I never imagined my story would look like this.
I started out as a single, divorced mother, doing my best to hold life together with whatever scraps of strength I could find. Years later, I remarried into a happy, supportive relationship, but our path to growing our family wasn’t simple.
Male factor infertility forced us into the world of IVF and ICSI. We were blessed with twins and, eventually, our miracle girl in 2009. I thought the hardest part of my motherhood journey might be behind me. But then came a season of heartbreak, with pregnancy after pregnancy ending in loss.
In 2018, after my third consecutive miscarriage, our world shifted again. My son Tristan was diagnosed with Cockayne Syndrome Type III, a rare terminal illness that most people have never even heard of. The day we got the diagnosis felt like the ground gave way beneath us. There was no map, no clear path forward—just this new, terrifying reality. And yet, there was no choice but to keep walking, caring for and advocating for him, and making the most of every moment because we didn’t know how many we’d get.
And then, out of the storm, came our rainbow. Our daughter was born in 2019, bringing a new light into our family.
In 2022, just when I thought I had learned the limits of resilience, my daughter Ava was diagnosed with Crohn’s Disease. Two rare, life-altering diagnoses in my children, in a family that had already endured so much loss, could have broken me. And on some days, it nearly did.
Parenting in these circumstances is like living on borrowed time while trying to build something permanent. It’s medical appointments, sleepless nights, hard conversations, and an endless cycle of worry and hope. It’s learning to carry grief like an old companion while still finding joy in the smallest of moments.
Somewhere along the way, I became a storyteller. I began sharing pieces of my life online, sometimes in long, late-night reflections, other times in small, poetic fragments. My words began to travel, finding people who had walked similar roads. Strangers became friends, and I realized that vulnerability could be a bridge, not a weakness.
Poetry became my anchor. It gave shape to what I couldn’t say out loud in the doctor’s office or in the quiet of the night. It helped me process the chaos and the fear. It helped me remember the beauty that still existed, even on the hardest days.
Through it all, I’ve learned that strength isn’t the absence of fear or exhaustion. It’s showing up every single day anyway—even when your heart is breaking. It’s sitting with the hard moments instead of rushing past them. It’s loving so fiercely that the thought of losing that love feels unbearable, but choosing to love anyway.
I’ve also learned that life will never wait for you to feel ready. It will hand you moments you don’t think you can survive, and then it will ask you to show up for them anyway. And somehow, you do. Not because you were born with unshakable courage, but because you love someone enough to find it.
If you’re a parent in the trenches—whether you’re raising a medically complex child, grieving losses, or simply trying to keep your head above water—I hope my story reminds you that you are not alone. You don’t have to be fearless to be strong. You just have to keep showing up, one moment at a time.
Strength isn’t something you’re born with. It’s something life teaches you, one heartbreak, one miracle, one ordinary day at a time.
by Jenna Hatfield 
by Carole Johnston 
