The nurse practitioner looked at me gently and said, “It’s been two years since you and your husband decided to try to conceive. I recommend going to a fertility clinic.” But at that moment, I wasn’t ready, and neither was Mark. We wanted to keep trying on our own. Before we dive into that journey, let me take you back to the very beginning—how this all started, how Mark and I met.
It was a crisp fall day, and I was at work managing the Gap and Gap Kids. We were looking to hire for the season when my visual coordinator, Jessika—now a dear friend—walked into my office. “I have the perfect candidate,” she said, “and he just filled out an application.” She scheduled the interview, and a couple of days later, he walked in. That was the first time I saw him. Little did I know that this young man standing in front of me would eventually become my husband.
During the interview, I couldn’t help but notice his crystal blue eyes—they seemed to see straight into my soul. He had just graduated from Bible college and was looking for a part-time job. I remember feeling nervous, unable to meet his gaze, which was unusual for me. He was the perfect fit for the role, so we hired him.
Mark was seven years younger than me, and at the time, I was a single mom to my five-year-old daughter, Alexa. Over time, our friendship grew. He was eventually promoted and moved out of our store, but we kept in touch. I had just come out of a relationship and needed time to heal. For over a year, we remained friends, until November 2003, when he nervously asked me to be his girlfriend. By February 2004, on a quiet morning at the beach, he asked me to marry him. Unknown to us, a photographer had been on the beach at 6:30 a.m. and captured every moment of our proposal.
As we walked back to the car, the photographer approached us. “I hope you don’t mind,” he said, “I saw your proposal and took pictures. I’d love to give you a disk. Here’s my number.” Mark had no idea, but I had always dreamed of having my proposal photographed. I had never shared this with anyone, but somehow, God knew. We married in September 2004 and immediately began trying to grow our family. From our honeymoon night onward, seven long years passed with no success.
Month after month, we held onto hope. I would notice early signs, sometimes even miss my period, but the tests always came back negative. Each month ended with tears. I would pick myself up off the bathroom floor, wash my face, and break the news to Mark. He would comfort me, saying, “It’s okay, honey. We’ll keep trying.” I could see the pain in his eyes, though. He felt unworthy, like it was his fault—even though it wasn’t. The truth was, my own health struggles had caused secondary infertility.
After seven years of heartache, one day Mark looked into my eyes and said, “It’s okay if we don’t have any more children. We have Alexa, and I love her as my own. Let’s give this to God and let it go.” That moment brought an unexpected peace over both of us. It was as if we needed to reach that place of surrender before the next step. Almost immediately, we both felt ready to try one last thing: a fertility doctor.
We began IVF, and with a 23% chance of twins, we transferred two embryos. Mark placed his hands on my belly and prayed for twins. I remember that moment vividly. Two weeks later, after what felt like an eternity, I waited for the blood test that would confirm whether I was pregnant. During those weeks, hope and doubt wrestled within me, but I chose faith. When the call came, I could barely breathe. “Congratulations! You’re pregnant!” the nurse said. Emotions I had stored for years poured out, and Mark and Alexa were speechless with joy.
At our first ultrasound, the doctor revealed not one, but two babies—twins! Words could not capture the happiness we felt. Rey and Rylan arrived at 36 weeks and 4 days, spending only 48 hours in the NICU before coming home. They were perfect.
About a year later, a miracle happened: I became pregnant naturally. But the joy quickly turned to fear. Severe abdominal pain sent me to the hospital, where I was initially misdiagnosed and sent home. Four days later, the pain returned, this time with alarming intensity. Thanks to a friend who had come to check on me, I was rushed back to the hospital. Ultrasound revealed an ectopic pregnancy—the fallopian tube was about to burst. Internal bleeding had already begun.
Mark and I had just three minutes to hug before the emergency OR team whisked me away. The surgeon later told me I had been moments from death. When the procedure was over, I felt overwhelming gratitude for surviving. It took years to find the courage to try again, but eventually, we were ready.
In March 2015, we transferred two embryos once more. On a whim, Mark joked, “Imagine if we had triplets this time?” Our first ultrasound revealed not two, but three babies. The nurse practitioner was cautious, noting that the smallest might not survive. We prayed fiercely, and over time, Baby A thrived.
At 23 weeks, I began to bleed heavily and rushed to the hospital. The bleeding stopped, but from that moment on, I remained on strict hospital bed rest for three and a half months. The goal was 35 weeks, but at 33 weeks and 2 days, Baby A’s heartbeat dropped. The doctor acted immediately, and that afternoon, Arianna, Angelee, and Ava were born. They spent two weeks in the NICU and came home just before the New Year.
Our hearts were overflowing. Alexa, Rey, Rylan, Arianna, Angelee, and Ava—six children from just three pregnancies. Our family was complete. And now, as a grandmother to a beautiful little boy named Jake, I look back in awe at God’s faithfulness. Every tear, every struggle, every prayer was worth it. God is good.
