My husband, Clay, and I met in college at the University of Central Florida. I was seventeen, he was nineteen—babies, really. I was so excited to start college; from a young age, I knew I wanted to be a pediatric nurse. I had never really dated in high school, mostly because I had a tight-knit friend group and boys always seemed like a colossal waste of time. Clay, on the other hand, definitely didn’t share that view and had plenty of girlfriends.
When we met, we were just friends for the first year and a half. I think I even scared him a little because he quickly realized I didn’t date just to date. If I was going to invest my time in a relationship, it had to be the real deal—the kind that mattered. Poor guy! That year and a half of growing our friendship turned out to be invaluable. To this day, if we could pick anyone to hang out with, it would be each other. Friendship first, love second—that’s our philosophy. You really have to like the person you’re committing to for life.
I had been homeschooled from third through twelfth grade, one of five kids, three of whom have varying special needs. Their diagnoses were all different, yet they shaped our family life in ways few could understand. Growing up like that taught me something vital: just because someone looks different, learns differently, or behaves differently doesn’t mean they deserve anything less than love and respect. And just because something is hard doesn’t mean you shouldn’t try.
Three things I always knew about my future: I wanted a large family, I wanted to adopt, and I wanted to be a pediatric nurse. Somehow, these were just always a part of me. When I met Clay, I told him all of this. Clay is the best because he’s always up for anything—even if he doesn’t really know what he’s signing up for. He had never held a baby, never changed a diaper, but he was all in.
We married in 2003—I was twenty (couldn’t even drink on our honeymoon) and he was twenty-two. I had one year left of nursing school; Clay was working as a waiter at a fine dining restaurant. We spent the next three years finishing school, working, traveling, and learning to navigate life together. In 2006, I discovered I was pregnant. But at thirteen weeks, on my birthday, I miscarried. Devastated barely covers it. We tried for another year to conceive, but nothing worked. It was crushing to feel like my lifelong dream of motherhood might not come true.
During that difficult year, we felt maybe God was nudging us toward fostering. We completed the classes, navigated the licensing process, and had two placements. It was the hardest year of our marriage. I finally became pregnant again—only to miscarry at five weeks. But six weeks later, I became pregnant once more. This time, it stuck. Nine months later, after an emergency C-section, I held my first baby boy in my arms. A dream realized.
Just five weeks later, I had to have my gallbladder removed emergently. With two major surgeries in six weeks, a newborn, and both of us working full-time, we let our foster license lapse. I worked night shifts at a pediatric hospital, and Clay, a youth pastor and high school teacher, worked days. Sleep was scarce, money was tight, but joy was abundant.
A friend from the hospital, a foster mom, knew of our heart for adoption. She had a little boy in her care who needed a permanent home. On a random Tuesday afternoon, she called and asked, “Hey Megan, do you want to adopt a baby?” My brain short-circuited. I walked outside to Clay, who was in the hammock with Cole, our nine-month-old, and said, “Suzanne just called…she wants us to adopt a baby. He’s nine months old.” Without hesitation, Clay said, “Sure! When can we meet him?” That’s my husband in a nutshell.
On paper, his birth story was complicated. But we knew a few things: we wanted to adopt, we understood that children with special needs might be part of our story, and opportunities like this are rare. We met Cooper, fell in love instantly, and six months later stood in front of a judge, pledging to be his parents forever—holding his big brother, just 25 days old, and four months pregnant with our daughter.
Cooper was developmentally behind at first, but through grace, Cole’s influence, my pediatric nursing experience, and a lot of persistence, he thrived. Within six months, he hit every milestone, surpassed them, and was released from all therapies. Since then, he’s had no lingering effects from his difficult start. We recognize every child’s story is unique, but Cooper’s journey has been nothing short of miraculous—a constant reminder that sometimes saying “yes” changes a life forever.
Three kids under three and working four jobs between two parents was not for the faint of heart. We were young, sleep-deprived, and broke—but somehow, full of energy we didn’t know we had. After a year of this chaos, Clay’s dad, who owns a small business in St. Augustine, offered us the chance to leave full-time ministry and take over the family business. This allowed me to stay home with the kids. We prayed, talked, and decided we could make more impact raising children than in our vocational ministry. Two hours north we went—best decision ever.
Over the next four years, we had two more children, bringing our family to five in eight years. Happiness and ease are not the same thing; we thrive on challenges. We chose to homeschool for flexibility, hands-on learning, and family cohesion. People often asked if we were Mormon, Catholic, or had a TV. My favorite response? “You know how that happens, right?” “Sure do. And apparently, I’m really good at it!” In our home, adoption is honored. All our kids know their stories, and in our household, the adopted children are just as loved, cherished, and integral as the biological ones.
When our youngest four-year-old son was born, a pregnancy came as a surprise. After a miscarriage on Christmas Eve, we prayed and felt called to one more child. Soon, another phone call arrived about a baby needing adoption. Eight months old, and after prayer and discussion, we met his birth mother. The first week was intense—she wasn’t ready—but over time, she recognized our family as the right fit. I was four months pregnant with our sixth baby but also bringing home our seventh. Picking him up was the most joyful and heartbreakingly tender day of my life. Adoption is a beautiful ache.
Five months later, I gave birth to our seventh child, and six weeks later, we stood in court and vowed to raise our youngest son for life. Standing before a judge, hearing the words, “Do you vow to care for this child under penalty of law?” is sacred. Legally or biologically, all our children are equal. Our family is big, loud, messy, chaotic, and full of love. We prioritize experiences over things, travel when possible, and teach teamwork and love above all.
We get the stares, the counting fingers, the incredulous questions. But for us, this is perfect. Big families aren’t for everyone. Adoption isn’t for everyone. But for our family? It’s exactly where we belong.
