My husband Andrew and I were high school sweethearts. We met at church when we were just 16 years old in Kingston, Jamaica, where we were both born and raised. From the start, there was something unmistakable between us, but life had its own plans. When I moved to Connecticut to pursue my career, I wasn’t sure our relationship could survive the distance, yet somehow, it did—and it has. Through every up and down, the constant in our lives has been the choice to love each other, even when love felt impossible.
After four years of dating, during a visit to see me, Andrew proposed. And it wasn’t the proposal I had imagined. It came in the middle of a huge disagreement, and I remember thinking, “This isn’t how I dreamt of getting engaged.” I had imagined a romantic moment filled with flowers and the perfect story to tell our families and future children. But instead, he said, “My promise isn’t to love you in the best of times—that’s easy. I promise to choose you when it’s hard, to stay when it’s easier to walk away, and to fight for us, even in arguments.” We’ve been married for 17 years now, and every day since, Andrew has renewed that promise in ways both big and small.
We had dreams of traveling the world and building our careers before becoming parents. I had always wanted to be a mother, but shortly after marriage, my health took a devastating turn. I was in constant pain, bouncing from doctor to doctor, and yet for years, I went undiagnosed. During this time, we also began trying to conceive. After more than a year without success, we started fertility treatments—and finally received the diagnosis: Stage 4 Endometriosis. We were told our only chance of becoming parents was IVF, and even then, the odds were slim. We were heartbroken, never imagining the physical, emotional, financial, and spiritual toll that lay ahead. For nine years, we fought tirelessly, enduring multiple rounds of treatments and surgeries, each failure driving me deeper into despair.
Endometriosis also tested every corner of our marriage. The pain was relentless, and I begged Andrew to leave, to find someone who could give him the life and children he deserved. But he refused. Even at my lowest, he cried out to God for me, praying for healing—not just for my body, but for my heart, mind, and soul. His steadfast love became my anchor.
After seven IVF cycles, we finally became pregnant—but we miscarried early. The loss was raw and invisible, dismissed by well-meaning words: “You’re still young,” “It was too early to bond,” “It wasn’t really a baby yet.” But for me, the moment we saw the positive test, I was a mother. And the grief that followed was profound.
On our eighth IVF cycle, we were blessed with a pregnancy with triplet boys. We were overjoyed, imagining the family we had longed for. But at 22 weeks, preterm labor struck, and our sons—Noah, Caleb, and Micah—were born. We only had 27, 23, and 7 minutes with them before they passed. Leaving the hospital with empty arms and a small blue memory box felt unbearable. For years, the box remained unopened, a painful reminder of the life that had barely begun.
In the darkest moments, I questioned God: “Why did you let me survive?” The grief was suffocating, yet we were held by family, friends, and faith. I remember locking myself in a bathroom one day, overcome by sorrow, when a friend traveled hours just to sit outside the door, holding space for me as I cried. It was then I realized that true friends endure suffering alongside you—and honor the names of the children you’ve lost.
After this loss, I told Andrew I couldn’t keep fighting. I couldn’t face another round of IVF, another cycle of hope and heartbreak. But he simply said, “One more time. Just one last time.” That final attempt brought a miracle: our twin daughters, Eliana and Nia, who are now seven. The pregnancy was a whirlwind, and every day was tinged with both fear and hope. After loss, it’s impossible not to live in both grief and gratitude at the same time.
After giving birth, my health declined further, and I became bedridden. Andrew stepped in as my caretaker, staying home to raise our girls while I worked from home, fighting the disease. Five years later, a specialist in Atlanta successfully removed my Endometriosis, giving me a new lease on life. I will never forget the winter of 2019, months after surgery, when I ran and played in the snow with my children for the first time. Eliana turned to me and said, “Mommy, you can run and play! I’m so happy you’re healed!” For the first time, they knew their mom without pain.
Even as life improved, new challenges came. Both of our daughters were diagnosed with autism at 18 months. Eliana is high functioning, while Nia needs more support. The diagnosis was unexpected, yet our love for them proved stronger than any fear of the unknown. Navigating the world as a special-needs mom is a daily challenge, but we fight every day to advocate for our girls and give them the life they deserve.
In our family, Eliana and I are loud and exuberant—we sing at the top of our voices, hug without permission, and refuse to allow sadness to linger. Andrew and Nia are quieter, yet their grace and honesty anchor our family. We intentionally choose to love fiercely, even on the hardest days. Transparency has been vital for us; we want no one to feel alone or ashamed of their struggles. Through our journey of faith, hope, and resilience, we hope to encourage others facing trials.
We want people to know that even in the darkest moments, light can find you. Seek counseling when needed, celebrate small joys, and be kind to yourself. Grief and love can coexist, and it’s okay to protect your heart from those who cannot bear your pain. True companions will stand with you, even on your most unlovable days.
Our love story has been wild, imperfect, and beautiful. Life continues to throw challenges our way, but we face them hand in hand, praying daily for humility, grace, and the wisdom to serve each other. It is not always pretty, and it is often messy—but Andrew is my rock, and I am his peace. Love, we have learned, is both beautiful and hard. Sometimes hardly beautiful, sometimes beautifully hard. For us, it’s about navigating life’s storms together, choosing hope and joy despite pain, and showing our children every day what unwavering love truly looks like.
