Six months before we met him, I discovered I was pregnant—despite having an IUD in place.
The news was shocking at first, but the initial fear quickly gave way to excitement over this unexpected miracle. Our small family of four was about to become a family of five. But just as we began to imagine our future with this new life, I was diagnosed with an ectopic pregnancy.
The doctor administered a shot of chemotherapy to save my life. The experience was excruciating, physically and emotionally, and it left an indelible mark on our family. The miscarriage that followed was long and devastating. My hair fell out, I cried on the couch for weeks, and I couldn’t understand why our hearts had been stretched to make room for a baby only to lose it.
At the same time, I took a leave of absence from my career as a U.S. immigration attorney. A particularly harrowing asylum trial had left me feeling numb—I couldn’t reconcile the cruelty humans inflicted on each other with the world’s indifference to pleas for help. I felt heavy with grief, my spirit bruised, struggling to smile, and unsure how to continue.
In an effort to heal, I fled to the Dominican Republic. There, I spent my days on the beach, teaching English and waiting tables, trying to lick my wounds and question my purpose. My husband reminded me that I would return to my career when I was ready, but in that dark time, I wasn’t convinced.
Meeting Our Son
One afternoon, while having lunch as a family, we noticed a boy playing at the water’s edge—throwing his oversized flip-flops into the ocean and swimming after them. When he walked past our table, we invited him to join us for pizza.
He sat politely, waiting for us to serve him first. We tried speaking in Spanish, then French, but his silence didn’t stop the connection I felt. His smile, his bright white teeth, and the way my heart seemed to recognize him immediately told me that this boy was meant to be in our lives.
Over the next several months, he spent more and more time with us—pushing our children on swings, helping choose picnic spots, and shining shoes to earn a little money. We spoke different languages—English, Haitian Kreyol, Spanish, French—and used charades when needed. Because he had never attended school, we taught him math and arranged tutoring sessions to improve his French.
Then, his mother appeared at our door, clutching a small bag with a few clothes and a toothbrush, asking me to take him in and guide him toward a future. Logically, I knew I couldn’t say yes—but my heart had already made the decision.
Expanding Our Family
As an immigration attorney, I knew getting him to the United States would be challenging. With the support of a congressman and a senator, we secured his visa.
He arrived in the middle of winter, leaving behind the warm Caribbean beaches for the snowy High Rockies of Colorado. He couldn’t read, write, or speak English, yet he faced every challenge with determination and never a complaint.
Today, that young man studies business and engineering in college while attending a soccer academy, dreaming of going pro. The opportunity to attend school in the U.S. transformed his life—and in turn, he is changing the lives of those around him, including his family in Haiti and the Dominican Republic.
Finding Purpose
Sometimes, I still grieve the baby I never got to hold. But then I pause, look around, and marvel at how life has unfolded. The woman who once fled to the Dominican Republic in heartbreak has become part of a family and a life more meaningful than she could have imagined. God took my broken pieces and shaped a life full of love, growth, and purpose.
Our family of four became five in the most unexpected way. God also reminded me of my calling. That impossible asylum case I won, the people He placed in my path—they all helped me rediscover my purpose and return to immigration law.
Now, we live near Geneva, France, expanding our U.S.-based law office into Europe, focusing on human rights, global mobility, and immigration law—my childhood dream. We work with clients worldwide and even prepared our first human rights complaint with the United Nations. Though the world may sometimes look away, we strive to keep our eyes open and help wherever we can.
So, if you’re reading this in the midst of heartbreak, I hope my story gives you hope. Life may feel shattered, but maybe, just maybe, it’s being pieced together. I pray you find the strength to keep going, trusting that God is taking your broken pieces and crafting something brighter, bigger, and more beautiful than you could ever imagine.
