“When I grow up, I want to have 13 kids, no husband, and live in my parents’ basement,” declared three-year-old me. Only one part of that dream has come true… babies. And lots of them, hopefully someday.
Ever since I was little, I imagined trading in my baby dolls for real-life little ones—a tiny person who was half me, half the person I loved. Fast forward 23 years, and here we are. I’m married to the man of my dreams, living in the coziest little home filled with two sweet pups and one mischievous kitten (we’re still working on that one). Our home is full of love, but our arms are empty.
Looking back, meeting Levi was something out of a modern fairy tale. I stumbled across his Facebook page, casually liking photos and updates here and there. Enough to catch his attention, in a way that said, “You’re kind of cute,” without tipping into “Who is this crazy girl liking everything?!”—which, honestly, nailed it.
A year into dating, Levi proposed on his family farm, and we tied the knot the following September, 2016. Our wedding was beautiful and perfect, but honestly, even if we’d married by a dumpster in an alley, it still would have felt magical—because Levi is my person.
From the very start of our marriage, we knew we wanted a family. Sleepless nights, poopy diapers, early school drop-offs, chaotic family vacations—we wanted it all. So, we tried. And tried. And kept trying.
After six months of negative pregnancy tests, I sensed something was wrong. I met with my OB/GYN in May 2017. Blood work, an ultrasound, and a long wait in the waiting room later, I was told I had two large ovarian cysts. My doctor wasn’t concerned, leaving me with a vague, “Keep trying; if nothing happens in six months, call me.” I left feeling defeated, knowing deep down something wasn’t right. My mom always told me I know my body best—so I listened to her wisdom.
After months of prayer and discussion with Levi, I scheduled a consultation with a reproductive endocrinologist. In August 2017, I was diagnosed with stage 3 endometriosis. The cysts on my ovaries were enormous—one the size of a lemon, the other a golf ball. They were “chocolate cysts,” a cystic mass of endometrial tissue. I was immediately referred to a surgeon, and we scheduled my operation for September, coinciding with our first wedding anniversary. Romantic? Not exactly—but it was necessary.
The surgery confirmed the diagnosis, and the cysts were removed. I left with hope and a positive prognosis, believing conception would follow soon. But life had other plans. A year later, we were still empty-handed.
We began exploring our next step: In Vitro Fertilization. Also known as the process that makes you consider cashing out your 401K just to try. We fundraised, liquidated retirement funds, and even took out a loan—all for a chance at becoming parents. Our IVF journey began in November 2018, complete with injections, medications, bloat, mood swings, and hot flashes.
Transfer day arrived. We transferred a single embryo—the most perfect one, according to the embryologist. We followed every superstition we could find: warm foods, cozy socks, journaling symptoms, video diaries, prayers. We planned a gender reveal, a baby shower, and imagined our future. And then… the test came back negative.
I had never known grief like that. “Why us, God?” I asked. The loss crushed us, a pain we still carry. One embryo remains frozen, waiting for the day we’re ready, though we don’t know when that will be. Sharing our story on Instagram and YouTube has been healing, connecting us with other women who have walked the same path.
For now, Levi and I cherish each other, our family, and our friends. We’re exploring all avenues to parenthood, trusting God’s timing. He placed a promise on our hearts long ago to be parents, and we cling to that hope. Through all the unknowns, one truth remains: Levi is the greatest man God could have given me. We have faith that our happy ending will come—one day.
