Ashley

Ashley's Story:

In 2016, my life shifted in an instant. What started as a terrifying cancer scare led to exploratory surgery, and instead of cancer, I was diagnosed with stage 4 endometriosis.

Relief didn't last long. That diagnosis became the beginning of years of pain, unanswered questions, and constant change. I saw multiple doctors, underwent multiple surgeries, and tried countless medications. Each one offering a different version of my future.

At first, I was told I'd be able to have a child on my own. Then I was told I'd need medical help. Eventually, I was told I wouldn't be able to have biological children at all. Each new answer felt like another piece of my heart being quietly taken away.

In September of 2022, I lost my brother-in-law to cancer. He wasn't just family, he was my biggest supporter. He believed in me on days when I couldn't believe in myself. Before he passed, we talked honestly about everything I'd been through and everything that might still lie ahead. I will never forget what he told me: "Just do it. You're never completely ready for a child." Those words stayed with me.

In December 2022, something changed. One morning on my way to work, it felt as if he was right there with me, reminding me of that conversation, reminding me to be brave. That was the day I decided to take the leap. That was the day I made the appointment that would change everything.

In January 2024, I went to my first consultation. From there, the journey continued. There were more hard decisions, and more strength was required. I had surgery to remove my fallopian tubes and my right ovary, another reminder of what had been taken, but also of how much I was still fighting for.

In 2024, I truly began this new path. In December of 2024, I matched with an egg donor, picked a sperm donor, and for the first time in a long while, things started to fall into place. In January of 2025, my egg donor completed her retrieval, and hope felt real and tangible.

My first transfer took place in February of 2025. It didn't take, and the heartbreak was heavy. What followed was another surgery, more medications, more testing, and once again, the decision to keep going.

On May 1st, 2025, I had my second transfer. This time, it worked. That moment gave me the most beautiful gift I could ever imagine, my little boy.

This journey was never easy. It was filled with loss, grief, waiting, and courage I didn't know I had. But it is also a story of love, faith, and persistence. Every step, every setback, and every decision led me to him.

This is my story. And my miracle is sleeping in my arms. 💙

(Photos by Kelsee Forsythe photo) 

Helpful resources Ashley found:

IVF is not a journey meant to be walked alone, even though it can feel incredibly isolating. There were moments when I wanted to disappear into silence, when the weight of appointments, medications, and waiting felt too heavy to explain. And yet, family and friends showed up—sometimes loudly, sometimes quietly, but always meaningfully.

Some offered words of encouragement. Others simply sat with me in the uncomfortable spaces, not trying to fix what couldn’t be fixed. There were check-in texts, prayers, rides to appointments, meals dropped off, and gentle reminders that I was more than my diagnosis.

Not everyone knew the right thing to say—and that was okay. What mattered most was presence. The people who respected my boundaries, who let me share at my own pace, who celebrated small milestones and held space for disappointment without judgment.

IVF taught me how much strength can come from being supported. It reminded me that love doesn’t always look like answers—it looks like patience, consistency, and compassion. On the hardest days, it was the belief others had in me that carried me when my own belief felt thin.
This journey may have been happening in my body, but it was never mine alone. I am deeply grateful for the family and friends who walked beside me, lifted me when I was tired, and never let me forget that I was loved—no matter the outcome.

The Moment:

I thought this moment would feel loud, that there would be tears, laughter, disbelief. But instead it was quiet. I stared at the phone, afraid to breathe, afraid to hope too quickly. Infertility teaches you to protect your heart, even in moments you’ve dreamed about.

Joy came slowly, wrapped in fear and gratitude at the same time. I felt happiness, but also grief for the years it took to get here, for the version of me who wondered if this day would ever come.

I didn’t immediately think “I’m pregnant.”
I thought, “Is this real?”
I thought about every appointment, every surgery, every loss, every tear shed in silence. And then I realized—this moment carries all of that with it.
Finding out I was pregnant didn’t erase the journey. It honored it.
This life exists because I didn’t give up, even when my heart was tired.

Hope, Inspiration and Advice:

If you are reading this from the middle of infertility, I want you to know something first: nothing about this journey is fair, and nothing about it is easy. It is exhausting in ways that are hard to explain unless you’ve lived it.

There were days I felt strong, and days I felt completely defeated. Days I believed it would happen, and days I convinced myself it never would. I learned that hope doesn’t always look like optimism—sometimes it looks like simply showing up again.

Finding out I was pregnant didn’t erase the pain that came before it. It didn’t undo the surgeries, the medications, the failed transfers, or the moments of deep grief. But it gave meaning to the perseverance. It reminded me that even when progress feels invisible, it is still happening.

If you are in this right now, please hear this: you are not weak for being tired, and you are not behind because your path looks different. Taking breaks doesn’t mean giving up. Needing help doesn’t mean failure. And continuing, even when scared, is an act of incredible bravery.

I didn’t always believe I would reach this moment. I just kept taking the next step, even when my heart was guarded. And sometimes, that is enough.
Your story is still unfolding.
Your strength is real, even on the days you don’t feel it.
And hope can still exist alongside fear.
Keep going in whatever way feels right for you. 💛