I knew in my senior year of high school that, even though I didn’t know exactly what life might hold, I wanted to be a wife and a mom.
Being the youngest of four girls, I didn’t have a ton of experience with babies. I babysat occasionally, but I was usually a little uneasy around pregnant people, infants, and children. It was just unfamiliar territory! But deep down, I knew I wanted the experience of pregnancy someday—to grow a life inside my body, and to leave a line of descendants through me. More than anything, I think, I dreamed of being a grandmother one day: wise, gentle, soft, and smelling perpetually of Jergens lotion.
John and I got married in April of 2012. He’s three years younger than me, but my dearest friend, with a wild heart for Jesus that I trust completely. I had the mindset that if we got pregnant right away, I wouldn’t be upset. Somehow, I wanted to be a young mom—fit, fashionable, and in the prime of life. For the last twenty years, every journal I’ve written has a list of names I love scribbled on the last page, ready to use.
After working full-time for two years, John and I felt God calling us to a three-month intensive ministry school in Africa. We quit our jobs, sold our belongings, bought our tickets, and took off! I was 26 at the time, and John knew that my ideal “new-mom age” was 27. I found myself doing all the pregnancy math in my head—if we tried now, we’d have the baby at the perfect time. Life planning had always been my default: pick your goal, work hard, achieve it. I thought motherhood would follow the same formula.
If I could speak to that younger version of myself now, I’d hold her hands, gripped tightly around her plans, and smooth them open. I’d invite her to let go of timelines, comparisons, and measuring her worth by life milestones. I didn’t realize I was carrying those expectations like armor.
We decided to stop preventing pregnancy when we left for Africa in September 2014. There were ten young married couples without kids in the school. At the time, I never would have guessed we’d be the last of those couples to welcome our first child.
After several months, worry crept in. Throughout high school and college, I had joked that I had child-bearing hips and would likely have six kids by 35. And we had received many prophetic words about becoming parents, having children, and blessing generations. When it wasn’t happening, I wondered if something was wrong internally. I hated that thought—hated the idea that the encouraging words we’d received might have been a lifeline for a long, painful journey.
A year after trying, we finally conceived. We had returned from ministry school, spent four months traveling in Israel, and were living temporarily with my parents. I felt relief and joy, already dreaming of how to share the news, which names to choose, and how to decorate the nursery. But just before our 8-week appointment, I started bleeding. It didn’t stop. I remember sitting on the toilet, weeping uncontrollably, John kneeling in front of me, holding me, crying, and praying. It was one of the most traumatic experiences of my life.
We hear about miscarriage, but the reality—the process, the pain—is often unspoken. In the following weeks, I heard every type of consolation: “It happens all the time,” “You’ll get pregnant again soon,” “Stop trying and it will happen,” and a hundred variations on well-meaning advice. Every comment was meant to help, but many of them only reminded me of my grief. I learned the power of empathy, and the profound gift of simply sitting with someone in mourning without trying to fix it.
For five years, my heart carried this heaviness. Proverbs 13:12 says, “Hope deferred makes the heart sick, but a dream fulfilled is a tree of life.” My hope was not gone, but my heart was tired. Four more years of trying passed, filled with chemical pregnancies, experiments with diets, oils, exercise, acupuncture, fertility medications, and prayer. Each new method was embraced with open hands, knowing it might not be the answer, but it was worth trying.
The most difficult part was not knowing whether our journey required healing or was simply a matter of God’s timing. Every fertility test came back normal, leading to a diagnosis of unexplained infertility—the most frustrating of all. IVF was offered as an option, but we weren’t ready. During this time, friends around us welcomed babies, sometimes multiples, and I had to learn how to protect my heart while celebrating theirs. Baby showers could trigger tears I couldn’t control, and I gave myself permission to step back when needed. I learned to listen deeply, asking thoughtful questions and holding space for others without judgment, appreciating the full breadth of their lives beyond milestones.
We considered fostering or adoption but ultimately felt it wasn’t the right time. These conversations were sometimes difficult, especially when I expressed my deep longing to be a mom. John, calmer in these discussions, reminded me that we wanted to follow God’s guidance carefully. So we waited.
This past summer, I wasn’t trying anything special to conceive—no medications, strict diets, or routines. For the first time in years, I felt free simply to be me: 32, married, content, and trusting.
Over and over, I had to choose to trust God with a soft heart. I had to remember that Jesus was with me, weeping and walking alongside me. I returned to those prophetic words and said yes, even when my circumstances seemed otherwise. At a spring women’s conference, during worship, I asked God for healing. I felt Him respond clearly: it wasn’t about healing, but about timing. Relief washed over me. On the last night, a speaker prayed over everyone. When she reached me, she laid her hands on my belly, shouting, “PREGNANT! PREGNANT!” I crumpled to the floor, weeping fully—an intensely healing moment.
Two months later, a home pregnancy test confirmed it. Each week brought new gifts: the first flicker of a heartbeat, 12-weeks, 18-weeks, seeing our healthy baby girl. Each milestone has been a profound joy, even while navigating lingering fears. I’ve learned to trust God in each moment and to fully embrace the journey.
I know I am not the first woman to experience infertility and loss, and I will not be the last. Barrenness is as old as Scripture, and each story of waiting is unique. Fifty-nine months of hope and disappointment, prayers, potholes, and small victories shaped me, John, and our faith. God’s hand has been steady—strong, gentle, patient, and intimate. He has walked each tear and each heavy step with us.
Narrow, hidden, harrowing roads are precious. They forge strength, faith, and resilience. Waiting can be worship, messy and raw, like Hannah’s prayer in the Bible—an offering straight from a heart full of longing.
To everyone who prayed, encouraged, and supported us, we are deeply grateful. We are thrilled to share this new season with you: the gift of life we carry, our daughter, who we cannot wait to meet this spring.
