We didn't know it would hurt this much

We didn't know it would hurt this much, but we said yes to life. And we’d say yes again.

When we stood at the altar, the priest looked us in the eyes and asked: “Will you accept children lovingly from God?” Our response was an exuberant: “We will.” And we meant it. But we expected those children to arrive in the usual way: through two pink lines, ultrasound pictures, swollen ankles, and shared DNA.

We were assured: be open to life, and life will come. Be faithful. Be patient. Be generous. Be hopeful. So we waited. And waited. And waited.

What nobody told me

Nobody told me what to do when life didn’t come. When every month ended in blood and tears. When I shoved the tiny onesie I bought to tell my husband he was going to be a dad to the back of the closet. When the cradle stayed empty, no matter how much we prayed.

Nobody told me “open to life” might mean a specialist ushering us down a back hallway so we didn’t have to walk through a crowded waiting room after receiving devastating test results. Or stifling sobs in the church bathroom on Mother’s Day. Or explaining to people - kind people, well-meaning people - why we didn’t “just do IVF” or “just adopt.”

Nobody warned me that I’d have to comfort other people about our diagnosis.That I’d become a safe place for their grief about not getting the gender they hoped for, or their advice to “just relax” to get pregnant because it worked for them. That I’d go completely dark on social media because it hurt too much to see everyone else moving forward while we felt at a standstill we didn’t choose.

Nobody told me that I’d need to plaster on a fake smile through baby announcements, gender reveals, and unthinking remarks about how parenthood is the most fulfilling experience a person could have. That I’d hate myself for being jealous. That I’d start avoiding baby showers because it felt like I might collapse, and I knew it wasn’t about me.

Nobody told me infertility would make me feel like less of a woman. Like less of a wife. Like we’d failed at the most natural thing for which we were created. 

They don’t tell you how lonely it gets. How you start to feel like an outsider in the Church, like there’s no place for you.

And yet, God still asked me to be open to life. It just looked different than I expected. Foster care courtrooms instead of baby showers. Survival mode instead of maternity leave. Learning to mother in the fire, amidst diagnoses, court dates, and trauma I didn’t cause but was suddenly responsible for soothing.

So much I didn't know

I didn’t know that being open to life could mean comforting a baby I didn’t birth as he trembled from withdrawal. That I’d have to force open his tiny fists, clenched tight from drugs that wreaked havoc on his nervous system, and massage his hands until he could relax into sleep. That I’d advocate for services, therapies, and diagnoses with nothing but a paper trail and mama gut instinct. That I'd rock someone else’s child through the night, belonging to him in every way that mattered… except biology.

I didn’t know that motherhood could be so holy and so hard. That it would feel like resurrection and crucifixion, both.

When we said “We will” on our wedding day, we didn’t know the future. We didn’t know how much it would hurt to keep that promise. But somehow, by God’s grace… we did. We do.

Infertility broke me

Infertility broke something in me, but it also broke me open. It made room for a different kind of family. A different kind of motherhood. A different kind of love.

One that isn’t rooted in genetics, but in covenant. One that doesn’t look like the picture I had in my head, but still holds the promise of redemption.

I am still Catholic. Still infertile. Still open to life. And I’m learning - slowly, painfully, beautifully - that life doesn’t always arrive the way I imagined. But it arrives.

I wouldn't trade it

Today, I’m the mother of two precious boys through foster care: Sunny and Sky, who came to us as infants and now fill our days with joy, chaos, and healing. Their stories began before we met them, and we carry those beginnings with reverence and love.

We hope to grow our family again, God willing - another unfamiliar but grace-soaked “yes”. This isn’t the life I pictured, but it’s the one God gave me. And I wouldn’t trade it.