Birth photos: Motherhood after overcoming infertility

When you struggle with infertility and the months of waiting for a pregnancy turn into years, it can be difficult to imagine ever holding your baby. We spoke with more than a dozen moms who bravely battled infertility and won and we’re honored to share their powerful stories with you.

It never occurred to me that I’d ever have a problem getting pregnant.

My husband and I were married in August and immediately began trying for our first baby. My type A tendencies had me temping and charting from the very beginning. I wanted a baby and didn’t want to waste a single cycle. I was sure we’d get pregnant within a month with all of my careful charting and controlling.

Months went by and I felt concern creeping in. My OB-GYN was incredibly proactive and referred us to our reproductive endocrinologist once we tried for six months on our own.

We began a Clomid/IUI/Trigger shot combination only to learn that the HCG shots were causing cysts, which forced us to take a break from the drugs after each round. It was on our third unmedicated cycle that I thought my heart might finally break.

I sat there in the RE’s office and listened to her tell me that I wouldn’t ovulate that month and for the first time, I began to truly consider the idea that I might never get pregnant. She advised me to go home, enjoy my husband and some martinis and get some rest.

And that’s exactly what I did. I think I drank more that month than I did in college. For the first time since we were married, I truly lived in the moment with my husband. I had spent the first year of our marriage focused on what we didn’t have, instead of all that we did and it was an amazing month.

Then, 40 weeks later, when they placed my daughter onto my chest in the delivery room, I still could not believe she was there. I will never forget the way her sticky body melted into mine as I nursed her for the first time.

Looking back, I don’t know if I would change things. Those long months of waiting for her made me appreciate her even more. They made me soak up every minute of my pregnancy and try to etch it into my memory.

It’s those moments with her and with her brother who came along two and a half years later that help us to cope now, as we try for just one more baby.

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I’m not afraid to admit that my daughter, our first child, was an accident. A happy accident. A pleasant surprise. A big whoops! It happened quickly and unexpected and we simply eased into parenthood in the way that most young couples don’t. The ease of which we became pregnant and became parents is something that I now know is not to be taken lightly, something that so many women long for and are denied all together. Infertility is something that comes out of the woodwork once you open up about it, but is a pretty deep and painful secret many women face — somewhat alone — until you do speak about it.

So, yes, I was blessed with getting pregnant super easily the first time — and I say that not to rub it in. I say that because it’s what made facing infertility the second time around become a complete lonely and painful — and hurtful — experience. You see, most people just assume that because I had a child, a beautiful daughter, that I couldn’t possibly understand what true infertility is. That I had one and that should be plenty. That I should count my blessings and be glad for what I was given and not want more. Secondary infertility is not infertility at all — that’s the message being sent my way. I was made to feel guilty and wrong that I wanted another child. I was made to feel like I shouldn’t feel bad at all about not being able to get pregnant again. One should have been enough, more than enough. And, yes, it’s more than what some are given, I know.

And while I did count my blessings and did realize just how lucky and fortunate I was to have gotten pregnant so easily the first time, it didn’t make it any easier to digest that it just may not happen again for us. We tried for months. Months turned to a year. More than a year. No one could explain it. My husband and I were both tested. We planned, we did calendars and charted, we did positions, we did the embarrassing doctor appointments. We did the infertility drugs and expensive, painful procedures and shots. We tackled insurance companies and drugs from France. And we tackled the needles and bruises. The mood swings. The feelings of failure. We did all this while others around us were growing their families — we did this in silence. Because we didn’t want to appear selfish, we didn’t want to feel like we were asking for too much while others got none.

And yet, everywhere we went — babies and more babies. My aunt became pregnant with twins , my sister-in-law got pregnant with another . To top it off my sister became pregnant with triplets. Triplets! Naturally! Like one in a million odds. Babies. Everywhere. And I was not able to get pregnant again. No sibling, a missing sibling. Several missing siblings — I had always dreamed of a big family. One would have to do — serves me right for it coming so easy the first time, so easy that I didn’t even know or appreciate how easy it was.

