There was a time I wasn’t sure I’d make it through.
Not just through infertility. Through life.
I had always dreamed of becoming a mom. But nothing prepared me for the years of waiting, the endless appointments, the failed treatments, or the quiet grief that followed me like a shadow. Infertility has a way of unraveling you—not just physically, but spiritually. I found myself questioning everything I thought I knew about God, about timing, about hope.
Faith wasn’t a steady flame in that season. It was a flicker—barely visible, some days. I remember sitting in a crowded waiting room, clutching a lab order for more bloodwork, watching other women round with pregnancies I prayed for. And I wondered: What if this never happens for me?
We endured heartbreak after heartbreak. Losses no one saw but us. And yet, even in the unraveling, something sacred was being stitched beneath the surface. God never stopped showing up—but not always in the way I expected. Sometimes, He came through a friend’s text at just the right moment. Other times, it was a sunset that whispered, “You’re still here.” Other times it was in the hospital when my husband hit his knees to pray for the health of his wife and child, both in critical condition.
Then, when the next journey seemed impossible, a new path opened—one I never imagined I’d walk. Surrogacy.
The idea felt foreign at first. Could someone else really carry our baby? Could I let go of control long enough to say yes to something so humbling? The answer came not in certainty, but in surrender. I didn’t know how it would all turn out, but I knew this: motherhood wasn’t about biology or birth plans. It was about love. It always had been.
Our surrogate became part of our family in the most unexpected and beautiful way. She carried not just our children, but our hope. Her sacrifice changed everything.
When I held our babies in my arms for the first time, I felt a kind of joy I can’t fully explain. It wasn’t loud or flashy—it was sacred. It was yet another wink.
But here’s what I didn’t expect: motherhood didn’t erase the grief. It just sat beside it.
I still carry the scars of what we went through. The invisible ones that only show up in quiet moments.
And yet, I wouldn’t trade our story. Because it taught me something about faith I couldn’t have learned any other way.
Faith isn’t about getting the miracle you want when you want it. It’s about trusting there’s still purpose in the wait, even when it hurts. It’s about believing rain can grow beautiful things, even if you can’t see them yet.
Now, as I tuck in our children each night, I don’t take it for granted. Every giggle, every meltdown, every sleepy “I love you” is a miracle dressed in ordinary clothes. And I whisper thank you—again and again.
To the woman still waiting, still praying, still wondering if her time will ever come—I see you. I was you.
Your story may not look like mine, but please don’t stop believing in the possibility of joy. Even if it comes differently than you imagined.
Motherhood may not have come the way I expected, but it came in the way I needed. Through the grief, through the faith, through the rain.
And I wouldn’t have it any other way.
by Erin Holland 
by Angela Erickson 
