Every year around this time, my soul feels a quiet overwhelm—not exactly sad, not exactly happy, but a deep, reflective overwhelm—as Mother’s Day approaches. It’s not just the day itself, but the weeks leading up to it. My body, heart, and mind seem to conspire together, forcing me to pause and remember: the joys, the traumas, the little victories, and the raw, unfiltered complexity of grief and love colliding.
My name is Ashlynn, I’m 42 years old, and I’m a mom of four amazing children living in Southern California. Most people don’t realize that I was born with Spina Bifida and underwent multiple surgeries as a newborn. By God’s grace, I grew up with very few complications. Other than the scars hidden under my clothes, no one would ever know. What lingered in my mind growing up was the occasional reminder from my mom that I might never be able to have biological children. As a kid and teen, it didn’t bother me—I had other things to worry about, like cheerleading tryouts or fitting in at school. It wasn’t until an unexpected surgery in my teens that the reality of my fertility became more tangible—but even then, my worries were about whether I’d be cleared for sports, not motherhood.
Fast forward through the whirlwind of high school and college, I met my best friend and future husband on my very first day working at Coca-Cola. There I was, stocking shelves, when he turned the corner of the soda aisle. I fell in love instantly. We’ve been together ever since—19 years this year. We married the following year and decided to “pull the goalie” and see about starting a family.
I carried the memory of the doctors’ warnings with me but gave them little weight. I’ve always been a big prayer person, believing that God can do all things. That hope, however, was met with devastating disappointment month after month as every pregnancy test returned negative. I spent hundreds of dollars convinced the next test would finally be positive, even sometimes checking the trash for discarded tests, hoping they had magically changed. The hardest part was telling Dave yet again that it was negative.
The physical toll of infertility was almost unbearable. Within a week of going off birth control, my body was in constant pain. Our “date nights” quickly became trips to the ER. Surgeries followed to remove cysts and relentless scar tissue that had encased my insides, making the doctor’s office feel like a second home. Pain became normal.
Through it all, adoption had always been in my heart. It wasn’t “second best” because I grew up with so many family members who had been adopted. Biology was never the priority; love was. After years of surgeries and pain, I scheduled a hysterectomy. My doctor fought me, wanting to try IVF or surrogacy, feeling almost personally failed by my request. I begged her to allow me to draw the line—to end the medical chaos, to reclaim my body and my life.
The surgery was what doctors call a “blind hysterectomy.” My organs were so enmeshed in scar tissue that she couldn’t even see what was being removed. I spent a week in the hospital, but the physical pain paled in comparison to the emotional weight. I was recovering on the maternity ward, surrounded by newborn cries and mothers celebrating life. It felt like a cruel joke. I walked the halls jokingly, trying not to hear the baby cries, feeling a grief I hadn’t fully acknowledged before. On the day of my discharge, I finally allowed myself to cry—for the daughter I would never have, for the little girl I had imagined with light blonde curls and an infectious giggle.
Then, in the following year, God surprised us in ways I never could have imagined. We started the process of Independent Adoption, not knowing how we would afford it. Around seven or eight months later, we were matched—only to have it fall apart on Mother’s Day. I stayed home that day, refusing to let anyone wish me a “Happy Mother’s Day,” overwhelmed by grief and uncertainty.
Two weeks later, as Dave and I were getting ready for church, the call came that would forever change us: “Surprise! You were picked, and he was born last night—only four pounds!” I had prayed quietly for a mother to carry her child but not insist on contact—maybe just photos. But in that moment, as she placed her tiny son in my arms, I was irrevocably transformed. I understood a glimpse of God’s love: giving His only son that we might have eternal life. Here was a mother handing me her most precious gift, trusting me to raise him. How could I not give everything back in love and devotion?
From that day forward, Mother’s Day has always begun with grief—for what was lost, for what was offered, for the sacrifices of another woman who made me a mother. I honor the birth mothers of my children, seeing them as true embodiments of strength and empowerment. Since that first miracle, we have adopted three more children, completed five additional home studies, fostered, and reopened doors to adoption when the timing felt right.
Each of my children comes from unique backgrounds, and while all have extraordinary birth stories, I am careful to honor their privacy. Our adoptions are now open, and each relationship looks different, tailored to the best interest of the child. I’ve even had the honor of serving as Matron of Honor in one daughter’s birth mother’s wedding—a moment that still takes my breath away. We don’t have a family tree; we have an orchard, growing and branching in ways that love alone makes possible.
Through surgeries, loss, grief, and redemption, I’ve learned that joy can coexist with sorrow, and love can be chosen even in the depths of despair. Adoption wasn’t my first choice—but it was never second best. And if I could live it all again, I wouldn’t change a single detail.
