I did not know
that motherhood could begin
long before a baby arrives.
I thought it would start
with a heartbeat on a screen,
tiny fingers wrapped around mine,
a nursery painted with dreams.
Instead, it began in the waiting.
In the appointments.
The blood draws.
The miracle prayers whispered in parking lots.
The tears that fell when no one was watching.
It began in learning how to hold hope
with trembling hands.
There were days I felt broken,
days my body felt like a stranger,
days grief sat beside me
and spoke louder than faith.
Yet somehow,
through every loss,
every setback,
every unanswered question,
Not because it was easy.
Not because I was fearless.
But because love asked me to.
Love asked me to trust again.
To believe again.
To soften when life tempted me to harden.
At 42,
I am no longer chasing perfection.
Learning that strength is not found
in controlling the outcome,
but in showing up anyway.
In taking the next step.
The next breath.
The next ultrasound.
Eventually the next injection.
The next prayer.
This journey has changed me. For the best. It has stripped my emotionally naked, to be a witness of capacity I didn't know was there. Possible. It has shown me what HOPE really is. What having an open HEART really means.
It has stripped away certainty and revealed courage.
It has taught me that hope is not naive.
Hope rises after disappointment.
Hope blooms in barren seasons.
Hope chooses light
when darkness feels easier.
And so I walk forward open-hearted,
scarred and stronger,
becoming someone new. I have witnessed versions of myself that have placed me in the seat of authenticity as I honor every part of me and my story.
Whether I am carrying a child today or simply carrying the dream,
I am still becoming a mother. I am a nurturer, a Mother in the making. I was a mother twice over, loss won.
And perhaps that is the miracle:
Not only the life I hope to create,
but the woman I am becoming
along the way.
Still believing.
Still becoming.
Still here. ♥️✨
