Like so many women, I’ve always known I wanted to be a mom. That desire was never a question—it was simply who I was. But getting there turned out to be far harder than I ever could have imagined.
I’ve helped raise my sister’s and brother’s kids, so the idea of having a baby of my own was something I’d always dreamed of. Yet, no matter how badly I wanted it, pregnancy seemed impossible. My boyfriend and I began trying seriously three years ago, but my body kept letting me down. Each month brought hope, followed by disappointment, and I started to feel like my body was failing me.
I was diagnosed with Polycystic Ovary Syndrome (PCOS) at a young age and had been on birth control since I was 11 or 12. Despite being with my partner for 13 years, getting pregnant just wasn’t happening. I told myself that when the time was right, my body would respond. But after so many months of trying and failing, I felt a deep, gnawing guilt, convinced that it was somehow my fault. Finally, we decided to see a doctor to understand what was happening.
The news was devastating. The doctor told me, “Because of your PCOS, you may never get pregnant.” I was heartbroken. I learned that my body was producing more male hormones than female, a reality I had to accept. Despite the pain, my boyfriend stood by me unwaveringly. Over the years, we had a few pregnancy scares, but each test came back the same: negative.
By the time I was 37, I had started to lose hope entirely. I assumed that with PCOS and a history of infertility, I would never carry a child. I even sold my house that June, convinced I wouldn’t need the extra room.
Then everything changed on August 25. I was at my boyfriend’s house when I began bleeding, assuming it was just my period. Cramping followed, and I went about my day as usual. He noticed my discomfort and gave me Tylenol and ginger ale, but I focused on gathering my stained clothes to take to the laundromat.
The pain worsened quickly. My boyfriend insisted I go to the hospital, but I refused, lacking insurance and convinced it wasn’t necessary. I asked him instead to drop me at my sister-in-law’s house so we could decide what to do. As soon as I arrived, he explained the situation, and she quickly got ready to help. She suggested I try showering to ease the pain, but it didn’t help. I was in such agony that I couldn’t even stand to get dressed properly.
Before leaving, I went to the bathroom one last time, thinking maybe it was an ovarian cyst or a blood clot. But with the first push, my water broke. I didn’t even realize what was happening. Then I felt pressure, and instinctively, I reached down. That’s when I felt it—a tiny head. Panicked, I screamed for my sister-in-law. She called 911, and I pushed again.
The next moments are a blur. With one more push, my baby fell into the toilet, and I found the placenta in my hand. Everything was happening so fast, and fear washed over me. My sister-in-law, on the phone with 911, was just as terrified. She thought it might be a stillbirth, too afraid to look. Then came the sound that changed everything—a loud, clear cry. My baby was alive!
The 911 operator guided us step by step: get the baby out of the toilet, place her on my chest, and keep us warm. I felt an unexpected surge of energy after the delivery. With shoelaces from a dress, my sister-in-law cut the cord, and in a matter of minutes, this tiny miracle was here.
My boyfriend had left after dropping me off, so she called him to share the unbelievable news. We didn’t even know the gender yet—just that she was breathing. We FaceTimed my mom, whose shock quickly turned into tears of joy. Seeing the EMTs and our baby, she could finally believe it.
Amoura Rose was born at 34 weeks, perfectly healthy. On the ride to the hospital, I kept asking myself, “How is this real?” She was alert, breathing, and just taking in the world. With help from my mom and aunt, we quickly chose her name—Amoura Rose—a perfect fit.
I had taken multiple pregnancy tests while unknowingly carrying her, all negative, including one just weeks before her birth. I hadn’t gained weight, still had my period, and only felt occasional movements at night, which I dismissed as gas. Nothing had indicated she was even there.
Amoura spent four weeks and five days in the NICU, growing stronger each day. By September 27, she was ready to come home, healthy and thriving. Two weeks after giving birth, I returned to work as a receptionist, visiting her every night, balancing exhaustion and joy. It’s overwhelming, but I have an amazing support system and a boss willing to work with me.
This past year, I’d let myself give up on everything. But Amoura’s arrival reminded me not to quit, not to lose hope. To anyone struggling with PCOS or fertility issues, know this: miracles can happen. Don’t give up—because sometimes, life surprises you when you least expect it.
