During our time of dating, Marc and I often talked about starting a family together. We knew we wanted at least one child after we were married, and we prayed specifically for a baby boy. God didn’t just answer that prayer—He exceeded our expectations by blessing us with a true miracle. My first pregnancy, however, was far from easy. The first trimester was overwhelming, as I developed Hyperemesis Gravidarum and spent countless days in urgent care receiving treatment. I was sick, exhausted, and miserable, yet deeply grateful for the life growing inside me. As newlyweds, this was not how we imagined beginning our marriage or experiencing our first pregnancy. Still, Marc was incredibly attentive and supportive, and his care helped me endure that difficult season. As the weeks passed, I slowly began to feel better and allowed myself to grow excited about what was ahead.
Then everything changed. At 21 weeks pregnant, complications arose when my cervix began shortening and dilating due to a UTI. I was immediately placed on bed rest and given medication to stop preterm labor. Fear set in quickly—life seemed to go from calm to chaos in an instant. Our hope was to reach at least 24 weeks, but by 22 weeks I was already 2.8 centimeters dilated and back in the hospital. The goal was no longer just stopping labor, but ensuring our son would have any protection possible if he arrived early. My OB sat beside us and spoke words no parent should ever have to hear. He explained that because we were young, we could choose comfort care and try again someday, or we could pursue extraordinary measures to give our son a chance. We were being asked to decide between life and death. Through tears, I knew in my heart that our son was a gift from God and deserved every chance. I looked at my doctor and said, “Save my son. I don’t care what happens to me—just save him.” At that point, his chance of survival before 24 weeks was only 20%, with a grim prognosis for his future.
The preventative measures worked only briefly, and I delivered our son via emergency C-section at 22 weeks and 6 days. He weighed just 1 pound 2.9 ounces and was resuscitated three times before being intubated. Nothing could have prepared us for the intensity of that moment. Thrust suddenly into a NICU journey, our faith—both individually and as a couple—was deeply tested. Still, we clung to God and to each other, believing that if we could survive this season, we could survive anything.
During our son’s four-month stay in the NICU, thoughts of the future constantly weighed on my mind. Although we were young, the fear of another pregnancy and the possibility of another preterm birth was overwhelming. I started oral birth control despite disliking how it made me feel, knowing it was best until we were ready to make a permanent decision. During our courtship, Marc had confidently told me that once we were done having children, he would get a vasectomy. At the time, I wasn’t sure if he’d truly follow through, but he never wavered. He was even fascinated by the medical side of the procedure, and we talked about it often.
Around the time our son Jaxson turned two, we began discussing the idea of having another baby. He was healthy and thriving, and I had healed emotionally from the trauma of my first pregnancy and birth. I felt a deep longing for one more child. After prayer and consultation with a new OB, I remained on birth control until Jaxson was just over two. Four months after stopping birth control, we conceived—and we were thrilled. We believed this would be our final pregnancy, followed by a vasectomy. Sadly, at nearly six weeks, I suffered an unexpected miscarriage. The heartbreak was overwhelming, and it felt as though my dream of having one more baby was slipping away. After taking time to heal and leaning on each other, we briefly considered not trying again. God had already given us a miracle, and we wondered if this was His way of saying our family was complete. But a few months later, we found ourselves pregnant once more. From the very beginning, I was sick just as I had been with Jaxson, and we knew without question—this would be our last baby.
Because of my history of preterm labor, I was considered high risk. Together with my new OB, we created a detailed preventative plan to carry this baby to full term. I took oral progesterone for the first six weeks, underwent frequent blood work, and had biweekly sonograms to monitor my cervix. From weeks 16 to 36, I received weekly Makena shots, a form of progesterone administered in the back of my arms and upper buttocks. They were painful and uncomfortable, but I endured them knowing they were our best chance. I cherished every moment of that pregnancy—the good and the hard—because I knew it would be my last. And every week, I reminded my husband, “This is it… you’re still getting snipped, right?” He always smiled and agreed.
As my due date approached, I began researching reputable urologists, confident our family was nearly complete. I looked forward to the next chapter of our lives, including the freedom of intimacy without fear of pregnancy or birth control. Marc felt strongly that after everything my body had endured, it was his turn to step up. Although my OB repeatedly asked if we were sure we didn’t want more children, my answer never changed. “Yes,” I said joyfully. “We are 100% sure.”
When our baby girl Kamryn arrived safely, healthy, and full term, it was time. Just two weeks postpartum, Marc went in for his vasectomy consultation. Though slightly nervous, he was ready. Since he was on paternity leave, we scheduled the procedure for just days later. We prepared with frozen peas and tight underwear, and despite still recovering from my C-section, I was able to support him through it. On the day of the procedure, the doctor had an emergency and had to reschedule for five days later—a disappointment, but not enough to change Marc’s resolve. When the day finally came, everything went smoothly. We documented the experience on social media, and the response was incredible. Though it’s often considered a taboo topic, Marc openly shared his experience in hopes of encouraging other men.
I am incredibly proud of my husband for honoring his word and choosing something uncomfortable for the long-term benefit of our family. As he often says, it really isn’t that bad, and birth control shouldn’t fall solely on women. Family planning decisions should always be mutual, never forced. We encourage couples to have open conversations about their options, and when women ask how to get their husbands on board, I always say, “Remind him of what you went through during pregnancy and birth!” This was the best decision for us, and we have no regrets. Our journey has been filled with faith, love, courage, and miracles—both big and small. I hope our story inspires others to do hard things and to believe in miracles, because they truly do exist.
