Healing Rain On Barren Land – My Story of Infertility

I always dreamed of being married and having children. Not in a vague “someday, maybe” way. I mean the whole picture—the husband, the home, the little feet running down the hallway, the kind of chaos people complain about while secretly loving it.

Bobby had the same dream.

And once we got married, we didn’t jump right into starting a family. We waited. Our plan was to build our careers first. Also, we had this other thing going on that tends to consume every spare minute, emotion, and paycheck like it’s a living creature…

Racing.

Racing is an all-consuming passion. It takes from you as much as you give it—then looks at you like, Okay, but what about the rest of you? Bobby was chasing the dream God put in his heart as a little boy, and I was working two jobs: my corporate job and my second life as business manager for our racing operation. We were busy. We were building. We were sure there would be time.

And then, finally, after enough “not yet,” we reached the day we both felt ready.

We put aside the birth control.

I assumed pregnancy would show up like an Amazon delivery: fast, predictable, and with tracking.

It did not.

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The waiting stretched, and I discovered what my faith sounds like under pressure

The months passed. No baby.

Then the months turned into years. Still no baby.

If you’ve lived in that kind of waiting, you know it isn’t just disappointment. It’s hope with a timer on it. It’s planning your life around two-week windows. It’s trying to stay joyful and grounded while your heart keeps bracing for impact.

I went through every emotion you can imagine. Some of them were quiet. Some of them were not.

God and I had some raucous wrestling matches. Seriously—fists were raised to the heavens. I wasn’t whispering polite prayers. I was honest. Loudly honest. The kind of honest that would not look cute written in cursive on a farmhouse sign.

But I always left those battles grateful for this: I had a God who allowed me to rail my disappointment at Him… and loved me anyway.

And here’s something I want to say carefully and truthfully: I only heard this next part years later, long after the sharpest edges of that season had softened. But when I heard it, it named what I had lived.

Our pastor recently said something that hit just right with me. He said ” The posture of true faith is not a clenched fist. It’s an open hand.”

I didn’t have that language when I was in the thick of it. Back then, I only knew how it felt to pray with a clenched fist—tight around my timeline, tight around what I believed should happen, tight around the life I was sure I needed in order to be okay.

What I can see now—looking back—is that even when my fists were raised, God wasn’t in a standoff with me. He wasn’t waiting for me to calm down so He could finally love me. He wasn’t offended by my grip.

He was patient.

And while I didn’t open my hands all at once, I also didn’t stay locked in that posture forever. Little by little, without ceremony, something in me loosened—not because everything was resolved (it wasn’t), but because I was still loved while I was holding on tight.

And that gentle, steady love made space for everything that came next.

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Mother’s Day became a landmine I learned to avoid

I stopped going to church on Mother’s Day.

It was hard to sit through a sermon about motherhood without crying, and I’m not particularly eager to wear my feelings in public. I love Jesus, but I don’t love sobbing under fluorescent lighting while I pretend I’m just “really moved by the music.”

One Mother’s Day sealed the deal.

We were leaving the sanctuary, and I was still reeling from the service—doing that thing where your face is smiling and your insides are absolutely not.

And then I saw them.

Little girls stationed at every exit, handing flowers to all the mothers.

One little girl handed me a flower and very sweetly said, “Happy Mother’s Day.”

I smiled. I thanked that darling child as best I could. And then I hightailed it to my car like I was escaping a very polite ambush.

I also stopped going to baby showers. Not because I felt jealous. I genuinely believe in rejoicing with those who rejoice. I really was happy for their happiness.

But tears are rude. They show up at the worst times. They leak out during gift opening. They arrive uninvited while someone is filming. And I have never been a fan of high drama.

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The test I didn’t take until I couldn’t pretend anymore

We assumed I would get pregnant eventually, so I didn’t get diagnostic testing until I was past thirty-five. Looking back, I think we didn’t want to admit we needed it. It’s amazing what the human brain can do when it’s trying to protect itself: This is fine. We’re fine. Everything is fine. Any month now.

My 35th birthday changed everything.

Bobby and I faced every step of our struggle together. I’m not shy about sharing my feelings with him. I’m usually an open book.

But for some reason I still don’t fully understand, there was one thing I kept to myself: I had a “do or die” date in my head.

I wanted—no, I needed—to be pregnant by my 35th birthday. Period. (No pun intended, except yes, absolutely pun intended.)

I woke up that day.

Barren.

And everything came down on me.

I literally couldn’t move from the bed. Grief can be so heavy it turns you into furniture.

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The day my husband climbed back into bed and just stayed

My good, good man stepped in.

It was June, the height of racing season. He canceled every plan for the day, called me in sick at work, and returned to bed. He didn’t try to cheerlead me out of it. He didn’t make it smaller. He didn’t rush me into positivity.

He just stayed.

His love and care for me that day is something for which I will always be grateful.

And that day—oddly—was also the beginning of my understanding. Over the next several weeks I realized that deeply felt, unexpressed emotion was creating insidious stress inside me. Quiet stress. The kind that lets you function on the outside while your body carries a weight it was never meant to carry.

I had so much to be grateful for—a loving husband, parents who only wanted the best for me, supportive family, friends, a home, good jobs.

And slowly, I began to acknowledge something I didn’t want to acknowledge: God’s plan—whatever it was—could still be loving and good and right, even if it wasn’t my plan.

Not because I suddenly became spiritually impressive.

