I always knew I’d be a mother. No matter what career I chased, no matter how often my plans changed, one truth remained: I would become a mother. My teenage tomboy self would joke about having a house full of boys because I simply couldn’t picture raising girls. What would I even do with their hair? Looking back, I wish I’d spent more time understanding my own body instead of obsessing over the gender of children I had yet to have.
For most people, the path to parenthood seems simple, even natural. But my journey was anything but. Nothing could have prepared me for the twists, the waiting, and the overwhelming emotions that came with finally stepping into the title I’d dreamed of for years: mother.
My husband and I met in 2015 at an ’80s tribute band concert. I wouldn’t call it love at first sight, but there was something captivating about the pleather skinny pants and the long red Axel Rose wig. By fall 2016, we were married, and I quietly started counting down to when we could begin trying for a baby. He wasn’t as certain about having children, but I had my heart set on starting the next year, full of plans and hopes.
That year passed in a blur, as they often do, and soon I found myself diving into the world of trying to conceive. My sister and best friend had already welcomed their first children, and I was eager to catch up. But no one warns you about the possibility of it not happening. Society constantly tells us to avoid accidental pregnancies—“it only takes once!”—but for us, it wasn’t that simple.
Month after month, I watched the pink dye of pregnancy tests sweep across, never revealing the line I longed for. I squinted until my eyes ached, checked the discarded tests in the trash, tried every tip I could find on Google and Pinterest. After eleven excruciating months of nothing, I finally went to a doctor.
The first doctor told me to wait just one more month, convinced I’d conceive if I would “just relax” because we were young and healthy. I never returned. Instead, I found a new doctor who diagnosed me with anovulatory PCOS and suspected endometriosis. What followed were years of fertility treatments that chipped away at my spirit, leaving me feeling like a shell of who I once was.
Eventually, after one round of IVF with ICSI, our persistence bore fruit. Our first frozen embryo transfer brought us the most beautiful little boy we could have imagined. Yet even then, nothing went smoothly. My pregnancy was difficult, and our son entered the world via c-section after 32 hours of a failed induction.
Holding him for the first time, I expected to feel a rush of pride, that awe-inspiring, life-changing moment mothers often describe. I wanted the kind of feeling that made people look at you like a warrior goddess, triumphant. Instead, I felt relief—pure, deep relief that the struggle was finally over. I had won, yet I didn’t feel like a winner.
It took me time to realize why. I had spent so many years chasing motherhood that I hadn’t prepared for it. I’d avoided imagining the daily reality, thinking it would be easier than it actually is. I’d dismissed the struggles of other moms, judged their complaints, and assumed my own battle with infertility would prepare me for anything. But motherhood after infertility is a beast of its own. It demands resilience you didn’t know you had, and tests patience and instincts you thought were trustworthy but have been shaken by years of betrayal from your own body.
Starting motherhood with zero confidence, scarred by infertility, I was overwhelmed. Tears ran silently down my cheeks as I left the hospital, staring at the tiny miracle I had prayed for, unsure how I could possibly care for him. Doubts and fears consumed me. But slowly, through sleepless nights, trial and error, a lot of crying, and leaning on my village of support, things began to shift. The nights became a little easier, the days a little brighter.
I still have moments of uncertainty. I’m not perfect, and nothing about motherhood is simple. But each day, I learn a little more, heal a little deeper, and grow stronger. Motherhood is tough—but so am I. And so are you. Keep going, friend. We’ve got this.
