We got married in June 2016. By November, we were already dreaming big—talking baby names, counting days, and believing it would all come together quickly. Why wouldn’t it? We were young, healthy, and ready.
In January 2017, I thought I was pregnant.
I felt off in a way I couldn’t explain—late, tired, emotional. I was convinced. I went for bloodwork, almost excited. It wasn’t just a hope; it felt like a sign.
But I wasn’t pregnant.
They called me back for more bloodwork. They said my hormone levels looked... off. And then came the words I’ll never forget.
I was driving when Dr. R called. He told me that based on my results, my hormone levels were consistent with someone going through menopause.
I had to pull over. I was shaking so hard, crying so uncontrollably, I couldn’t see the road in front of me.
I remember gripping the steering wheel, trying to make sense of how I went from imagining baby clothes to being told I might never get the chance.
I was 32. I had just started. How could it be over already?
There are certain moments in life where everything shifts. This was one of them. The floor dropped out from under me that day. The grief was invisible but all-consuming. No one could see it—but I carried it everywhere.
That phone call marked the beginning of a long and winding journey: second opinions, testing, more losses than I could explain, and eventually, IVF.
But I survived that day. And every hard day after it.
I didn’t know then that I’d one day be writing this with two children asleep down the hall. But I did know, in that moment, that I would never stop fighting for the family I dreamed of.
I didn’t talk about it much at first.
How do you explain that your body might be done before you even had the chance to begin? That a doctor used the word “menopause” and you weren’t even 35? That your dreams shifted in one phone call while you sat alone in your car, completely blindsided?
For a while, I blamed myself. I asked every question: Did I wait too long? Did I miss a sign? Could I reverse it?
But the truth is—some things just happen. And no one prepares you for that kind of grief.
People assume grief only comes after a loss you can see. But I grieved the child I thought might already be growing. I grieved the version of myself that thought it would be easy. I grieved the simplicity that was suddenly stolen from me.
And slowly, quietly, I started searching for answers.
It wasn’t a straight line. It was messy and expensive and filled with moments where I wanted to give up. But it also gave me strength I never knew I had. Strength that lived in my tears, in the early mornings at the doctor’s office, in every injection, and in the hope I carried through each letdown.
That moment in January 2017 was the first real crack—but cracks let light in.
Today, I look back and still feel the sting of that call. But I also look around at the life I’ve built and the little people who call me Mom—and I know that woman on the side of the road deserved to believe this future was still possible.
If you're in your own January right now—the moment everything changes—I want to tell you: hold on. Let yourself cry. Scream if you need to. Then breathe, and know you're not alone.
Hope isn’t gone. It’s just taking a different path.
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