, we received a miraculous call: William would stay with us. Over the next year, we navigated the complexities of foster-to-adopt regulations. Finally, in 2016, parental rights were terminated, clearing the way for us to adopt.
October 14, 2016, became our official “Family Day.” The adoption finalized a journey filled with heartache, hope, and unwavering faith. William’s presence completed our family in a way that nothing else could. I now proudly call myself a boy mom to two sons, twenty years apart, and my love for them is equal and boundless.
Our journey taught me profound lessons about faith, patience, and the miraculous ways life unfolds. Even when it seemed impossible, God’s timing proved perfect. William was meant for us, and every hardship along the way only deepened our gratitude. Through infertility, miscarriage, and uncertainty, we learned that miracles happen when hope refuses to die.
Never give up. Keep believing. Miracles are real—and sometimes, they take time to arrive, but they’re worth every tear, every prayer, and every moment of waiting.
