In August of 1999, I first met Scott. I was a freshman at Southern Nazarene University, just outside Oklahoma City, Oklahoma, starting a new chapter of my life. Scott was a couple of years older, and he immediately left an impression on me. He was tall, athletic—playing college basketball—handsome, and had this incredible sense of humor. As I slowly settled into college life and made friends, I was grateful that Scott became part of my circle. We weren’t close at first, but we shared so many experiences over the years. I remember countless afternoons playing horseshoes and croquet, fishing, and spending time at a friend’s pond or a horse ranch. Scott had a way of lighting up every room, always kind and effortlessly charismatic.
After graduation, life took us on separate paths. I moved to Texas to begin my teaching career, while Scott joined the Marines. My years that followed were filled with moves to Austin, Dallas/Fort Worth, Denver, and Nashville, with incredible adventures traveling through Africa and the Middle East sprinkled in. Scott’s military career ended due to a knee injury requiring surgery, and he pursued his master’s degree at the University of Oklahoma. He taught Physical Sciences at both OU and Southern Nazarene University, eventually joining Southwestern Christian University—all while staying true to the kind, vibrant man I had known in college.
In 2017, while I was on a planning break in my kindergarten classroom in Nashville, I received a Facebook message from Scott. We hadn’t connected in years, and I remember the flutter of excitement as I read his words, curious about the life he had been living. Our conversation began with small talk but quickly grew into long, thoughtful messages. We shared our past, our dreams, our beliefs, and our families—slowly rediscovering each other in a way we never had before. Months of messaging led to a plan to meet in person over Christmas break. We met halfway in Tulsa, intending a quick lunch—but what was supposed to be a short meal turned into a ten-hour date.
The moment I saw Scott again, I knew something extraordinary was happening. We were both nervous, and Scott later admitted he excused himself just ten minutes into lunch to splash water on his face and calm down. That vulnerability and excitement stuck with me—it felt so rare and so special to be seen and adored by someone with such intensity. Our connection was immediate, and it was clear we had a profound impact on each other’s lives.
Several months and countless trips between Oklahoma City and Nashville later, Scott proposed. We decided I would move back to Oklahoma after our wedding, and on September 1, 2018, we exchanged vows in the church where Scott grew up, celebrating our love with a reception on the farm we had just purchased together. Life on the farm was a mix of teaching during the day—Scott at college, me with first graders—and building our little sanctuary. We affectionately called our family of animals our “herd,” spending hours with our dogs, cat, horse, donkey, and indoor pig. I started a pie business, we tended the garden, and poured love into our farm home. It was joyful, busy, and filled with hope for the future.
Our biggest dream was to start a family. We hoped for a child early in our marriage, but after a year of trying, fear and discouragement crept in. Visits to doctors, medicated cycles, procedures, and tests led to the sobering conclusion: IVF was our only realistic option. It was devastating, but we accepted it and prepared to take the next steps toward growing our family.
We chose a clinic in Barbados and began our first round of IVF in December 2019. Genetic testing revealed one healthy embryo, filling us with gratitude and hope. For a second round in February, Scott couldn’t take time off work, so my mom accompanied me. After days of appointments, island explorations, and moments on the beach, I had my second retrieval.
On February 18, 2020, my mom and I were set to leave Barbados, stopping overnight in Toronto before returning to the U.S. As we waited for our ride, I texted Scott, our hearts full of anticipation about the IVF results. I promised to call him once we landed in Toronto. But that night, around 10 p.m., I landed and tried to reach him. My phone lit up with texts and voicemails from concerned colleagues and friends. When I finally called his mother, her voice shook with fear—Scott had suffered a seizure and heart attack while teaching and was in the ICU. He had been unresponsive, placed on life support, and in a medically induced coma.
My mom and I changed our flights immediately. On February 19, I received the unimaginable news: Scott, my vibrant, healthy 41-year-old husband, was not expected to survive. My heart shattered. I had to spend what should have been a joyous evening holding his hand, saying my final goodbyes, signing organ donation forms, and trying to summon the strength to authorize life support removal. On February 21, 2020, at 12:25 p.m., I lost the love of my life.
The following months were a blur of grief and responsibility: planning a funeral, selling our farm, finding a new job and house, navigating life on a teacher’s salary, and recovering physically from IVF—all amid a global pandemic. Amid the chaos, I learned we still had two frozen embryos in Barbados, including one from our second round of IVF that had tested normal. In the midst of unimaginable loss, this small beacon of hope reminded me of the family Scott and I had dreamed of.
Six months after his passing, in August 2020, I returned to Barbados to transfer our embryo. Surrounded by friends, family, and strangers who prayed for us, I held onto hope. Days later, on September 7, I knelt by my bed, praying to God and Scott before taking a pregnancy test. Two strong pink lines appeared. I was pregnant. I ran to my mom, and we wept and embraced, overcome with relief and joy.
On May 3, 2021, I gave birth to our miracle, Hayes Philip-Scott Shellenberger, an 8 lb 5 oz bundle of light and love. Every day, as I look into his bright blue eyes—so like his dad’s—I marvel at how richly God has blessed us. Infertility, loss, and widowhood were never part of the story I imagined for myself, but as I heal, I embrace the love and purpose that Hayes brings to my life.
I don’t know what the future holds, but I trust God has a plan. I pray for Hayes’ health, happiness, and growth, and I pray for the strength to be the best mom I can be. I am grateful for the community that surrounds us with love and prayers, and I look forward to returning to Barbados in 2022 to transfer our second embryo, hoping Hayes may have a sibling to grow alongside him. Even amid sorrow, I have found joy, and I hope that by sharing my journey, others navigating grief or infertility know they are not alone. Life, I’ve learned, is a tapestry of heartbreak and hope—and every day we have the chance to embrace both.
