My husband and I began trying to conceive about six months after we got married. Coming from big families and having no known health issues, we never imagined infertility would become part of our story. So when I sat in my OB’s office that fateful day and was diagnosed with infertility—defined as failure to conceive after a year—it felt as though our world came crashing down. The grief was heavy, but we chose to keep fighting. We endured every exam, test, and evaluation we could to search for answers. There were moments that felt unbearably hopeless, yet we never once felt like quitting. As exhausting as the process was, it strengthened our marriage in ways we never expected. We truly believed that if we could survive infertility together, we could face anything side by side.
After a year and a half of infertility, devastating odds from specialists, and countless negative pregnancy tests, blood draws, exams, and screenings, something finally changed. From the moment I learned our baby was growing inside me, I was deeply and instantly in love. Against all odds, our long-awaited chance had finally arrived.
At eight weeks, we heard our little miracle’s heartbeat for the first time. We were absolutely over the moon. I will never forget watching my husband’s eyes light up like a Christmas tree as he stared at the screen, watching our tiny bean wiggle around. This was the moment we had prayed for and dreamed about, the day we once believed might never come. Everything seemed to be going perfectly, and for the first time, we truly allowed ourselves to believe this was our happy ending.
When I was 11 weeks and 6 days pregnant, my husband and I boarded a plane headed to Indiana, my home state, to attend my youngest sister’s high school graduation. During the flight, I started feeling a little off. Then I noticed some bleeding. At first, I brushed it aside, knowing light bleeding can sometimes be normal. But when cramping followed, fear quickly set in. I sat through that two-hour flight terrified and uncomfortable, telling Ben that something didn’t feel right. We prayed continuously, clinging to hope that it was just a fluke. I knew miscarriages happened, but I had convinced myself it wouldn’t happen to us—until suddenly, the possibility felt terrifyingly real.
Later that evening at our hotel, the cramps intensified and the bleeding worsened. I laid down to rest, praying that when I woke up, everything would somehow be okay. But fear lingered heavily in the back of my mind, and the uncertainty was overwhelming.
At 3:00 a.m., I was jolted awake by intense contractions. Panic set in as I stood up and felt heavy gushes of blood. I rushed into the hotel bathroom, my body contracting uncontrollably. I shook as I whispered over and over, “God, please save my baby.” Deep down, I knew it was too late, but I begged anyway.
At 3:45 a.m., our beautiful baby boy was born in the most heartbreaking and unexpected way. Though he was so tiny, he was absolutely perfect and deeply loved. I wept as I looked at him, the reality of what had just happened crashing down on me. I called my husband, who came running. I will never forget the shattered look in his hazel eyes as I sobbed, “Our baby is gone.” The pain was unlike anything I had ever imagined. We sat together in that bathroom for hours as I continued to bleed and pass tissue. Ben spoke gentle, steady words, reminding me we would survive this too. Then, tenderly, he said, “I’m so glad you got Mother’s Day. I wish I could’ve had Father’s Day, but I’m glad you got Mother’s Day.” In that moment, my love for him grew even deeper.
Two days later, I went to what should have been my 12-week appointment. Instead, my doctor performed an ultrasound to ensure my uterus was empty. Staring at the screen—once full of life and promise, now dark and empty—was one of the hardest moments of all. When the doctor confirmed I had indeed miscarried and reassured me it wasn’t my fault, it still didn’t ease the pain. I felt like a failure and believed I had let everyone down. He promised things would get better and my body would heal, but I couldn’t imagine how that could ever be true.
In the days that followed, I continued contracting and passing tissue, feeling trapped in a nightmare that wouldn’t end. I isolated myself, avoided leaving the house, and carried immense guilt and shame. I searched for ways to cope without truly grieving, hoping life would simply move forward if we ignored the pain.
But it didn’t. Months later, the grief remained raw and unresolved. People assumed we were fine because time had passed, but we weren’t. I had only just begun grieving our son. The stares, insensitive comments, and pity became overwhelming. Pregnancy loss grief is deep, complex, and incredibly hard. There is no timeline and no shame in grieving as long as it takes.
We named our son Noah Amos—Noah meaning “rest” and Amos meaning “carried by God.” Naming him gave us closure and honored his life. He mattered. He is part of our family and always will be. We will never stop loving him, missing him, or speaking his name.
Until we meet again in heaven, we will continue to share Noah’s story and advocate for ending the stigma surrounding pregnancy loss. One in four pregnancies ends in loss, and no one should grieve in silence.
Today, my husband and I cherish life with our two dogs and hold hope that one day we will grow our family. For now, we focus on healing and finding contentment in the present. While our desire for children remains strong, we trust God’s timing and believe His plan is good. Even in our pain, we recognize the many blessings still unfolding before us—if we choose to see them.
