Before I can even hear my husband's truck coming down the driveway, the dogs know he's home.
Their tails start wagging at the first crunch of gravel. Then comes the familiar sequence of sounds that tells us he's getting closer—the garage door rattling open, the music cutting off, the truck door slamming shut, and finally the heavy rhythm of his feet as he climbs the stairs from the garage and into the kitchen.
He immediately scoops up the dog.
She's a four-year-old Golden Retriever—far too big and completely uninterested in being held—but somehow she settles on his hip like a baby anyway. He talks to her as if she's about to answer back, and honestly, one day I think she might.
The two of them stand in front of the refrigerator sharing blueberries straight from the container.
"Shut the door and stop feeding her," I snap.
My husband and the dog exchange a look.
"Mom's grumpy this morning, huh, Mags?" he says from the corner of his mouth.
I'm not a mom.
The words slip out before I can stop them. They were supposed to stay in my head.
He closes the refrigerator and gently sets the dog down.
We don't talk about it again.
Later that afternoon, my sister calls. She's full of promises she can't possibly keep.
"It'll happen."
"We'll make sure it does."
"We'll do whatever it takes."
I want to tell her to stop.
To stop offering certainty where there is none. To stop planting hope in places that have only ever grown disappointment. I want to tell her how unfair this feels. How infertility is somehow both silent and deafening at the same time. How I am exhausted from carrying grief that no one can see. How desperate I have become. How dismissed I often feel.
But I don't say any of that.
Instead, she makes another promise, ending it with an "okay?" that sounds less like reassurance for me and more like a plea for reassurance for herself.
She wraps up the call the same way she started it.
"You are going to be a mom."
I'm not a mom.
The words come out again.
We hang up.
She's just arrived at work and is already being called to a delivery. Somewhere in Boston, another woman is becoming a mother.
And I wonder—
Will I ever get to become one?
For years, I believed the answer would be simple.
Growing up, becoming a mother wasn't just something I hoped for—it felt like a fundamental part of who I was meant to be. While others found purpose in professional achievements, travel, or different dreams entirely, I always envisioned motherhood at the center of my life. Some people may find that limiting, but I never have.
I have no shame in saying that I believed I was put on this earth to be a mom before anything else.
It wasn't a dream I questioned. It wasn't a future I doubted. I simply assumed that one day it would be my reality.
My husband and I did what so many couples do—we imagined a future that included children and assumed that, when the time was right, they would come. We never imagined that becoming parents would require specialists, testing, procedures, medications, financial planning, and more resilience than we knew we possessed.
What began as hope slowly became waiting. Then questions. Then appointments.
What you’ve just read is just a glimpse into what my sister Kacy and her husband James having been going through for over 2 years. Infertility is a journey filled with emotional, physical, and financial challenges. While the hope of bringing a baby into the world is priceless, the reality is that IVF comes with significant costs that many families are not prepared for. Between medications, procedures, appointments, and treatments, the expenses can quickly become overwhelming.
We are starting this fundraiser to help ease some of that financial burden and give Kacy and James the opportunity to focus on what matters most: their journey toward becoming parents.
Any amount of support — whether it’s a donation, sharing this page, or simply sending love and encouragement — means more than we can express. We are so grateful for everyone who takes the time to read their story and stand beside them during their journey.
We truly cannot thank you enough for the support 🫶
