I have always known I wanted to be a mother. From the time I was little, it felt like something written into my heart. I spent countless hours playing “house,” carefully setting up nurseries, filling bottles, changing pretend diapers, and even strapping a toy Graco car seat into my parents’ SUV so we could “go to the park.” Even when I was far too old to be playing with baby dolls, I would convince my younger siblings that we absolutely needed to play house. Nurturing came naturally to me, and even as a child, I carried a deep love for mothering.
As a teenager, I preferred babysitting for family friends over going out with my own friends. That instinct followed me into adulthood and into my vocation as an educator. My love for children runs deep—it’s in my blood, my calling. Motherhood was the title I always believed would one day be mine. My journey there looked different than I imagined, but I am endlessly grateful for the path that led me to my miracle babies.
I met my husband, Jay, during the spring semester of my freshman year of college. He was studying project management, and I was pursuing a degree in education. We happened to sit at the same table during the first week of class, and from that moment on, our story unfolded. After four years of dating, we got engaged and began dreaming about our future together. We were married in June of 2014, and soon after, we started talking about growing our family.
In the spring of 2016, two years into our marriage, everything changed. One day at the gym, I was suddenly struck with severe pain. I left immediately and drove myself home, hoping rest would help. Two days later, still in unbearable pain and with Jay working six hours away, I drove myself to the ER. That’s when I was diagnosed with a ruptured ovarian cyst. From that moment forward, our journey to parenthood became clouded by infertility—filled with unanswered questions, endless tears, and unfamiliar roads that would eventually lead us to our greatest blessings nearly three years later.
After that day, I desperately wanted answers. I needed to know why the cyst had ruptured, where ovarian cysts came from, and how I could prevent them. For two years, I heard the same frustrating responses from doctor after doctor: “We don’t know what’s wrong,” “Cysts just happen,” “If we could fix it, we would.” I knew those answers weren’t enough. Finally, after finding a doctor 200 miles from home who truly listened, I received clarity.
In the summer of 2017, I underwent exploratory laparoscopic surgery. I will never forget waking up and hearing my doctor say, “We found stage 4 endometriosis—one of the worst I’ve ever seen in someone so young.” Jay was holding my hand as tears streamed down my face, and in that moment, I realized motherhood would require more waiting, more questions, and deeper faith.
Up until then, only a handful of people knew about our struggle. I felt ashamed and uncomfortable sharing something so personal. I didn’t want a label or pity. When family learned about my surgery, their support slowly helped heal my heart. Even though they couldn’t fully understand our pain, their encouragement made the burden lighter. As my physical scars healed, so did my spirit. Having answers brought relief.
Around that same time, Jay and I quietly took another step—we submitted paperwork to an adoption agency in July 2017. When our application was accepted on July 24, we felt an overwhelming sense of peace. Adoption was something we had talked about long before infertility entered our lives, and pursuing it felt right. That Christmas, we shared the news with our families.
For over a year and a half, adoption became our focus. We completed endless paperwork, finalized our home study, created an adoption profile book, and shared our journey online. Several expectant mothers reached out, and while none chose us, we continued forward with hope, prayer, and open hearts.
By this point, I had stopped believing pregnancy was possible. Then, in March of 2019, I felt a sudden urge to take a pregnancy test. When two pink lines appeared, I fell to my knees in tears. I grabbed a onesie from our adoption photos and a baby blanket my mother-in-law had sewn, and waited for Jay at the door. After 1,460 days, our miracle arrived.
Two weeks later, at our first ultrasound, we heard words we never expected: “I see two heartbeats.” Twin heartbeats. In that instant, every tear and every prayer felt worth it.
Pregnancy after infertility brought joy mixed with fear. Every appointment came with worry. But in November 2019, after two days of hard labor, our twins were born. Our arms—and hearts—were finally full.
Motherhood is messy, exhausting, and beautiful. These sleepless nights and overflowing laundry piles are the days I prayed for. Infertility shaped me in ways I never imagined, teaching me patience, gratitude, and faith. It will always be part of my story—but so will these two miracles. And I wouldn’t change a thing.
