Our journey to parenthood began the day my husband and I got married back in 2004. We were 25 and 26, full of dreams and hope. From the very beginning, we talked about having three children. While we knew we couldn’t control gender, in our imaginations, we pictured two boys and a girl, in that exact order.
As the first year of our marriage came to a close, we hadn’t gotten pregnant—but we didn’t worry. We’d heard it can take over a year for a couple to conceive, and only after that point should one consider seeing a doctor. Life continued, and we told ourselves, if it happens, it happens.
After four years of trying with no success, we decided it was time to take action. I saw my doctor first, hoping to identify any potential issues. She suggested both my husband and I get tested. The results revealed that I was the source of our struggle: I had polycystic ovarian syndrome (PCOS), which caused in-ovulation. Each month, I endured heavy, painful periods, yet I wasn’t ovulating. My doctor tried multiple medications to stimulate ovulation, but nothing worked. Still, we held on to hope, taking pregnancy tests just in case, only to see another negative result every time.
After a couple of years of medication attempts with no success, we sought the help of an infertility specialist. By this time, I was also managing Type 2 diabetes alongside my PCOS. The specialist advised me to lose weight and started me on insulin to stabilize my blood sugar. I worked hard, shedding 30 pounds and getting my blood sugar under control. I even ovulated once that year, but still, no pregnancy.
Finally, we found a doctor who suggested intrauterine insemination (IUI). Like all previous fertility treatments, it wasn’t covered by insurance, so we had to pay out of pocket. Money was tight, but we scraped together enough to try the procedure. Unfortunately, it was unsuccessful.
After five long years of infertility treatments, we realized our bodies and minds needed a break. Infertility had consumed our lives and cast us into a dark place. Meanwhile, friends and family all around us were conceiving and building the families they dreamed of. We struggled in silence, trying to be happy for them while quietly breaking inside. I lost count of how many times I cried, but through it all, my husband was my rock, wiping away my tears and holding me steady.
A few years later, we reached a crossroads. I was 36, my husband 37, and time was no longer on our side. We faced a difficult choice: take out a 401k loan to try in vitro fertilization (IVF), with only a 50/50 chance of success and a cost of roughly $20,000, or explore adoption. Adoption had never been on our radar. We didn’t know anyone who had adopted, and we questioned whether we could bond as deeply with an adopted child as with our own. The decision weighed heavily on us.
Then, unexpectedly, the answer found us. A year or so prior, a woman started working at my company. I’d known her as a child—we were in the same class growing up with her older sister—but we hadn’t been close. As we reconnected, we bonded over our shared struggles with infertility. Her story was different; she had experienced multiple miscarriages, while I couldn’t conceive at all. Yet the common thread of heartbreak and hope connected us.
One day, she confided in me, “I have a cousin. She’s pregnant and incarcerated. She’s looking for someone to adopt her baby.” Initially, she and her husband had been approached, but they declined due to family complications. She, however, mentioned they knew someone who might be interested—us. My heart raced. Could this be real? Could this be the answer to our prayers? That evening, I told my husband, “We have to pursue this.”
Through another family member, we connected with the birth mother. We spoke on the phone and arranged to meet her—a two-hour drive away. She was sweet and open, sharing that she was about six months along and that she was having a girl. We learned about her situation and why she was incarcerated. After our visit, we drove home with hope and cautious excitement. A day or so later, she called to tell us she had chosen us to adopt her daughter. I felt the same joy as if I had finally discovered I was pregnant—we were over the moon!
The adoption process required a home study, which revealed just how much scrutiny and paperwork was involved. Every detail of our lives was examined. It took three months, but by Christmas of 2015, we proudly announced on social media that we were expecting a baby girl soon! Our friends and family were thrilled, though some cautioned us not to get our hopes up. We trusted our hearts and kept the faith. We transformed a room into the most beautiful girly nursery, pouring love into every detail, and waited patiently.
The birth mother estimated her due date at the end of January 2016, but she was about three weeks off. When we finally got the call that she was in labor, we packed our bags and drove through a snowstorm to the hospital. Because she was incarcerated, she had 24 hours with the baby before being taken back to prison. We waited nervously, unsure exactly when we would meet our daughter or what condition she would be in. The anticipation was unbearable. Finally, we got the call: “You can come see your baby.”
We rushed to the hospital and saw her lying there, swaddled and sleeping. I expected tears to flow immediately, but I was in shock. After nearly twelve years of longing, the moment had arrived. I whispered, “She’s perfect.” She was the most beautiful baby I had ever seen, weighing 7 pounds 5 ounces, born at 7:05 the night before, healthy aside from a little jaundice. That night, we stayed in the hospital, learning to change, feed, and swaddle our daughter. Pure bliss. The birth mother had given her a name, but with her blessing, we named her Faith—because we had never lost ours.
We returned home as a family of three. After six months of post-placement visits, a St. Louis court officially recognized Faith as our daughter. While she had always been ours in heart, she finally carried our last name at six months old.
Faith is now nearly five. She knows adoption is part of her story. We speak about her birth mother as a reminder of her love and sacrifice. As she grows, her questions will increase, and we will always be there to guide her through the ups and downs.
While we don’t currently have a relationship with her birth mother, we hope to one day. In the meantime, Faith knows where she came from and who loves her.
Looking back, I realize how wrong I was to think I could never love another child as I would my own. I love Faith beyond measure—it’s as if our souls are intertwined. Adoption made me a mom. The sacrifice of her birth mother is something I will never forget, and I am eternally grateful for the life she entrusted to us.
Adoption was born from tragedy, but that tragedy brought us life and joy. I have my happily ever after. And as for my friend and coworker who told us about Faith? She, too, found her joy and now has twins through IVF and another child naturally.
God truly works in mysterious ways—and our story is living proof of that.