There is shame. There is guilt. There are those who feel like secondary infertility is no big deal. Because we’ve already been given a child. How dare we want more? How dare we feel bad?

We did the drugs. We did the IUIs — multiple times. We did not get into IVF or beyond. It was still expensive. It was still infertility.

Eventually, it worked — it all came together and it worked. I don’t know why, I don’t know how. I know many couples try and never have success. I know it’s stressful and hard — physically, emotionally, financially, psychologically — but do I really know? Do I truly know what it’s like because the first time it was so easy? I don’t know. What I do know is that it worked. Eventually, with faith and love and persistence and medicine — with the help and support of family .

Eventually, it worked. And he was perfect. So worth the wait. So worth the stress and the struggle. And I don’t know why it was easy the first time and a struggle the second, I don’t know why some don’t get a first time or an easy time. All I know is, eventually it worked and he was perfect. And so worth the wait. And I hope that if you’re facing this — secondary infertility — that you know you’re not alone, that it’s real, that it’s not wrong or selfish to want more. I hope it works, I hope you have that moment when you know it was all worth it.

I look at Eli now. I tell him we have a secret. That he was the one I waited and waited for. And that he was worth the wait, and worth the hard work. And he is perfect.

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The nurse put him to my chest. There were wires and cords, I held his oxygen to his nose and cupped his diapered bottom in my hand. At barely a week old he had yet to reach 2 pounds. I was scared, of course, to have babies born at 28 weeks but above all I was in awe. There I was, holding a baby, my baby. A dream I had almost given up on.

We started trying to get pregnant on our honeymoon. I started dreaming about it before our wedding even began. I had a daughter nearly ten years before so we never thought that adding to our family would be difficult. My husband and I were excited to complete our family, give my oldest a sibling and enter the years of parenting together. We spent two long years struggling to get pregnant. Taking the conservative route, then the not so conservative route then the I-will-do-anything-to-have-a-baby route I thought maybe my oldest daughter would continue her role as the only child for life. I dreaded every month that my period came, every test without pink lines and was so used to being poked and prodded that I couldn't remember the woman I once was who could barely stand simple blood work.

Finally, we decided we would try in vitro fertilization, our last chance at pregnancy. The costs were so high and the emotional toll so strong that we knew we could only try once. I found out I was pregnant with triplets in April of 2007 and the rest is history. A rich, emotional history, full of ups and downs but of the beautiful beginning of what our family is today.

Less than a year after the birth of our triplets we were shocked to find out that I was pregnant again, without a single visit to a fertility specialist. And here I am, a house full of noise, naptime and miracles, still pinching myself... just as I did that first moment the son I never thought I would have was placed in my arms.

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Our journey to start our family began like countless young couples before us. Assuming that time was on our side, we quietly put away the birth control and decided to try our luck. Three months later, we saw the coveted double lines and jumped for joy. Sadly, the feeling was short-lived. At our 13-week ultrasound, just as we prepared to share the news with our little corner of the world, we were told that the heart had stopped beating. Devastated, we recovered in silence.

Four months later, we saw those lines again. This time, we thought, we would get to the finish line. Nauseated and exhausted right out of the gate, I was sure that this baby would arrive on schedule. We had ultrasounds every two weeks, and every two weeks that heart kept beating away. Until the dreaded 13-week ultrasound. Silence. Again, my body betrayed me. Silence again.

For the next year we tried everything. Acupuncture, baby aspirin, standing on my head, Progesterone suppositories... you name it, we tried it. But during this period of time, I just couldn't get pregnant. And so we turned to Clomid. By the grace of modern medicine, Clomid worked. And that's when Progesterone became my new best friend.

Ten months later, my sweet Riley Ann arrived on an early December morning. She was small and lively with giant brown eyes. Our eyes locked the moment my husband placed her in my arms. Through a steady stream of tears, I held her, rocked her, and told her how much I loved her. I watched her constantly, amazed that my sweet girl had finally arrived. Five years later, I'm still watching. She is loving, funny, and empathic beyond compare. Her creativity inspires me and her enormous heart melts mine. Every. Single. Day.

