Infertility: A Love Letter to my Past Self

 I kept hoping Indiana’s fertility would rub off on me...

Years ago, when we lived in Indiana, we wanted to grow our family. You know, back when hope was fresh and unshattered by reality?

Every month, I held my breath, took a test, and prayed for a little plus sign. And every month, that stupid blank space stared back at me-- mocking me. Negative. Again. And again. And again.

It wasn’t long before the doubt set in. Something must be wrong with me. Maybe I didn’t deserve to be a mom -- but I kept hoping Indiana’s fertility would rub off on me. (It’s a state full of cornfields and life bursting from the soil, right? Surely some of that energy would transfer over... Spoiler alert: it didn’t.)

We did fertility tests, found out what was wrong, but we were broke. IVF and all the “fancy” options? Yeah, those were out of reach. So, after years of heartbreak, we decided to move to Arizona. Maybe a fresh start would fix us. Maybe I needed a different environment.

But that hope  was misplaced. Arizona’s sand and dust? They were a metaphor of our infertility. Dry. Barren. Lifeless. The universe was telling me something and I could see the message loud and clear.

I can’t lie—struggling through that part of my journey was brutal. It wasn’t just the emptiness in my womb; it was the emptiness I felt inside. I constantly felt like I wasn’t enough.

If I could go back and talk to that version of me, I’d hold her hand and tell her, “It’s going to be okay. You will rise above this. You are not broken. You are not alone.” I’d want her to know that those years of feeling lost wouldn’t define her forever. That the pain would eventually turn into purpose.

That’s why I created Sometimes a Mom. It’s not only a platform or a community—it’s my love letter to the woman I used to be. To the younger me who felt small and hopeless. It’s a space to help her rise above, to remind her that she is more than her struggles, and to make sure no one else has to go through this feeling alone.

To anyone reading this who feels like they’re stuck in their own metaphorical desert—I see you. You are enough, just as you are. And when you’re ready, I’m here to help you rise above, too.