Being a mom has never been a question of if for me—it’s always been a matter of when and how. Ever since I was a toddler, I knew I wanted to be a mother. I dreamed of a big, bustling house filled with children, and the idea of raising a family has always been a central part of my life plan. That said, my path to motherhood hasn’t been simple or conventional. I am a single mom by choice, which means I pursued fertility treatments—specifically IUI, or intrauterine insemination—with donor sperm to become pregnant. There is no father on my child’s birth certificate, no co-parenting arrangement. I am raising my son on my own, with the love, guidance, and support of my own parents.
My journey toward single motherhood began almost casually. In December 2013, when I was 18, I mentioned to a friend over dinner that I could always have a baby on my own if luck in love didn’t work out. At the time, I didn’t fully realize what I was saying. But as I thought more about the possibility, it intrigued me. I dove into research: fertility treatment procedures, costs, insurance coverage, and the stories of other single mothers—especially young ones, of which there were few. I even created Word documents cataloging everything I learned while simultaneously earning my Bachelor’s degree in just three years, volunteering for a national nonprofit, working, and applying to graduate programs. This wasn’t about a backup plan; it became my dream—to become a mother independently because it was what I genuinely wanted, not because of any failed relationship.
By the time I was 21, with a diploma in hand, an entry-level job, a solid savings account, and enrollment in a Master’s program in Public Administration, I knew it was time to act. I began by sharing my plan with my mom. Our relationship has always been incredibly close—she has been my greatest supporter, advocating for me through every challenge, including my bariatric surgery at 14. At that time, I was one of the youngest people in the country to undergo that procedure, and my mom fought fiercely to ensure I received the treatment I needed to survive and thrive.
I knew that while my mom had always wanted to be a grandmother, this wasn’t the path she had envisioned. So, in September 2016, I wrote her a detailed letter outlining my dreams and plans, backed by all the research I had done. This gave her time to process everything, and we reached a compromise: she would remain open-minded, and ultimately I could decide what was best for my life—but I wouldn’t begin fertility treatments until after graduating with my MPA in 2018.
For the next year and a half, I “acted my age.” I spent time with friends, dated a little, and worked hard on my studies and career. By January 2018, with graduation only months away, my commitment to single motherhood was stronger than ever. Around that time, my mom suggested I have my baby while living at home so I could save money and benefit from her support—a decision I later realized was lifesaving, especially during the quarantine months. With her blessing, I obtained a referral from my OBGYN to a private fertility clinic in Boston, and I met my doctor for the first time on March 1, 2018.
I remember walking into that appointment nervous, expecting judgment about my age, weight, single status, and dream of motherhood. But instead, my doctor asked questions with genuine curiosity and provided thorough, compassionate guidance. He outlined the fertility process, scheduled baseline testing, and helped me plan my first IUI round for June 2018.
The months leading up to that first IUI were filled with preparation: baseline testing, Clomid-medicated cycles, and the meticulous process of selecting a sperm donor. After reviewing countless profiles and comparing family health history, physical traits, and even academic records, I chose a donor I affectionately call “Ted.”
June 2018 arrived, and with it, my first IUI cycle: five days of medication, multiple monitoring appointments, a Saturday morning insemination, and a tense two-week wait. I was overconfident and naïve, assuming I’d conceive immediately. The first round ended in disappointment, and rounds two and three followed suit. A fourth round in September was partially canceled due to natural ovulation, which felt like a setback—but nothing compared to round four in November 2018, which became the most emotionally challenging experience of my life.
That November, I felt different immediately after the insemination and soon learned I was pregnant. But the joy was short-lived. Early tests showed low HCG levels, and the fear of a chemical pregnancy loomed. By Thanksgiving, my levels had dropped, and I began bleeding. I was heartbroken. Weeks later, after repeated labs and ultrasounds, I was diagnosed with a presumed ectopic pregnancy. I required an injection to clear my fallopian tube, followed by close monitoring until January 2019, when I was finally hormonally clear. I still grieve that baby, who I will never know, but I remained hopeful.
I returned to IUI, moving through rounds five and six with dwindling optimism. Round six was the last covered by insurance, and I braced myself for the inevitable decision to pursue IVF. But on March 29, 2019, my life changed forever—the pregnancy test came back positive. I was finally pregnant. After nine months and six and a half rounds, the wait was over. Tears streamed as I called my parents, my brother, and my best friend. I had a baby growing inside me.
Pregnancy, especially after loss, is fraught with anxiety. Every moment felt fragile. My first ultrasound brought tears as I saw my baby’s heartbeat, with my mom shedding happy tears beside me. At nine weeks, bleeding forced another emergency visit, but the ultrasound revealed a strong heartbeat and a harmless hematoma. From then on, I treated my pregnancy with the utmost care, attending monthly ultrasounds and monitoring closely due to my prior bariatric surgery. At 15 weeks, I learned I was having a boy. Immediately, we began planning his Toy Story nursery, a whimsical children’s-book themed baby shower, and gathering tiny clothes and supplies.
The final weeks of pregnancy were smooth, though I was induced slightly early due to my high-risk status. On December 2, 2019, after hours of labor, I experienced uncontrollable shivering—my body preparing to push. With the support of my mom and a nurse, I delivered my son, Harrison Blue Caprigno—Harry—at 12:22 a.m. on December 3. Holding him for the first time, marveling at his red hair, cleft chin, and perfect little fingers and toes, I felt a love so overwhelming it’s impossible to describe. I decided on his name hours later, honoring my grandfather and the family members who had served in law enforcement—a name full of meaning, perfectly suited to him.
Harry has been a dream from day one—a “unicorn baby” who sleeps well and makes life feel lighter, even amidst challenges. His first year, marked by the pandemic, brought unique trials: I was without a traditional job, pursuing a second master’s degree in early childhood education, and navigating single parenthood. Yet, I cherished every moment—his first smile, word, and step—and I am forever grateful that I could spend every day of his first year with him.
I plan to continue growing our family through single motherhood, pursuing IVF to give Harry siblings. Being a single mom by choice has required resilience, patience, and determination—but it is, without a doubt, the best decision I’ve ever made. On Harry’s first birthday, I told him, “I love you with all my heart, and you are worth every second of the struggle it took to bring you into my life.” This life, this love, this journey—it’s everything I could have ever dreamed of and more. Being Harry’s mom feels like exactly where I am meant to be.