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The day we were married I was 32, so of course it was time to have a baby. A family. Time was ticking. It was so exciting at first, but then the months turned into years. Over the span of seven years we went on an emotional journey. We just wanted a baby. How hard could it be?

After a year of trying and having some basic tests, our doctor sent us to a specialist. We had everything tested and we were labeled with undetermined infertility. I didn’t understand why all these people around me were having babies, but we couldn’t. I had no idea what was wrong with me. We decided to try some more on our own because insurance in our state doesn’t cover infertility.

I started feeling incredibly alone and didn’t want anyone to know what we were going through.

Each month went by and I felt worse. I started feeling angry, scared and even embarrassed.

We sold our house and then had the money to go back to the infertility doctor. We started with three unsuccessful rounds of IUIs with Clomid.

By then, I was 36 and the doctor suggested a round of IVF. I expected it to work since there was nothing wrong with me. Then I realized that we’d have to do the shots at home. I was petrified. I kept asking my husband if he would be able to stick a needle in me, which he did and I fell more in love with him. He was my rock.

There were two embryos to transfer and then we waited and waited for the call. I was at work and the nurse told me that it failed. The tears rolled down my face. No one at work knew what was going on. I went home and cried.

We decided to do another round of IVF and they adjusted our medications and suggested acupuncture. This time it would work, right? I still didn’t want anyone to know what we were going through. The acupuncture was wonderful. It truly helped me relax as much as I could and I finally had someone to talk to. I also tried meditation, which helped me start letting go of anxiety and stress and release some of the sadness inside of me.

We had nine beautiful embryos. Two were transferred, the other seven were frozen and we waited. I made sure I was home when I got the call. The doctor called and it didn’t work, again. I’ve never cried so hard in my life. I was curled up on the couch in a tight little ball, crying uncontrollably when my husband walked in. He just squeezed me as tight as he could. I felt so alone and empty. Why are we going through this? It wasn’t fair. We just wanted a baby!

We learned that our fertility clinic was closing and we had to move our embryos, which was nerve racking. We decided to take a break to figure out what we would do next and where would we go. There were no other fertility clinics in our state.

One day, I happened to be driving home from work and an advertisement came on the radio for this clinic. So I did some research online and called them. We decided to meet with one of the doctors. He was incredible. There was new hope. He ran different tests and still, nothing was wrong. He mentioned my age could be the problem, but suggested a frozen transfer first. At this point we had decided this was it, the last chance, because emotionally how much more could we take?

I started talking to my closest friends about everything. To my surprise, they wanted to know and understand what we were going through. I realized then that I have some amazing people in my life and I didn’t have do it alone.

We did the frozen transfer and waited. This doctor gave us a picture of the embryos, so I slept with it every night. I found out later that my husband was growing worried about me and asked that my parents be close by when we got the news. I was home when the nurse called with amazing news. I was in disbelief.

Happy tears poured down my face. I immediately got in the car and drove to my husband’s work. I called him to come outside and when he did, I whispered 'it worked.' We shared a big hug and more happy tears!

After a wonderful pregnancy, the most precious gift came into our lives. A beautiful, healthy baby girl. I will never forget holding her for the first time. That dark hair and long fingernails made us giggle. She was simply perfect.

I would do it all over a million times.

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My boys were IVF babies — fraternal twins — conceived when I was 41 and born less than 2 weeks shy of my 42nd birthday. Because of my advanced maternal age we’d had all five viable embryos transferred during the procedure, and clearly two were contenders. This was our first IVF attempt after a year of trying other, less intensive help, including IUIs and we were very lucky.

The boys were born via planned C-Section because I was coming up on full-term , and Jacob, officially Baby B, was in a dangerous position if I went into labor and tried to deliver regularly — which I never did. I remember feeling sad that I never got to experience labor, that pretty much everything about this pregnancy was so high-tech and unnatural.

But that all melted away the moment I heard that first cry piercing the operating room from the other side of the blue drape. I didn’t get to hold my boys right away — they held them up for me to look at, to verify they were real and alive and then whisked them away to be poked and prodded and cleaned up. And I had to have my body stitched back together and then wait impatiently in the recovery room to be released to go to my boys.

