For as long as I can remember, all I ever wanted was to be a housewife. I know—it sounds ironic coming from someone as headstrong and independent as me—but it was my dream. Not just any housewife, but the June Cleaver type. Let’s pause and laugh together for a moment. At 26, I was a single mom to two incredible boys, aged 3 and 8, and I was genuinely happy. Life felt full, manageable, and content. But, as life often does when we’re comfortable, everything changed.
Seven years ago, my husband walked into my life—and into my heart—and never left. We met, fell in love, and were married within six whirlwind months. When it’s right, it’s right. Our marriage blended our families—my two sons and his three—into one chaotic, beautiful unit. Everyone questioned the speed and intensity of our love story, but we knew in our hearts this was happily ever after. At least, that’s what we thought… until life threw us a curveball.
Almost immediately, we knew we wanted a child together. We both had no prior fertility issues, so I assumed conception would happen quickly. But month after month passed, leaving me heartbroken with nothing but negative pregnancy tests—and boxes of tampons, adding insult to injury. After six months of trying, I called my doctor. I was due for a routine pap smear anyway, so I went in. A few days later, they called with alarming news: abnormal cells. This led to a biopsy, a LEEP procedure, and another follow-up. By the end, I had minimal cervix remaining. Thankfully, it wasn’t cancer—but the scar tissue made conception risky, and a weakened cervix added potential complications.
For a while, we tried to accept life as it was. Maybe our baby wasn’t meant to be. Life moved on. Our children grew, seasons passed, and we stayed busy with sports, school, and family activities. My husband became obsessed with disc golf, while I channeled my energy into fitness, striving to be in the best shape of my life. I quietly mourned the child I might never have, even as I pretended to move on.
Then, one Halloween, I took a girls’ trip to Salem, Massachusetts. Naturally, a visit to a psychic was on the itinerary. I went with my friend Krysten, expecting nothing. The fortune-teller took my hand, looked at me, and said, “You’re married.” I smirked—my wedding ring is tattooed on my finger. Then she looked up and said, “This man is your soulmate.” Despite a rough patch in our marriage, I knew this was true.
Then came the unexpected: “You both will have a daughter together.” She also cheekily added that I needed to spice up my love life. That simple statement ripped open a wound I thought I’d healed years ago. I immediately texted my husband, unsure what to expect. His response was casual, probably an “lol” or “oh yeah,” but over the next month, the idea of a daughter became a constant conversation between us. By November, I had my IUD removed, nervously tracking ovulation for the first time in years.
On January 3, 2020, I held a positive pregnancy test in my hands. I could hardly believe it—we were finally going to have our baby. I was overjoyed, already planning the nursery and imagining her name: Harper Ivy Jones. She had lived in my heart and imagination for seven years, and now she was real. But two weeks later, I noticed light bleeding. I reassured myself it was normal and kept it from my husband, afraid of jinxing it. That night, the bleeding worsened. Through tears, I drove myself to the ER, alone.
Despite the nurse’s reassurances, I knew in my heart what had happened. The ultrasound screen was turned away, but I knew—it was gone. The heartbreak was indescribable, and even now, years later, the waves of grief still hit hard. After that loss, I became consumed with the desire to conceive. Every old wives’ tale, every tonic, every crystal became a part of my daily routine. Each negative test crushed me further, my mental health fragile, my hope waning yet stubbornly persistent.
Finally, I called my OB and began taking Letrozole. Months of failed cycles followed, and the guilt I carried was overwhelming. Had it been my past, my choices, some cosmic debt I had yet to pay? My thoughts became increasingly irrational, but that’s what this journey does to you. After consulting Boston IVF, we prepared for IVF in early August. Days before our appointment, a miracle: a positive pregnancy test. We were pregnant, right in the heart of the COVID-19 pandemic.
At my six-week appointment, I panicked again at a bit of blood, rushing to the hospital alone. But this time, the screen revealed a tiny heartbeat—Harper’s heartbeat. Pregnancy after loss and infertility is terrifying, high-risk, and mentally exhausting. But we made it, one milestone at a time: 12 weeks, viability, 20 weeks… until finally, 39 weeks arrived, and it was time.
My induction began on a Tuesday night. Complications arose immediately: my liver was failing, my IV blew, and labor stretched for three exhausting days. Then, the unthinkable: “Savannah, your baby’s heart has stopped beating.” And yet, Harper came into the world. Gray and silent at first, but then she breathed, she cried. Minutes later, I was rushed to surgery for hemorrhaging, leaving my baby behind. Waking up in recovery, breathless, tube-bound, I could only cry for her.
Why share this story? Because postpartum reality, loss, and trauma don’t follow the fairy tale. Sometimes it takes a while for a mama’s heart to feel secure enough to trust that her baby is truly safe. But Harper is here. She is healthy, beautiful, and ours. After years of heartbreak, fear, and uncertainty, I finally hold her in my arms—and I will never let her go.
