His name would’ve been Nathanael Paul. Her name would’ve been Hannah Lynne. He would’ve had my husband’s chin dimple, and deep set eyes. She would’ve had my freckles and thick blonde curly hair.

I dreamed of what carrying them under my heart would be like. I imagined the joy and excitement of finding out I was pregnant, how I would tell my husband, our family and friends, and seeing that very first sonogram. I had planned the perfect pregnancy diet, and found several remedies for the possibility of morning sickness. I studied in depth fetal development. Often times I imagined what the moment they were born would feel like.

During all of that time dreaming and planning every detail I trusted that one or both would eventually be here. I read the story of Hannah over and over again. I spent time on my knees, on my face in our living room when I was home alone crying out for God to please open my womb. Nathanael means, “Given by God,” which was a perfect name for him. And how could I not name her after the woman in the Bible that I felt such a connection with? Hannah was truly my hero. She took her pain to God. And I did as well. I felt His presence and His comfort.

My heart broke when our infertility was confirmed, and I felt like I was in constant grieving. But I didn’t lose hope. I had heard of and even met couples that had that miraculous story of an impossible conception. The thought of waiting until God’s perfect timing didn’t bother me, even though I felt very impatient at times.

I did get the honor and privilege of becoming a mother through adoption. My heart has been so full. As a little girl before I knew what adoption meant I would think to myself, “I’m going to become a mom to kids that don’t have a mom.” I wanted to experience pregnancy, and I wanted to adopt. When I discussed children with my husband for the first time I told him I had always wanted to adopt, that I felt called to it. So please, don’t get the idea that I don’t value my children as much as I would’ve a biological child. That isn’t true, because I dreamed of both, equally. And I would’ve loved all of my children the same no matter how they came into our family.

While I was busy being a mom, and believing for the chance of experiencing pregnancy just once endometriosis was growing. After our fourth adoption our hands were full, and I wasn’t thinking as much about having another child. It just felt like this possibility that was still there. But on December 17th, 2019 after severe medical issues I had a hysterectomy. I didn’t want one, but it was medically necessary.

Two days before surgery I took a hot lavender bath so I could be alone, and sobbed because infertility had struck it’s final blow. The grief hit me hard like it did before motherhood all those years ago. I felt like one or two of my children had died. How could I mourn children that had never been? They felt so real, and they still do.

I am grieving the end of a dream, and it’s hard. Part of me feels guilty for how I am feeling. Should I feel loss when I have four beautiful children? Is it wrong? No, I don’t think it is. A hysterectomy in of itself is physically hard. It’s a major change to my body. Burying my feelings, and not dealing with my grief would be very unhealthy. My dream has died. It’s okay to be sad. I don’t feel hopeless, and I do feel grateful. I am just mourning what could’ve been.