I remember when they finally wheeled me into my room and both babies were there waiting for me with my husband and parents. I was still a little woozy from all the drugs from the surgery, but when I held those babies I was flooded with an instant love so fierce and deep, it bowled me over. Their little faces etched themselves into my psyche and I marveled at how someone I just met — or in this case two little someones — could so suddenly and clearly be at the center of everything — my life, my heart — forever more.

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We said we would wait five years after we were married before trying to get pregnant. When the time came, we were both very ready to start a family. Month after month turned into 18 months of trying and my goal of having a baby in 2006 came and went, as well as in 2007. I felt embarrassed and couldn't bring myself to ask my fertile friends what to do. My OB suggested Clomid but that plan was upset when another doctor urged having a hysterosalpingogram test first. In the meantime, I began acupuncture, drank awful herbal teas and my husband was sent to see an urologist. The HSG test indicated no detectable problems — so I was told by my OB. Her conclusion was that the fertility problems lay with my husband, even though the report from the urologist said otherwise. Our next stop would be the fertility doctor as it appeared an IUI or IVF would be in our future.

What a difference a doctor makes. With one look at my HSG test and an ultrasound to confirm it, the fertility doctor concluded that the problem was indeed me. The diagnosis was stage 3 endometriosis. Strangely, I had an innate feeling this would be the case but when I previously complained of painful cycles to my OB, she dismissed them, saying that women with endometriosis know they have it because the symptoms are so severe. Yet, the fertility doctor had no doubt about it as my tubes and uterus were covered with cysts and scar tissue. On Valentine's Day 2007, I underwent surgery to have the endometriosis removed and it would be a race against time to conceive before it came back. The plan was to try naturally for two months and then we would go straight to IVF. I had all the needed fertility drugs stocked in my refrigerator when I found out in April that I was pregnant!

I held my sweet Audrey for the first time while I was in recovery that late rainy night in January. Swaddled tight with a hospital beanie covering her head, she smelled like a Cabbage Patch doll and puckered her mouth in a way that reminded me of a baby bird. I was finally a mom and in my arms was the child I had longed for and dreamt of for many years.

While nursing, I found a lump that was eventually diagnosed as an aggressive form of breast cancer. Eight months to the date my daughter was born, I was back in the same hospital undergoing surgery to remove the cancer. I can't help but wonder if maybe cancer played a role in developing endometriosis and why I couldn't conceive early on. That question remains unanswered but what I know for sure is that my sweet baby girl saved my life. Sadly, treatment has left me infertile and while a part of me wishes I would have savored those first moments a little bit more, I certainly will never forget them.

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"Hi Erin, it's Mary Ellen. The IUI failed. Dr. B. says it's time to consider IVF. Can you come in for a consultation?"

The phone clatters to the floor. This is a dream, I think. I return to wiping the counters, extra hard and fast. My brows furrow when I hear a small voice chirping from the cordless. I pick it up. Mechanically I finish the call, bobbing my head. Yes. No. The 12th won't work. Okay, Tuesday at noon. Thanks. See you then.

I dial my husband at work. Only when he picks up do I allow myself to cry. The Clomid, the inseminations, the IUIs with injectables... all for nothing? Stupid PCOS. My body betrayed me, refused to do what it was born to do.

The consultation is long and I leave with a red sharps box, vials of Lupron, Gonal-F, and Progesterone in oil, pills, pages of instructions and needles. Lots of them. Two sizes: short and stabby or long and scary.

I wanted so badly to be a mother and never thought it would come to this. Yes, I was that girl, the one who giggled through sex, convinced every time that conception would occur. I charted, took my basal body temperature daily, read Taking Charge of Your Fertility and highlighted the important parts. I believed this would result in a quick, easy conception. Especially since I was a pro at propping my hips on pillows with my legs up in the air and using egg whites for lube .