But because I was tired of living at war with the life I was actually in.

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The moment the doctor said “zero chance” (and why it didn’t crush me the way I expected)

When I finally went to the doctor, I went in from a different emotional place. We did the testing.

And they told us there was zero chance of us conceiving.

Well.

Okay.

Here’s what surprised me: I honestly felt better than I had in years.

Knowing helped me. It didn’t erase the pain, but it stopped the constant mental spinning—the monthly cycle of hope and dread and bargaining and disappointment. Clarity didn’t feel like a gift at first, but it brought a strange kind of quiet.

I’m not saying every woman would feel that way. I’m just telling you the truth: in my case, healing had already started inside of me before the results came. This was another step.

The anger wasn’t over.

Not even close.

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When we started talking adoption… cancer arrived first

A few years later, Bobby and I started talking about adoption.

And then—WHAM—I was struck with the news that I had cancer.

Of course that ended that conversation. Not because we stopped wanting to be parents, but because everything suddenly funneled down into one brutal question: would I be around long enough to be a mother to a child?

I didn’t even know if any adoption agency would accept me, but it didn’t matter. I needed to be clear that I would be here. Alive. Healthy. Present.

I have another story, if you think you can handle it.

If not, skip ahead.

I’m heavy today.

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Mother’s Day again… and the veal marsala that took the hit for all of it

It was Mother’s Day again. And I wasn’t in church.

I know. I was healing and all that, but healing is not a straight line and it’s definitely not a one-Sunday decision. Bobby asked if I minded if he went to church, and I didn’t. I stayed home alone and prepared my mom’s favorite meal. They were coming by later.

One thing I have always been thankful for on Mother’s Day—no matter what—is my beautiful mother. She’s always been my rock, my supporter, my close, close friend. More like a sister. My bestie. And she was walking with me in this, like everything else in my life.

So I’m bouncing around the house, listening to praise music, and I’m cooking. I start pounding the veal for my mom’s favorite: Veal Marsala.

And as I’m hitting it, I feel myself beginning to strike it harder.

And harder.

Soon, I’m wailing on it—absolutely going to town—talking out loud in the kitchen like a woman who has finally run out of polite coping mechanisms.

“Stupid cancer. Stupid body. No baby! Now I have this stupid, stupid cancer! Ahhhhhhhh!”

If you know me, you know this is not like me. I am not prone to fits of anger. People who know me—my husband who lives with me—know me as a joyful person.

I am joyful.

But that moment was honest. And honestly? It was good for me to get it out.

And because it was so unlike me—so ridiculous—something snapped in a different direction and I started laughing. Right there, in the kitchen, with a piece of veal taking the beating of its life.

And then I continued cooking.

And praising.

(Yes, I hear it too. If you’re thinking, This is unhinged, I would like to formally say: correct.)

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The most tender veal anyone has ever eaten (thank you, emotional release)

Later, we gathered around the table to celebrate, and my mom tasted the dinner and said, “Wow, this veal is the most tender I’ve ever eaten. It is just melting in my mouth!”

I couldn’t contain my laughter.

I told everyone what happened.

We laughed so hard we could barely breathe, and we agreed the veal would probably never be that tender again—so we better eat a lot.

Which is not the takeaway I expected from infertility and cancer.

But apparently the Lord knows my personality and provides comedy where He can.

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What I didn’t realize at the time: healing can be slow and still be real

Infertility is not a subject I’ve talked about with many people. Even now, there’s a part of me that hesitates, because it’s tender—and because not everyone handles tender things gently.

But this blog is a love letter to others. So when I think of women struggling with infertility, I want to help in the only way I know how: by telling the truth.

I don’t forget women dealing with miscarriages. Women processing the loss of a stillborn child. Women blessed to get pregnant and then experience traumatic labor and birth. Mothers who’ve had to leave babies in an isolating NICU full of beeping and long nights and cold chairs.

I used to think healing would come like lightning—dramatic, obvious, instant.

But it didn’t.

For me, healing came like rain.

Cool. Slow. Quiet. Over time.

Not the kind of rain that erases what happened, but the kind that softens the ground enough for something living to grow again.

And yes—there are lovely things in my life that I probably would not have had if I’d had children. That’s not me trying to sugarcoat anything. It’s just me noticing what is true: the uniquely loving relationship I’ve gotten to build with this wonderful man beside me. The ability to serve others in ways I might not have been able to. Spontaneous adventures. Different kinds of fruit.

Bobby just sat down beside me while I was writing and asked what I’m working on.

I said, “Oh… I’m not sure you want to know. It’s our infertility story. Is that okay?”

He smiled that cute, cute smile and said, “Yeah. It’s okay now.”

Hmm.

Yeah.

It’s okay now.

Just counting my many blessings over here.

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FAQ

Q: How do you survive Mother’s Day when you’re infertile?
A: Some years I avoided it. Some years I cried in the car. Some years I could be okay for parts of the day. I learned it’s possible to love other people’s joy and still admit your own ache.

Q: Is it normal to feel angry at God during infertility?
A: In my experience, yes. I learned God could handle my loud, clenched-fist prayers—and He didn’t love me less for them.

Q: How do you stay close in a marriage when you can’t have kids?
A: I can’t speak for everyone, but I know what mattered for us wasn’t perfect wisdom. It was staying close, and leaning on one another through every trial. I was not going to let this thing steal something else from me.