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Even before I’ve held you, I’ve carried you—in my thoughts, in my hopes, in every step of this journey.
This is my journey to you.
Not long ago, I sat in the airport in Turks and Caicos with my good friend Sara and said out loud for the first time, “I’m not sure if kids are for me.”
At the time, I was still married to my ex—ambivalent about whether our marriage would survive, and even more unsure that together, we had what it took to raise a family. The idea of being a mother filled me with sheer terror, and I saw no joy or meaningful reason to bring a child into the world.
Little did I know that just a few months later, I would find myself unexpectedly pregnant. What many would call “tempting fate” felt to me like the biggest mistake I could endure.
After nearly two months of being the woman who couldn’t recall when her last period was, and a planned trip to the gynecologist, it was discovered I had miscarried. I was eight weeks pregnant—and thirty-seven years old.
Fast forward to today.
Two IVF cycles later. A stomach and thighs covered in bruises from at-home injections. A painful laparoscopic surgery to remove stage two endometriosis, with a permanent scar on my belly button to show for it. Two fertility clinics. A nutritionist with a daily meal plan loaded with amino acids, proteins, and added riboflavin—because who knew that mattered for conception?
Months of acupuncture appointments, each one a two-hour commute on my day off. Yoga to support blood flow. Supplements for egg quality. A life coach. A fertility mindset coach. Rapid transformational therapy. Daily ovulation tracking. And the mountain of debt I’ve accrued to build the village—my bump squad—just to get here.
Still, I wait for those two pink lines.
And yet—despite it all—I am grateful. I now share my life in a new home with a man who is loving, devoted, and aligned with my values. A man who, like me, feels the deep desire to be a parent.
What we didn’t know is that at forty-one, this journey would require unimaginable patience, resilience, and the ability to live through heartbreak without losing ourselves.
This two-year battle has been one I’ve never spoken about—until now. It has felt personal, and at times, shameful. The stigma of infertility hovers over couples like us—those in their forties who travel the world, yet secretly yearn to be called “Mommy” and “Daddy.”
We aren’t part of the nap schedules, the school pickups, the dance recitals, or soccer games. We don’t know the chaos of feeding times or the joy of bedtime stories.
And perhaps the greatest grief has been mourning a role we don’t even yet have—one we weren’t sure we ever wanted.
So why haven’t I written about it until now?
I told myself it was too private, too painful. That building a family with my partner was no one’s business but ours. But in truth—I was afraid.
Afraid of judgment. Afraid of being seen as someone who waited too long. Someone who had a successful nursing career, but not the “right” timing. A late bloomer to motherhood.
And then, something shifted. I realized that this—right now—is the moment to be honest. With myself. As a woman. And as a writer.
Because despite the lost years, the uncertainty, the heartbreak, and all the unknowns—I keep picking up the pieces. I keep going. All for the chance to one day hear the word, “Mom.”
I now see judgment for what it is—my own projection—and I remain rooted in the one thing I am certain of: that one day, I will hold my baby.
The “when” and the “how” no longer matter.
What matters is that I know how this story ends. And I will not be the last woman in the world to conceive in her forties.
I’ve already fallen in love with a role I don’t yet have—but I know it’s coming. I’ve spent two years building muscles of determination, patience, and emotional endurance. I now move through this process without losing my balance or falling into despair.
I can stay connected to my partner without spiraling into the dreaded dinner-table question: “Will it ever happen for me?”
Now, I know my only job is to keep moving forward. Every clinic visit, every blood draw, every acupuncture needle brings me one step closer.
I no longer need to carry shame, guilt, or fear of being judged.
It is a brave, beautiful thing to keep walking toward what you want.
And maybe the uncertainty doesn’t have to be painful. Maybe not knowing the when or the how can feel exciting because it means what is meant to be has the space to show up.
I want my baby to know they are already so cherished. So deeply loved.
I want them to know how ready we are. How much we’ve longed for them. How I cannot wait to carry them inside me for nine beautiful months—and then in my arms.
We are waiting for you.
We are ready.
Sweet baby, until we meet—very soon.
~
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