Baby Miranda

Ever since I was a little girl, I carried one dream in my heart—to fall deeply in love and to become a mom. I imagined tiny hands wrapped around my fingers, bedtime stories whispered in the dark, scraped knees kissed better, and a home filled with laughter, traditions, and the beautiful, messy chaos of family life. I did find love. The kind of love you pray for. But the path to motherhood has been far more complicated—and far more painful—than I ever imagined. For the past six years, loss has marked the rhythm of my life. Each year seemed to bring a new goodbye. I lost my dad. My grandfather. My uncle. My younger cousin. Even my sweet dog. Just as I would begin to steady myself, another wave would come. Grief became something I learned to live beside, something I carried quietly while still trying to move forward. Over time, I did the hard work of healing. I learned how to let joy exist alongside sorrow. I found ways to laugh again without guilt. I began to believe that maybe, after so many years of heartbreak, life might finally soften. And then at 32, I received the news that added another layer to those six years of loss: I cannot have children without IVF and the help of a donor egg. The diagnosis felt like yet another goodbye—this time to the version of motherhood I had always imagined. It was the loss of something I hadn’t even held yet, but had loved my entire life. The loss of motherhood as I thought it would be. Still, we refused to give up. We sought a second opinion, holding tightly to hope. That hope led us to try IVF using the few eggs I had left. We poured everything into that attempt—emotionally, physically, financially. When it failed, the grief was quiet but profound. And our doctor gently confirmed what we had begun to fear: our only path to becoming parents is IVF with a donor egg. The emotional weight of this journey has been layered—six years of learning how to say goodbye, while still daring to hope for a hello. The financial burden has