Fast forward many months to my second round of IVF, the day of embryo transfer. We had two extended blastocysts. I gazed at them on the screen and tears dripped onto my gown when my RE said, "I'm thinking twins." I tried not to think of all the previous failures and the possibility of surrogacy or adoption ahead.

Eight days later I learned we were pregnant. On Friday, December 9, 2005, I delivered my twin daughters via C-section. They were premature and required feeding tubes and heart rate monitors. I expected at any minute something might go wrong. But it didn't. We took them home on December 31, 2005, and now they are healthy and thriving at 6-1/2 years old.

In retrospect, I believe struggling with infertility made me a stronger person. It made me appreciate motherhood that much more. It made me who I am today.

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A letter to my boys:

There are no pictures of the first time I held you, one after the other, in my arms. Instead what I have are pictures from the days after you took that first breath, some taken by the nurses in the NICU suite as I sat in a comfortable rocking chair and waited for them to unhook some of the wires and let some others remain before placing your small sweet bodies into my hands. Some have your daddy sitting next to me, or your grandma, but that first time I held you, it was just me and you, gazing into each other’s eyes and starting our love affair.

Your daddy tells me that as they were removing you from my body that 8th day in January that the doctor did bring you to my eye level before she handed you to the scrub nurses but I don’t remember any of it, my memories of that morning are hazy and rose colored.

I was just so happy you were both alive.

So it wasn’t until I’d been released from bed and taken a renewing shower the next morning that I was able to leave my room and walk past the smiles and congratulations of the nurses’ station making my way to the hallowed doors of the NICU.

I walked in on a shift change, so for a few moments, where a doctor was droning on and staff was anxious to leave, I felt out of my own body. I was standing there, willing someone to notice me when one of the nurses did, in a gruff voice ask if she could help me, all that came out was a peep, a whisper, “I am Giovanni and Jacob Piccini’s mom.”

The air shifted, the people parted and the smiles lit the faces of everyone.

“Oh the twins! It’s the twins' mom!”

So I was ushered into the room of incubator bassinets, with the humming of the low-level lighting and the crying of babies eager to live ringing in my ears, to two see-through beds standing side-by-side, the way I hoped you would be for the rest of your lives.

I remember thinking after holding you Giovanni that your weight at birth, 5 pounds, 1 ounce, belied the enormous love that I felt as I counted your toes and stroked your cheeks. I recall being reluctant to hand you back to the nurse but eager to welcome Jacob into my arms, to open the swaddle blanket and explore the small tiny places on this child I now called my son.

I did not cry, not in that moment.

I was making conversation, being entertaining and asking lots of questions. I was nodding along with the staff that agreed you really were the most handsome babies they had ever seen spending the hour I got with you learning how to feed you from the bottles and hand you back when it was clear you’d need gavages.

The one clear thought I had in those first days of motherhood was that it just didn’t seem possible that I had waited four years to hold you in my arms and yet I still wasn’t in any way prepared for the emotion, intense love and out-of-body gratitude for the miracle you were. Infertility had made my skin shimmer and my thoughts race, I do remember wondering if you were real, touching you, and kissing the soft spots of your heads over and over again all the while wondering if all the scary and unreal moments of trying to conceive you and then my overdue and most welcomed pregnancy had been just an illusion.

It would take months, but eventually my eyes would not tear and leak every time I caught a glimpse of you or heard your babbles, but on that first day right before I was told I needed to let you rest and could come back in four hours for your feeding, what I felt was the coming together of Faith and Hope, of Determination and Dare, of Medicine and Miracle bundled together in a bundle of Tenderness and Devotion that still takes my breath away today.

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My story, the short version:

My husband and I met in 1996 and never used traditional birth control. We were young, a little stupid and "pull out and pray" worked for us. We married in 2000 and decided we wanted to travel and live and weren’t ready for kids. Several years later, on New Year's Eve, as 2003 rolled into the newness of the next year, we decided to try for a baby. That night, with the love, wonder and expectation of making the decision to start a family, I was sure we'd get pregnant. That it'd be that easy. I was wrong. You only get 12 times a year to get pregnant and until you experience the loss of each month passing by, you don't realize what a small number an even dozen is. My OB-GYN ran all the tests, they started out non-evasive but eventually I ended up being completely poked and prodded. My husband was tested too. The diagnosis: undetermined infertility or some other inconclusive nonsense.

