I broke into a million pieces, and I can’t go back This is the truth infertility forces us to face: we can’t go back. We can’t return to who we were before the diagnosis, before the loss, before the treatments, before the years of waiting. That version of ourselves—the one who believed our bodies would cooperate, who thought motherhood was just a matter of timing, who hadn’t yet learned what it means to grieve something that never was—she’s gone. 

Year seven looks nothing like I was told it would. By now, according to the theology I grew up with, this should be over. God should have answered. His timing should have been perfect. The story should have reached its redemptive conclusion: the testimony with the happy ending where I stand up in church and declare how faithful God was through our infertility journey, baby in my arms. Instead, I'm staring down the reality that I'm aging out. That the door to adoption has slam

Inspired by “The Screwtape Letters” by C. S. Lewis My dear Gloomsprout, Your last report delighted me immensely. Your “patient” is progressing beautifully toward our goals. Twenty-eight months of trying to conceive, twenty-four negative pregnancy tests, one miscarriage and one chemical pregnancy have prepared the soil magnificently. But do not grow complacent, nephew. The real harvest is just beginning.  You’ve attacked her identity brilliantly. She no longer sees herself as