The Waiting Room

Three years ago, my husband Dave and I made one simple decision: we wanted to have a baby.

What's interesting is that I never thought I would have children. In fact, I was adamant that I didn't want them. After losing my mom, I made a quiet agreement with myself that I would never have children because I never wanted them to experience the kind of pain I felt when I lost her. Somewhere in my grief, I convinced myself that the best way to protect my future children from heartbreak was to never have them at all.

Grief has a way of making promises that feel like self-protection but are really fear.

That wasn't a decision made from healing. It was a decision made from heartbreak. It was a decision made before sobriety.

When I got sober and the fog of alcohol slowly lifted, something unexpected happened. My priorities changed. My dreams changed. I began to imagine a future I had never allowed myself to picture before. For the first time, I realized I wanted to build a family. I wanted to have a baby with my husband.

What I didn't realize was that making that decision would be the easiest part.

The next three years became a masterclass in waiting.

First came Dave's reverse vasectomy. We waited for him to heal. Then I discovered that having mononucleosis when I was 15 had affected my thyroid in ways that could impact fertility. I had no idea that something from my teenage years could influence my ability to become a mother decades later. So we waited while I worked to regulate my thyroid.

Then came another appointment, another procedure, and another recovery. One visit revealed a uterine issue that needed to be corrected. Another uncovered a blood clot that had to be removed. Then came testing to make sure my fallopian tubes were functioning. Each answer seemed to come with another hurdle, another surgery, another recovery, and another season of waiting.

Eventually we reached IVF.

The nightly injections. The endless blood draws. The ultrasounds. The hormones. The emotional roller coaster that no one can fully prepare you for.

Ironically, while my body was doing everything it could to create life, I was consumed with something far less important.

We were in the middle of planning our annual Christmas party—a formal event that we host every year and pour our hearts into. As if fertility treatments weren't enough, I found myself worrying about whether I would fit into my dress. The hormones had caused me to gain nearly 18 pounds, and I was terrified people would notice.

I remember standing in front of the mirror wondering if I looked "fat." Wondering if the dress would zip. Wondering what everyone else would think.

Looking back now, it feels almost heartbreaking.

My body wasn't failing me. It wasn't working against me. It was doing exactly what I was asking it to do. It was working unbelievably hard to create the possibility of new life.

That season taught me something I'll never forget:

The body I was criticizing was the very body fighting for the greatest dream I'd ever had.

What an incredible perspective pregnancy has given me.

Our egg retrieval brought more waiting. Twenty-four eggs were retrieved. Then we waited to learn how many would fertilize, how many embryos would continue growing, and what the genetic testing would reveal. We received the news that we had eight healthy embryos. Then we waited for my body to be ready for transfer.

On March 16, 2026, we transferred one tiny embryo.

Then came what every IVF family knows all too well—the longest ten days imaginable. We waited to find out if our little miracle had chosen to stay.

When the phone call finally came telling us I was pregnant, it felt like the world stopped.

Today, I am waiting again.

This time, I'm waiting to meet our little boy.

If I've learned anything over the last three years, it's this: waiting has a way of inviting anxiety, and anxiety loves to convince us that we have control over things we simply don't.

For more than a year, I don't think I truly slept. I wasn't just waiting on medical results. I was waiting for surgeries, phone calls, lab reports, embryos, transfer day, blood tests, ultrasounds, and finally, a heartbeat.

And perhaps most unexpectedly, I was waiting to see how people would react.

Would they be happy for us? Would they judge us? Would they question our decision because of our age difference? Would they think we were selfish?

I allowed the opinions of people who weren't living our lives to occupy space in my mind that should have been reserved for joy.

Fear has a funny way of stealing moments that never needed protecting.

The beautiful thing is that almost every fear I carried never happened.

Our friends celebrated us. Our family celebrated us. Our community wrapped their arms around us with love, excitement, and genuine happiness.

The only criticism came from a handful of people connected to the hometown we chose to leave behind. Ironically, their comments became confirmation. Sometimes leaving isn't running away. Sometimes it's making room for the life you're meant to build.

The community we've created today is filled with people who celebrate growth instead of criticizing it. People who lead with compassion instead of judgment. People who believe there isn't one right timeline for building a family. People who see our family exactly as it is—with love.

Looking back, I wish I had spent less time waiting for other people's approval and more time trusting the life Dave and I were building together.

Because this baby was never theirs to approve.

He was always ours to hope for, to pray for, to fight for, and to patiently wait for.

Waiting is uncomfortable. It stretches us. It exposes our fears. It teaches us surrender.

But sometimes the greatest miracles aren't found at the end of the waiting. Sometimes they're found in who we become while we're waiting.

Our little boy is already one of the greatest gifts of my life—not because he's here yet, but because this journey has taught me patience. It has taught me resilience. It has taught me to trust my body. It has taught me to release the opinions of people who were never meant to write our story. It has taught me that control is often an illusion, but trust is a choice.

And perhaps most importantly, it has taught me that some miracles are worth every single moment of the wait.

Embodiment Practice: Living While You Wait

If you're in a season of waiting—whether it's for healing, motherhood, sobriety, a relationship, or the next chapter of your life—pause for just a moment.

Place both feet firmly on the ground and take three slow, intentional breaths. Allow your shoulders to soften. Feel the support beneath you.

Then ask yourself:

• What am I trying to control that isn't mine to carry?
• What beauty am I overlooking because I'm focused on the outcome?
• Who am I becoming while I wait?

Notice what arises without judgment.

Waiting doesn't mean your life is on hold. Your life is happening right now.

The waiting isn't empty space. It's where trust is built. It's where resilience grows. It's where surrender begins. It's where the person you're becoming quietly prepares to receive everything you've been waiting for.

Trust the timing. Trust your body. Trust the process. Trust your intuition.

And above all, trust that what is meant for you doesn't require you to live in fear while you're waiting.

Because one day, you'll look back and realize that the waiting wasn't simply leading you to your miracle.

It was transforming you into the person who was ready to receive it.