Motherhood wasn’t something I longed for until my mid-thirties. Focused on my career, I imagined having a big family one day—four kids in a house full of laughter—but I knew that was unlikely. My demanding job, long hours, and city lifestyle didn’t seem to allow it. Still, having one child felt possible.
By the time I married, I was nearing 40. A few years later, the desire to have a baby hit me hard. My career had stabilized, and we were finally in a place to raise a child in New York. I planned everything—even trying to conceive in a specific month to avoid having a “summer baby” and preschool challenges.
But plans don’t always go as expected. After months of trying, I began to lose hope. Seeing other women pregnant only deepened the ache. Finally, after eight months, I got a positive test. I was overjoyed.
To tell my husband, I gifted him a silver baby spoon on the steps of our church. At our first ultrasound, we heard our baby’s heartbeat—it felt real. We shared the news with our parents, and everyone was thrilled.
But at our next visit, everything changed. The doctor couldn’t find a heartbeat. We were heartbroken. The loss was crushing. Through tears and grief, I leaned on my faith, trusting that God had taken our baby home.
Though it wasn’t the journey I had planned, it reminded me that life unfolds in seasons—and that even in heartbreak, there’s hope for healing and someday, new beginnings.