During this time, cycles were monitored, temperatures taken, and a lot of sex was had. To the point my husband would ask wearily, "is this for procreation or pleasure." The jokes about his swimmer being afraid of the dark faded and it was tense. I cried in secret every time another friend announced their pregnancy.

My OB-GYN referred us to a fertility doctor, who I adore to this day, and after the initial orientation and meet and greet, the testing started over. It was then 2005.

Too many insensitive, already-parents friends told us to just relax and it would happen. That year we went to Hawaii, Mexico, Costa Rica and New York. And my period started after each and every trip. That November, we opted to try our first IUI cycle. I took Clomid and for a drug you don't take that much of for that long, it sure makes you crazy. I went from laughing to hysterically laughing to sobbing in minutes. And the hot flashes and sweats — good Lord. I'm sparing you the details of how stressed my marriage was, because it wasn't good and I don't want to relive it. The day we did the IUI, my husband and I fought. Again. But a beautiful friend, who had just gone through several failed rounds of IUI, said, "Your baby may not be made romantically but is certainly being made with love." That was something we strove to remember when the stress was too much.

But it worked and we got pregnant. And then miscarried 10 weeks later. There is so much emotion still associated with that time that I can't put into words, but we opted to try again. I pushed for it. I knew I was meant to be a mom. I knew I wouldn't stop until I was. It was a difficult idea to accept that just being a wife wouldn't be enough.

We went in for the next round and discovered I had developed a cyst so was put on the pill. I was on the pill while trying to get pregnant. We didn't laugh much, but we tried.

It was then Easter Sunday, 2006, and my parents, in-laws and brother were all staying at our house. My husband had to provide his swimmers in a cup with a house full of family. I ended up going to the appointment alone, but it worked and we were pregnant. Each week, our baby grew stronger and our relationship did too. On January 2, 2007, we had our baby boy. We named him Mattias, which means Gift of God.

We never used birth control after that, thinking even if we got pregnant when our son was 6 weeks, that'd be OK. But we didn't get pregnant, so in 2009, we started with our fertility doctor again and our baby girl was born in 2010.

When I was going through this, I only knew one other person who had [been going through it too]. Thankfully, I am not shy about sharing my life and the best way for me to process it was to talk about it. I am sad to say that I know so many women who have had fertility issues and many who have had a rougher time than I did with failed IUI and failed IVF but the emotional drain is the same. When you want something more than anything and it is out of reach, it is devastating. The stories may vary but the feelings are the same. I’m sad that I have so many friends who’ve experienced this but I am so happy that I have friends to talk to about it, cry with and lean on. When we unexpectedly got pregnant in 2011 and miscarried, I was surrounded by love and support and for that, I will be forever blessed.

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My husband and I started dating when I was 36. Three weeks in, in the middle of a madly sexy moment, I mentioned I wanted a baby… like now. The fun stopped as he contemplated information that would send most men scurrying away thinking, “Lose my number!” But when he finally spoke, it was the sweetest sentence I’d ever heard.

“I’ve never really thought about having kids before,” said the man who would become my husband. “But with you, it seems right.” The fun started back up.

Yeah, well, hahaha. A year later, sex had become all about baby-making. Ovulation timing, IUIs and Clomid were first, then IVF, along with a wheat, dairy, sugar and alcohol-free diet. Life was no longer any fun and with each miscarriage, I began to feel less: less creative, less productive, less womanly, less deserving of happiness. On many nights, curled up in a ball in a dark room, my husband would climb into bed next to me — his own pain stuck in place as he attended to mine — and try to talk me back into the light.

On our third IVF, we got pregnant again, but I wouldn’t celebrate. I was too gun shy of the crash landing that occurred when the last two pregnancies went sideways. Our first ultrasound was the day before Christmas Eve, but despite the proximity of Christ’s birthday, it was indeed devastation once again. Another lifeless pregnancy sac confirmed in black and white that whatever maternal switch we females have that allows us to procreate had indeed been turned off in me. Shame was now mixed in with sadness.

