Growing up, one thing I always knew for certain was that I wanted to be a mother. I imagined the day I would have my own little girl, someone I could call not just my child, but my best friend. That dream stayed with me through every stage of life. My husband and I met on a dating website in December 2012, both seniors in high school. From the very beginning, I made it clear that having children was non-negotiable for me—something I couldn’t compromise on. Like most high school relationships, ours had its ups and downs. There were a few breakups along the way, nothing too dramatic, but enough to test our patience and commitment. Deep down, I think we both knew we were meant to be together; we just needed time to grow up a little before we could fully commit.
After high school, my husband graduated a bit early and worked tirelessly to move out of his parents’ home and into his own apartment. I joined him as soon as I graduated in May 2013. On our one-year dating anniversary, he asked me to marry him, and of course, I said yes. We had no rush for a wedding, planning a long engagement, but in February 2015, we spontaneously moved 1,000 miles from our Ohio home to Oklahoma. Once there, we essentially eloped—no big ceremony, no fanfare. We just wanted to be husband and wife. A few months later, we returned to Ohio for family reasons and spent the next four years living in a camper on a family member’s property, carefully saving money and building our credit to one day buy our forever home. Those years were tough, but they strengthened us as a couple and prepared us for the next chapter of our lives.
Our journey to parenthood began in January 2019. After six years together, four of them married, we finally felt ready. We were financially stable, buying our first home, and emotionally prepared for this next step. The first month we tried, I got a positive pregnancy test the day before Valentine’s Day. The excitement was overwhelming! My fears about fertility, particularly related to my weight, evaporated in an instant. We shared the news with family and friends and proudly announced it on Facebook. It felt perfect—until it wasn’t.
The first ultrasound showed a single healthy baby with a strong heartbeat. But on the night we moved into our new home, March 15th, I began spotting. I spent our first night in the hospital instead of celebrating in our new home. The baby still had a heartbeat, so I was sent home to follow up with my OB. Just five days later, March 20th, the bleeding intensified, cramping began, and I knew what was happening—but I couldn’t bring myself to believe it. The next day, the ultrasound confirmed my worst fear: I had miscarried. Sitting in that waiting room surrounded by other pregnant women, I felt utterly alone. The grief was suffocating—weeks of tears, physical pain, and emotional exhaustion followed. Though friends and family cared, few truly understood the heartbreak of a miscarriage. My doctor reassured me that miscarriages were common and unlikely to repeat, so we began trying again as soon as I was cleared.
The second pregnancy brought cautious hope, but on May 29th, heartbreak struck again. The doctor told me no testing would happen until three miscarriages had occurred, a gut-wrenching reality to face. We tried again, and November 14th brought a third positive. This time, I was determined to monitor everything, but history repeated itself on December 6th. Three losses in less than a year left me shattered, questioning my strength and faith. It wasn’t until a new doctor in March 2020 listened, validated my concerns, and prescribed progesterone and baby aspirin that we began to regain hope. After five cycles with no success, we were exhausted and even considered adoption, as other fertility treatments were financially out of reach.
By July 2020, we had emotionally prepared to give up, yet I felt the familiar symptoms from previous pregnancies. Hesitant to test, I finally did—and a faint positive appeared on July 1st. We were terrified, silent, cautious, unwilling to hope too much after so many losses. Days later, tragedy struck again: my father died unexpectedly on July 9th. The stress was unimaginable, yet we clung to the little hope of this pregnancy. At eight weeks, we learned via blood test that we were having a girl. My dream of a daughter was finally within reach, and I set mental milestones to get us through: 14 weeks to pass the first trimester, 20 weeks to reach the halfway point, 24 weeks to viability. Slowly, we moved forward. Despite minor complications like pelvic pain, gestational diabetes, and a scare with contractions, my pregnancy progressed.
On January 2, 2021, at 29 weeks and 6 days, I noticed Ember hadn’t moved all morning. After being monitored at my local hospital, I was sent two hours away to a larger facility capable of delivering a preemie. There, I spent nearly two days hooked up to multiple IVs, receiving steroid injections for her lungs, unable to eat, and separated from my husband due to COVID-19 restrictions. Every hour was nerve-wracking as her heart rate dipped repeatedly. Finally, on January 4th at 7:55 a.m., our rainbow baby, Ember Jaymes Jackson, arrived via emergency C-section at just 30 weeks and 1 day, weighing 2 pounds 15 ounces. Despite the fear and the emergency surgery, her tiny squeal filled the room, and she had a full head of hair. Holding her for the first time the next day was terrifying and miraculous all at once.
Ember’s journey continued in the NICU for two months. She faced MRSA, a NEC diagnosis, a blood clot, multiple breathing failures, bottle-feeding challenges, and even failed her car seat test just before discharge. But on March 6th, just shy of her due date, we brought her home. Every hardship, every tear, every heartbreak led to this moment. Ember is our miracle, a testament to perseverance, faith, and hope.
Looking back, I’m proud I didn’t let weight define the cause of my miscarriages. Miscarriage is more common than people realize—1 in 4 pregnancies ends this way. If you’ve experienced loss, speak about it. Allow yourself to grieve, to feel anger, to feel hope. You are not alone. I am 1 in 4—and now, thanks to faith and determination, I am a mother to the daughter I always dreamed of.
