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We always thought it would be easy - or at least, easier than this.

Starting a family was the next chapter we were so ready for. After years of tour buses, locker rooms, sold-out stadiums, and quiet nights tangled up on the couch, we finally looked at each other and said, "Let's do it. Let's build something even bigger - a family."

I imagined it all: the baby shoes lined up in the hallway, lullabies replacing love songs, tiny fingers wrapping around ours. Travis would be the kind of dad who cried at every school play and coached little league with a heart too big for his chest. And me? I just wanted to see my whole world in someone's eyes.

But when the doctor sat me down, everything changed.

Low ovarian reserve.
Those words echoed like thunder, even as I smiled politely and nodded like I understood what that meant. All I really heard was, You might never have a child of your own.

IVF became our lifeline - our monthly ritual of hope and heartbreak. Shots. Pills. Early mornings. Hormones that made me feel like I was spinning out of control. We did it all for three years. Three long, soul-tearing years. Each cycle brought a new wave of belief and then... nothing. No heartbeat on the screen. No nursery to paint. Just silence and more space where dreams were supposed to go.

Travis held me every time I broke. He never tried to fix it - just sat with me in the quiet, wiping my tears, whispering, "We'll figure this out, baby. We will."

And one night, after another failed round and hours of holding each other on the kitchen floor, we finally said the words that changed everything.

"Maybe our child isn't supposed to come from me."

It felt like letting go and holding on at the same time.

We didn't give up on our dream. We just found a new way to meet it. A different kind of miracle. And somewhere out there, a child is waiting - just like we are.

Not born from my body... but born for us.