We gave it a week and then scheduled a D & C. But first, Ethan drove me back to the fertility clinic at Tarzana Hospital for one last ultrasound — just in case do miracles happen. But I was well aware that for a 39-year-old woman with a history of recurrent miscarriage, my odds of having biological children had slipped precariously close to zero. As the doctor spread ultrasound gel over my flat stomach, his face somber and intense, I looked away, not wanting to see that once again I’d built the house, but no one was home. I focused on my husband’s sweet, sad face — we would get through this, right? — and then, a moment later, when the grainy, gray picture of my womb came into focus, I saw my husband smile.

Seven months later, my son came squalling into the world, a runty creature who looked like E.T. with a black Mohawk. My husband cut the cord and my hands reached out for him, twitching with a desire I had never felt. I cuddled E.T. in my arms, feeling his silky head and the warmth of his 5-pound body radiate through me, like some long missing electric blanket. I was finally whole. I was finally at peace. I was finally free of the morning sickness that had plagued me from the very beginning. And when I finally quit crying, the first thing I said was, “Would someone please get me a pizza and a glass of champagne?”

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I come from a long line of big families. I'm one of six, my mother was one of eight, my grandmother was one of eight. So when I couldn't get pregnant, it was such a shock. I'd never felt such a lack of control over my own life. My infertility was deemed "unexplained" after a year of trying and crying and testing and drugs. After six more months of failed assisted attempts, it was a combination of injectable drugs with artificial insemination that did the trick.

My struggle to become pregnant took 18 months. In the grand scope of painful infertility stories, that is not so great. But for all infertile women the pain is there, whether it's one disappointing month or dozens. I truly felt while I was within it that I might never be a parent at all. I wish I could have told myself, "This will take a while. It's a marathon. Pace yourself, and you will finish." I could not have that hope for myself. But now I tell my infertile friends that I will be that hope for them, that I will believe the journey will end with them as parents one way or another. Thank God, I haven't been wrong yet.

Here I am meeting my son Connor. I remember holding him at that moment and thinking how very worth the wait he was. All the pain and worry had been worth it to get this perfect child. I still feel that way. He's 9 now. He's up to my shoulder. He amazes me every day.

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When my husband and I married in 2000, we already had three children: two from my first marriage and one from his first marriage . We knew that we wanted to have at least one child who was ours together and so, very soon after our wedding, I put my diaphragm away in the back of a drawer and we got busy trying to get pregnant.

We assumed that we were fertile. Three previous pregnancies said that all our parts were in working order, so by cycle six, we were a little surprised. I started buying ovulation predictor kits and charting my cycles to make sure we were timing intercourse right. We’d been having sex at the right times all along, but that didn’t keep me from buying one of those little computers that predicts fertile days after 10 months without a pregnancy.

By the time we’d gone 12 cycles without a pregnancy, I got distinctly worried. I had massive resistance to seeing a fertility specialist and so I started researching everything I could think of that we could do ourselves at home to increase our chances of conception. We took herbs, he wore boxers, I lay with my hips propped on pillows and my feet against the wall after intercourse, and I don’t even remember what else. I studied my chart every day, and I lived my life in four distinct segments: cycle days 1-6, when I grieved; cycle days 7-12 when we had sex, cycle days 13-20, when I waited and cycle days 21-25, when I studied myself incessantly for symptoms and took pregnancy tests. Lather, rinse, repeat.

I had begun to think that another child was not going to come when my husband convinced me to see a fertility specialist.

“But we can’t afford expensive treatments! Why bother going just to find out we don’t have enough money to do what the doctor recommends?”

My husband, always more reasonable than me, said, “Of course we can’t afford IVF, but there are other things. A few tests and maybe some medicine or a minor procedure wouldn’t cost too much for us. Who knows? Maybe it’s something simple.”

I dithered for another few months and finally, after our 18th unsuccessful cycle, I made an appointment for mid November.

