During our time of dating, Marc and I often talked about starting a family. We dreamed of having at least one child after we got married and prayed together, asking God to bless us with a baby boy. And God truly exceeded our expectations, blessing us with a miracle we could have never imagined.
My first pregnancy, however, was far from easy. The first trimester brought relentless sickness as I developed Hyperemesis Gravidarum. I spent many days in urgent care for treatment, feeling miserable yet incredibly grateful for the little life growing inside me. Marc and I were newlyweds, and this was not the romantic, carefree start to marriage and parenthood that we had envisioned. It was a challenging season, but Marc’s unwavering support and attentiveness made the struggle bearable. As my pregnancy progressed, I began to feel better and my excitement for what was to come grew.
Then, everything changed. At 21 weeks pregnant, complications began. My cervix started shortening and dilating due to a UTI, and I was placed on strict bed rest with medication to try to halt preterm labor. Fear gripped me; life had suddenly accelerated from 0 to 60, leaving us barely a moment to breathe. Our goal was simple yet critical: make it to 24 weeks. But by 22 weeks, I was 2.8cm dilated and back in the hospital, facing emergency measures to try to stop labor and ensure our son would have some protection if he arrived early.
Sitting at the edge of my hospital bed, our OB looked Marc and me in the eyes and presented us with an unimaginable choice. He said, “You’re young and can always try again, so comfort care is an option. Or we can take extraordinary measures to give him a chance.” No parent should ever face such a decision, yet there we were, choosing between life and death for our unborn child. My heart knew the answer—our son was a gift from God, and he deserved a chance. Tears streaming down my face, I told my OB, “Save my son. I don’t care what happens to me, just save him.” He had only a 20% chance of survival if born before 24 weeks, and his future was uncertain, but I knew we had to try.
The preventative measures held for a short time, but I eventually delivered at 22 weeks and 6 days via emergency C-section. Our tiny son, weighing just 1lb 2.9oz, was resuscitated three times before being intubated. Nothing could have prepared us for the intensity of those first moments. Our faith, both individually and as a couple, was tested in ways we never imagined, yet we clung to God and to each other. We knew that if we could survive the NICU journey, we could survive anything.
Our son spent four months in the NICU, and during that time, thoughts of the future weighed heavily on me. We were young, and the fear of another preterm birth loomed large. I started oral birth control, even though I didn’t love it, knowing it was best until we made a more permanent decision. During our courtship, Marc had told me without hesitation that once we were done having children, he would get a vasectomy. At the time, I thought, “We’ll see if he really follows through.” He was fascinated with the medical side of it, and we talked about it often.
By the time our miracle son, Jaxson, turned two, we felt ready to try for another baby. I had healed emotionally from the trauma of my first pregnancy and felt a deep desire to expand our family. I consulted with a new OB and remained on birth control until our son was a little over two. Four months after stopping, we conceived—but at almost six weeks, I suffered a miscarriage. The heartbreak was profound, and I feared my dream of another child might never come true. Marc and I held each other tightly, reconsidered our plans, and took the time to heal.
A few months later, we were pregnant again. From the start, I experienced the same intense sickness as with Jaxson. Knowing this would likely be our final pregnancy, we were determined to do everything possible to carry to term. Premature birth placed me in a high-risk category, so we devised a strict preventative plan with our OB: oral progesterone for the first six weeks, frequent blood work, biweekly sonograms to monitor my cervix, and Makena shots from 16–36 weeks. The shots—administered in my arm and upper buttocks—were uncomfortable, but they offered the best chance for a healthy, full-term baby. I cherished every moment of this pregnancy, good and challenging, knowing it was our last. Each week, I reminded Marc, “This is it—no more babies. You’re still getting snipped, right?” He obliged with a smile.
As the due date approached, we researched reputable urologists in our area. Everything was going smoothly, and we were ready for the next chapter: completing our family and moving forward with a vasectomy. Marc was nervous but committed. Our OB would double-check, always asking if we were certain about no more children, and I would joyfully respond, “Yes! We’re 100% sure!”
When our baby girl Kamryn arrived healthy and full-term, we knew it was finally time for the vasectomy. Two weeks postpartum, Marc went for his consultation. A small delay due to the doctor’s emergency only made him more determined. A few days later, he underwent the procedure, with frozen peas and tight underwear at the ready, and recovered well. We shared our experience on social media, hoping to normalize men taking responsibility for family planning and encourage others. Marc’s willingness to do something uncomfortable for the benefit of our family made me incredibly proud.
Our journey has been marked by love, faith, courage, and miracles—big and small. From preterm labor and NICU stays to miscarriage and finally holding our healthy, full-term children, we have endured challenges that could have broken us. Instead, we grew stronger, leaning on each other and our faith. I hope that by sharing our story, others are inspired to embrace hard journeys, trust in miracles, and believe that love and perseverance can truly overcome the impossible.
