The 5th Pregnancy

Me, nine months pregnant with Nola.

Albert and I were pregnant four times before we got lucky with our first child, Nola. Four failed pregnancies. Four heartbreaks (and simultaneous guilt from relief) slowly convinced me motherhood just wasn’t in the cards for me. And honestly? I had made peace with that. Truly, totally.

Then things started to shift.

Albert and I got engaged. I found stability in a career that felt right. I temporarily relocated to Kentucky, closer to my roots, closer to stillness. Things aligned—my energy, my life, my perspective. And then, pregnancy number five.

I was 37—technically "geriatric" in pregnancy terms—with a small fibroid parked smack in the center of where a C-section would need to happen. But somehow, some way, my body rose to the occasion.

Then came baby number two, Tut, just two and a half years later. I got pregnant at 39, just three weeks after I weaned Nola from 18 months of nursing. Another miracle. Another surprise?

Against the doctor’s advice (I had co-care with an OBGYN and a midwife), both of my babies were born at home. No meds. No interventions. Just me, my body, and the quiet, powerful force of belief and surrender.

Fertility challenges are increasingly common, and I know how chaotic and defeating that journey can feel. I also know that alignment—emotional, physical, spiritual—can create space for something new to grow.

If you're in the thick of it, I hope this reminds you: your story isn’t over. Your body is still yours. Miracles don’t always follow a timeline.