In September of 2010, I was working as a Medical Assistant in sunny Scottsdale, Arizona, blissfully unaware that my life was about to change in the most profound and unexpected way.
Life rarely follows the path we imagine, but sometimes, by the grace of God, the detours turn out to be far more beautiful than we could have ever planned. My journey had been one of faith for many years, yet after a series of devastating losses, heartbreaks, and setbacks, my belief in God’s plan for me had wavered. I was beginning to doubt whether life could ever bring me the joy I had hoped for. Little did I know, the months ahead would shake me to my core and reshape my heart forever.
I worked in a small medical office, and every morning during our break, my co-workers and I would stroll around the corner to a gas station for snacks and soda. For about a week, I had this intense, inexplicable craving for Easy Mac, string cheese, and chocolate milk. To most, this might seem ordinary, but for someone like me—lactose intolerant and rarely consuming dairy—it felt off. My body seemed to be sending me a signal, and I assumed perhaps I needed more calcium.
Then, one afternoon, after my fifth or sixth trip to the bathroom in just a few hours, a co-worker finally asked, “Nattie, are you pregnant?” I laughed it off, insisting, “No way! I’ve just been drinking a ton of water—Arizona heat, have to stay hydrated!” At the time, I was single, my cycles were regular, and I hadn’t experienced the usual pregnancy symptoms. Plus, it had been three months since the man I’d been seeing and I went our separate ways, and I’d been on birth control consistently for over 13 years. Doctors had even told me in the past that I might have trouble conceiving naturally because of ovarian cysts I’d had since age 11. Pregnancy? Absolutely impossible—or so I thought.
After work that day, curiosity (and a whisper of hope) drove me to buy a pregnancy test. The 30-minute drive home felt endless as I wrestled with a mix of nerves and anticipation. I had always dreamed of being a mother, and maybe—just maybe—a miracle was on its way.
I hurried into my apartment, took the test, and within seconds, the word “POSITIVE” stared back at me. Tears streamed down my face. I was a Medical Assistant, the father wasn’t involved, I was far from my family… and yet, here I was. This wasn’t how I imagined it—I had always pictured marriage, stability, a cozy home, maybe a dog. But suddenly, the prospect of becoming a single mom felt overwhelming and terrifying.
I knew I had to call my mom. She had a sixth sense about when something was wrong, and her voice instantly betrayed concern. “What’s wrong?” she asked. Between sobs, I managed to say, “Please don’t be mad… please don’t hate me… I’m pregnant, Mom. I’m going to have a baby.”
My mom, knowing my lifelong love for children, didn’t hesitate. From getting CPR and First Aid certifications at twelve, to babysitting endlessly during school breaks, my devotion to caring for children was unwavering. She was ecstatic: “Tash, why would I have a negative response? I’m going to be a Grandma! How do you feel about it?” Her excitement lifted some of the fear weighing on me. I ran across the street and bought four more tests—just to be certain—and every single one confirmed it: I was going to be a mom.
Initially, I had no intention of moving back to Ohio. I hated the cold, the rain, the lack of beaches. But a week later, an ultrasound changed everything. The technician hesitated before delivering the news: I was 17½ weeks pregnant… with twins. And not just twins—twin boys. My heart raced, my mind spun. The father wanted no part of this journey, so the weight of responsibility fell squarely on me.
Soon, I met with a high-risk specialist. Baby B was smaller than Baby A, and while it could be normal, there was a real possibility I might lose him. Every two weeks, we monitored the babies’ growth, bracing ourselves for bad news. After Thanksgiving, I went into pre-term labor and was hospitalized for several days, but the doctors successfully halted it. By Christmas, at 30 weeks, the babies had reached a viable point.
The doctor laid out the grim reality: Baby B had only a 1% chance of survival, and even if he lived, his quality of life could be severely limited. Baby A had a higher chance—around 60%—but delivering now could risk both. My faith, which had been shaky, strengthened in those moments. I prayed harder than ever, surrendering control and trusting that God’s plan would unfold as it should. I chose to wait.
Days after Christmas, my heart broke as I realized Baby B had passed. On January 5, 2011, at 32 weeks, the doctor confirmed my worst fear: Noah Preston had died, but Baby A, Ashton, was thriving.
Originally scheduled for a C-section on Valentine’s Day, labor came early on February 12. My birthing plan, and even plans for Noah’s memorial, were suddenly irrelevant. In the chaos of contractions, 911 calls, and emergency preparations, my family was momentarily absent, picking up my Grandpa from the airport. My mom arrived just in time.
At 8:15 p.m., Ashton was born at 6 lbs. 4 oz. One minute later, at 8:16 p.m., Noah arrived at 18 oz. The mix of relief, joy, and sorrow was indescribable. A nurse with a camera captured our family with both boys, creating precious memories despite the tragedy. I have a memory box with Noah’s ashes, his footprints, and his photos, along with matching bears for both of my sons.
Today, I am blessed with a kind, intelligent, and hilarious little boy who fills my life with immeasurable joy. We speak often of his brother, acknowledge him as our guardian angel, and cherish the lessons learned from this journey. I am profoundly grateful for the blessings in my life, the growth from heartache, and the renewed faith that guides me every day.
I truly believe that everything happens for a reason. Even when life’s path seems confusing or cruel, God has a plan, and one day, the pieces of our journey reveal themselves in the most beautiful ways.
