I’m meeting the rest of my life in just four hours. For the past five years, I’ve walked through unimaginable pain, heartbreak, and the messy, clumsy process of rebuilding every part of myself. And it has led me here: mere hours before I bring my miracle into the world—my baby girl. I should be sleeping, but let’s be real—it’s amazing I even managed to sneak in three hours of rest before this scheduled C-section. This little life is a miracle in every sense of the word.
Doctors once told me I could carry a child, but my fibroids would make conceiving without IVF nearly impossible. Yet here she is, defying odds and expectations. Five years ago, I couldn’t have imagined she would ever be part of my story. Back then, she wasn’t even a possibility. I was married to the love of my life at the time, a man who is not her father. He was my husband, my everything. And then… it happened.
One horrid Saturday night in 2016 shattered my world. My husband, Rasheed Wiggins, walked across the street from our Florida apartment for a snack. As he returned, standing in the median just feet from our gate, he was struck by three cars and left to die. A stranger held his hand in those final moments. Investigators never charged the first driver, and the second was never found. That hit-and-run homicide didn’t just take Rasheed—it tore away the life, dreams, and future I had imagined, including the children I thought I might have as a 35-year-old widow.
All I had were ashes. And at first, I didn’t want to pick up the pieces, didn’t want to find the path to beauty again. I even took a time out from God, though I’m forever grateful He never took a time out from me. In my darkest moments, when I screamed at Him in disbelief, anger, hurt, and fear, He held me tighter than ever. When I had given up, God began turning my broken pieces into a beautiful puzzle. And like the puzzles my dad and I worked on as a child, the outline was set. Pieces of the middle were starting to fall into place, and slowly, I began to see the picture He had for my life.
I did the work. I got lost. I cried, screamed, and nearly gave in to despair more times than I can count. But through therapy, my grandmother’s prayers, life-changing trips with friends, and founding an organization to encourage widows, I found my voice, my purpose, and a new life. And when I least expected it, love crept in through one of the thousands of cracks in my broken heart. On June 19, 2020, I married Darian Iverson—a man I wholeheartedly believe Rasheed somehow prepared me for.
Darian loves me exactly how my heart needed to be loved. He makes me laugh, he makes me smile, simply by being himself. He is my husband, my chapter two. Widows often refer to their second husbands this way, and while I feel like I’ve lived a lifetime and written countless chapters, I understand the sentiment. I’m endlessly grateful for the man who stepped into my confusion, my grief, and chose to stand by me in the darkness.
Weeks after Rasheed’s death, I begged my friends and family to leave me in the shadows. I had no energy, no desire to engage with the world. When they tried to cheer me up, it only irritated my spirit. I explained that I could see the light switch, but I couldn’t reach it. I asked them simply to sit in the dark with me—and they did. Their presence became a lifeline. They reminded me of the light. They helped me laugh. They helped me pick out my outfit for Rasheed’s funeral, plan a charity 5K in his honor, and cry when I needed to cry. They held me in a world I never imagined navigating alone.
In the weeks that followed, I began a journey I couldn’t have foreseen: fertility treatments to preserve a part of Rasheed. Hours after his death, I asked if life could somehow be extracted from him—and it could. Doctors preserved his contribution to a child, and for years I worked toward making that dream a reality. Life, of course, had its own plan. My journey took a new turn when Darian, an old friend, reentered my life and eventually became my husband. He drove me to fertility appointments, held my hand as I underwent egg extractions, and walked beside me in ways I never could have imagined.
Yes, life is complicated. But in the midst of pain, God placed Darian exactly where I needed him. Kind, intelligent, loving—he never asked me to forget Rasheed, but helped me step forward into a future I thought I could never face. Darian stood beside me, encouraged me to let light in, and reminded me that hope can grow even in the deepest darkness.
And now, in just four hours, I’m giving birth to light. Darian and I have named our daughter Kiran—a name that combines our own and means “light.” Sometimes, your greatest darkness leads you to your brightest moments. Sometimes, the miracle grows within you, a testament to God’s timing and grace. And for me, that light—my daughter—is proof that hope, love, and joy can return, even when your heart has been shattered.
