lovemakesroom

For most of my life, I was told motherhood probably wasn’t in the cards for me.

Not “maybe difficult.”
Not “it could take time.”

No.

I was told never.

I have PCOS.
Type 2 diabetes.
Years of hormonal issues.
Years of doctors talking to me like my body was defective before I was even old enough to fully understand what that meant.

When you hear “you’ll probably never have children” enough times, eventually it settles into your bones.

You stop dreaming about baby names.
You stop imagining nurseries.
You stop lingering in the baby aisles at Target because it hurts too much.

You pretend you’re okay with it.

And eventually?
You almost believe yourself.

October 2024 Broke Me Before It Healed Me

In 2024, I went in for a cervical cancer screening.

And honestly?
That appointment wrecked me.

The doctor had absolutely no bedside manner whatsoever. After the female nurse left the room, he looked at me and told me he highly suspected cervical cancer.

Then came the words that echoed in my brain for weeks:

Because of my size, I’d need a specialist.
A high-risk surgeon.
Possible oncology referral.
Removal of cancer cells.
Full hysterectomy.

Full hysterectomy.

Just like that.

No compassion.
No softness.
No reassurance.
Just clinical devastation dumped in my lap before I even had confirmed results.

Then they took forever getting those results back.

So I went home and spiraled.

I cried constantly.
I panicked.
I doom-Googled.
I mentally planned an entire future where my body failed me yet again.

I mourned children I never even got the chance to try for.

And the worst part?
I genuinely believed this was just confirmation of what I’d always been told:
Your body won’t do this right.

Then Everything Changed

I eventually found a new gynecologist.

And he was incredible.

The kind of doctor that actually looks at you instead of just your chart.

He reran everything.
Every test.
Every panel.
Every concern.

And suddenly the story changed.

No cancer.
Healthy egg count.
Everything looked good.
I had lost weight.
My sugars were controlled.
My A1C was around 5.5.

For the first time in years, I felt hopeful about my body instead of angry at it.

Then October rolled around.

And I thought I was losing my mind.

My emotions were everywhere.
I was crying.
I was irrationally angry.
Hot flashes.
Mood swings.
Chaos.

I called my doctor convinced the medication changes were messing with my hormones.

I remember saying:
“These meds have me going crazy. I need to come in ASAP.”

At the appointment they casually asked:
“Have you taken a pregnancy test?”

I literally laughed.

Like…
please.

I texted Wiley with complete sarcasm like:
“They’re making me take a pregnancy test 😂”

Because in my mind there was no universe where that test was positive.

None.

A few minutes later the nurse walked back in smiling.

“Congratulations. You’re pregnant.”

I can still feel that moment in my chest.

Shock.
Disbelief.
Hope.
Terror.
Joy.

It was like every locked door inside me suddenly flew open all at once.

After spending years believing my body could never do this…
suddenly it had.

I went downstairs for bloodwork floating somewhere between crying and laughing.

And for a couple days…
I let myself dream.

I thought about babies.
I thought about telling family.
I thought about what motherhood might look like.

For the first time in my life, it felt real.

Then the phone call came.

Chemical pregnancy.

And I know some people hear that and think:
“Well it was early.”
“Well at least you know you can get pregnant.”
“Well it wasn’t technically…”

Stop.

Please stop.

Because grief does not measure itself by weeks.

Loss is loss.

And when you’ve spent your entire life believing motherhood would never happen…
those few days become enormous.

I wasn’t grieving what was.

I was grieving what could have been.

The what-ifs swallowed me whole.

What if it had worked?
What if that was my only chance?
What if my body failed again?
What if I never got another moment like that?

I became angry.
Heartbroken.
Jealous.
Triggered by everything.

Pregnancy announcements wrecked me.
Baby showers wrecked me.
Tiny clothes wrecked me.
Motherhood conversations wrecked me.

I was drowning in grief over something some people probably didn’t even think counted as a loss.

But it counted to me.

Then April 2026 Happened

And God — or fate, or the universe, or whatever you believe in — has a strange sense of humor sometimes.

Because instead of one baby…

A fifteen-year-old boy.
A seven-year-old girl.
A three-year-old boy.

We suddenly had three children.

Foster care entered our lives like a tornado with snacks.

And at their core?
They are the sweetest, funniest, most loving little humans.

But healing children come with healing-sized challenges.

The fifteen-year-old is about to become a father himself in just a few weeks.

The seven-year-old talks from the moment her eyes open until the moment they close. I mean nonstop commentary. Narration. Questions. Sound effects. Opinions. Interpretive dance discussions. The girl could professionally host a podcast.

And the three-year-old?

He is aggressively three.

He cries if the banana breaks wrong.
He cries because the juice is cold.
He cries because the dog looked at him emotionally.
He cries because gravity exists.

And somewhere in the middle of the chaos, exhaustion, appointments, therapy schedules, visitation transportation, behaviors, routines, and complete sensory overload…

I found myself venting to a friend one day.

And then immediately feeling guilty.

Because this thought hit me like a truck:

“You begged for this.”

For years this was all I wanted.

Children.
Motherhood.
A family.
Noise.
Chaos.
Bedtime routines.
Tiny shoes by the door.

So what right did I have to feel overwhelmed?

What right did I have to complain?
To be tired?
To admit this was hard?

These weren’t even biologically mine.
These were children I was blessed with.

Shouldn’t I just be grateful every second?

Shouldn’t I handle it better?

Shouldn’t I be more patient?
More selfless?
More emotionally together?

And my friend stopped me.

She told me something I think more women need to hear:

Gratitude does not cancel exhaustion.

Being blessed does not mean being unaffected.

Loving children deeply does not magically remove the weight of caregiving.

And grieving the motherhood journey you imagined while simultaneously loving the motherhood you were given?
That’s allowed too.

I Think That’s the Real Story Nobody Tells

Motherhood — in any form — is complicated.

Infertility is complicated.
Loss is complicated.
Foster care is complicated.
Healing is complicated.

And somewhere along the way women started believing we have to either:

• be grateful,
  or
• be struggling.

Maybe motherhood found me anyway.

But real life is both.

I can be incredibly thankful for these children while also admitting some days are exhausting.

I can adore them and still need quiet.

I can feel honored to be part of their healing while also grieving the pregnancy I lost.

Those things are not mutually exclusive.

And honestly?

Learning to extend grace to myself may be the hardest lesson of all.

Because maybe motherhood was never supposed to look exactly how I imagined.

Maybe it was always supposed to look like this:
Messy.
Loud.
Healing.
Unexpected.
Beautiful.
Heartbreaking.
Chaotic.
Sacred.