When You’re Meant to Be a Mom—Just Not the Way You Thought
A story of adoption, grief, and identity
For much of my life, I was fairly neutral on motherhood.
I wasn’t the kind of girl who was naturally drawn to babies or playing “mom.” It just wasn’t something I associated with my identity as a woman. But somewhere in my early 20s, I felt a shift—maybe hormonal, maybe intuitive—and for the first time, I found myself craving motherhood.
My journey from that point forward would become a years-long process of holding grief and hope in the same hand.
On my very first date with my husband Spencer, we somehow landed on the topic of kids. (I know, not a normal first-date topic!) We agreed we probably wanted children someday, but neither of us felt strongly about them being biologically ours. It’s wild to think that two twenty-somethings on a Tinder date unknowingly foreshadowed the exact way our family would one day be built.
Within a couple of years of getting married, we decided to start trying. I got pregnant quickly—so quickly I wasn’t mentally prepared. I took a test only because I had dreamt the night before that I was pregnant. A few weeks and a doctor’s visit later, I learned I had already miscarried around six weeks. At the time, I felt a strange sense of relief. That initial relief would later haunt me with guilt.
We kept trying for nearly a year. Then one day, when I thought my doctor was calling with fertility test results, she instead told me I was pregnant again. We sobbed. We celebrated.
This time, the pregnancy progressed longer. We saw strong heartbeats on ultrasounds. We slowly let go of fear. But at 11 weeks, I noticed bleeding—and deep in my gut, I knew. A scan the next day confirmed we’d lost our second baby. Instead of learning the gender at our 12-week appointment, I was in post-op for a D&C.
The Loss That Changed Everything
Although miscarriage affects about 1 in 5 pregnancies, the circumstances of mine were medically unusual. After more testing, I learned I had a rare antibody that caused my body to view a fetus as something to attack. Without intensive medical intervention, carrying to term would likely remain out of reach.
I was gutted. Grief lived in my blood draws and ultrasound rooms. And yet—I still felt ready to try again. I remember telling Spencer, “I think I can survive one more miscarriage.” He looked at me and gently said, “No. I don’t think you can.”
A few weeks later, in the most “Spencer” way possible, he G-Chatted me from work and said: “I think we should adopt.”
We had a long, honest conversation that night. I asked for time to think and pray—but when I woke up the next morning, I knew it was right. He smiled and reminded me of that first-date conversation.
Adoption is a long, complex process, full of legal hurdles and layered grief. But eventually, we were matched. And one day, we walked into a hospital nursery and held our 2-day-old daughter for the first time.
She was tiny, loud, joyful—and she was ours.
Of course, adoption carries its own grief: grief for her first mother’s sacrifice, grief for what I couldn’t physically do, grief for a child’s separation from their origin story. But alongside that grief bloomed something beautiful.
Grief Doesn’t End—It Evolves
Becoming a mother didn’t erase the grief of my miscarriages. It added a new dimension to my heart—one that made space for joy and loss to co-exist.
Even now, years later, I can be undone by something as small as a TV plotline or an ultrasound photo. I’ve had to learn to let those waves hit. To let myself feel them, even while cradling the little girl who made me a mom in a new way.
There’s a guilt that comes with miscarriage; this false narrative that your body failed. That it was your fault. But it wasn’t. It isn’t. My hope for anyone navigating that pain is this:
This happened to you, not because of you.
Through all of it, motherhood taught me to hold things more loosely. I don’t get caught in the little worries. I’m just grateful to be here—with her, beside me, safe and deeply loved.
How We Parent Lucy
After all we went through, I made a conscious choice: I would enjoy motherhood.
We strive to create a home where Lucy feels safe to be fully herself. Where she knows, without question, she is wanted. That she belongs.
She’s now 4 and a half and, for a couple of years, she’s been our unofficial “family activity director.” Toddlers are experts in joy. Letting her lead—whether it’s painting outside or playing soccer in the rain—has helped us rediscover our own inner playfulness. And it’s created a rhythm where she feels heard, seen, and celebrated.
We don’t overcomplicate things. We keep it simple, connected, and curious.
Motherhood Without Losing Yourself
In the chaos of infertility, adoption, and early parenthood, I lost sight of myself. When you live in survival mode long enough, it’s easy to forget what lights you up… what your style is, what your hobbies were, what you even enjoy.
It took conscious effort to reclaim those parts. Trying new classes. Simplifying my schedule. Even getting a new haircut. I had to choose, every day, to keep pieces of me intact.
Motherhood changed me—I’m more emotional, more empathetic, more tired. But I’m still sarcastic. Still skeptical. Still creative.
I used to ask myself: Should a mom wear this? Say that? Do this?
Now, I reframe it:
I’m a mom. I want to wear this, say that, do this—so yes, that’s what a mom does.
When Lucy looks back on her childhood, I want her to remember a mom who was joyful, brave, independent, and playful. That vision anchors everything I do.
Advice for Anyone Exploring a Different Path to Parenthood
Adoption isn’t for everyone—and it doesn’t need to be.
But if you’re navigating infertility or pregnancy loss and considering your next step, my advice is:
Heal first.
Parenthood won’t fix your pain. You need space to grieve before you can pour yourself into someone else’s life.
Explore your options, talk to people who’ve walked various paths, and be honest about what you value. For me, carrying a pregnancy was never the dream—it was about being a mother. That clarity helped guide our decision.
And to anyone wondering if it’ll “feel real” when you don’t carry your child: The second I held Lucy, I felt it. The depth, the responsibility, the fierce love. It was immediate. It was real.
When Lucy looks back on her life as an adoptee, I hope she feels loved, chosen, understood—and wholly accepted for who she is.