During the 19th cycle, we had sex as usual at all the right times, but I had mostly given up hope. On the morning of November 6, six days before our appointment with the fertility specialist, I pulled a pregnancy test from the stash in my nightstand drawer because that was what I did on the 12th day after I ovulated. I was so surprised when I saw the second line, I was sure I was imagining it.

I woke my husband and showed him the test. “Do you see the second line?” I asked him, convinced that wishful thinking had created the faint pink line.

“Yeah,” he said, “what does that mean? Is that line good or bad?”

“Good,” I said. “It means I’m pregnant!”

Over the next week, I must have peed on 20 pregnancy tests. I couldn’t believe it was real. Finally, I started to puke my guts out dozens of times every day and I was convinced.

All of my pregnancies were healthy but difficult, and my last pregnancy was most difficult of all, but in spite of the relentless misery of hyperemesis, sciatica and trouble breathing, I couldn’t wait to meet my baby. I said over and over again that I would start labor in the morning and give birth to my baby in time for dinner.

On July 24, 2002 , I woke to a contraction. I lay there watching the clock and seven minutes later, another contraction. Eight minutes after that, another. I was almost too excited to breathe and when I went to the bathroom and found that I was bleeding a tiny bit, my heart started trip-hammering in my chest.

I labored all morning and by noon the contractions required all my attention and I got into a pool of warm water on the back porch. Just before 4:00 pm, my baby boy was born into my hands and my husband cried out, “He got my red hair!”

We moved to the bedroom where the midwives helped me deliver the placenta and get into bed. After we were settled and the baby and I had both been declared healthy, my husband and I were alone in the house, snuggled in the bed with our precious Carter Justice, and if I’ve ever been happier in my life, I don’t remember it.

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David and I decided that we were ready to have a baby my senior year of college. At the time we had already been married seven years . Our brilliant plan was that I would get pregnant just in time for me to graduate. Little did we know that things weren't going to be that easy.

We tried on our own for a couple of years. In that time I learned everything I could about getting pregnant. We lived ovulation cycles and perfectly timed temperatures. Sex was reduced to a science experiment.

Eventually I approached my doctor with our problem. I had numerous invasive tests before my doctor concluded that I was ovulating properly and I did not have any barriers to conception. Which started the rounds of invasive tests and eventual surgery for David.

We still weren't getting pregnant and were referred to a reproductive endocrinologist. Over the next four years we would pursue infertility treatments off and on. We started IUI and every month my hopes would soar and then crash to the ground. Both of our doctors told us there was no medical reason why we were not pregnant. We could continue treatments, but with no promises of ever having a baby.

My confidence in all areas of my life crashed. David was a constant support and his faith kept us strong, but mine was shredded. In the middle of our treatments my dad was diagnosed with lung cancer and passed away. I called a halt to everything. Everything in my life suffered from my depression, including my marriage.

Thankfully David was strong enough for both of us. He held on tight. We went to marriage counseling and came out stronger than ever. I emotionally could not handle the failure of "trying" to get pregnant anymore so we stopped all fertility treatments and decided to adopt through child protective services.

And then we found out we were pregnant. I spent the next month doubting and afraid and miserable . Finally the day came for my C-section. I was scared and nervous and so over being pregnant. The first time holding her can only be described as surreal. It felt like coming home. Like completeness. Like being made whole. But even then, holding her in my arms, I was terrified that it wasn't real. Even now seven years later, after having her for longer than I tried for her, sometimes I still can't believe she's mine.

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If you are struggling with infertility and could use some support on your journey, please know that you aren't alone.

Here are some resources that can help you as you work through this challenging time:

• Resolve, the National Infertility Association, where you will find information about infertility and a comprehensive list of support groups
• Clomid and Cabernet, a great resource for support and friendship from women who have experienced infertility firsthand
• Redbook magazine's The Truth About Trying Infertility Video series, featuring women who have struggled with infertility and are sharing their truth

If you have beaten infertility and would like to share your story, please visit Clomid and Cabernet. For every woman who has fought and won the battle, there are so many more women who need to hear your story.