Adriana W’s Story

Our journey to parenthood began in May 2024. I was young, hopeful, and completely unaware of how quickly joy and heartbreak can collide. When I found out I was pregnant on July 26, 2024, on my little sister’s birthday, it felt like the universe was giving me a sign. Even though my husband and I weren’t married yet, we had planned this baby, and we were excited. I worried for a moment about how my family would react, but instead of judgment, I was met with love, support, and genuine excitement. It felt like everything was falling into place.

At my first scan around 6–7 weeks, everything changed. The ultrasound tech smiled and said, “You’re having twins.” Before I could even process the shock and joy of that moment, she followed it with, “But one doesn’t have a heartbeat.” In a single breath, my entire pregnancy shifted. I was a teenager, sitting on that table, trying to understand how I could feel overwhelming grief and overwhelming joy at the same time. I cried for the baby I had already imagined a future with, while trying to hold onto hope for the other little life still growing inside me. No one prepares you for that kind of emotional split, the way your heart can break and stretch at the same time.

After finding out that they were identical twin boys through genetic testing and the genetic testing coming back clear, we named them, Owen Robert Garner and Bodhi Wayne Garner. After that first ultrasound, I clung to every bit of hope I had left. At nine weeks, another scan confirmed that Bodhi was still healthy. Hearing that news felt like a breath I had been holding finally released. For a moment, I let myself believe again. Not long after, we went to Disney World, the happiest place on earth and time, it truly was. I couldn’t ride most of the rides, but I didn’t care. I walked through every little shop picking out Disney baby clothes, imagining my future, imagining the tiny person who would one day wear them. I took bump pictures everywhere, proudly showing the world the life I was carrying. I met characters, posed with my growing belly, and soaked in every magical moment.

As we walked through Disney World, I was entering my second trimester with Bodhi. I should’ve been in the safest, most stable part of pregnancy, the part everyone says is supposed to feel easier. But instead, I started having intense pain. At the time, I thought it was just round ligament pain. That’s what everyone tells pregnant women: “It’s normal.” “It’s just stretching.” “It’s part of pregnancy.” So I pushed through it. The pain got so bad that I ended up using a rental wheelchair, and my husband pushed me around the parks the entire trip. It was unusual, sharp, and constant, but I convinced myself it was fine because that’s what I had been taught to believe. I didn’t want to be dramatic. I didn’t want to ruin the trip. I didn’t want to seem like I couldn’t handle pregnancy. If I knew then what I know now, I would have gone straight to the hospital. But I didn’t know. I was young, excited, and trusting the idea that pregnancy pain is “normal.” I didn’t realize that my body was trying to warn me. I didn’t realize that this pain was not typical. I didn’t realize that this would be one of the last times I carried both of my baby boys inside me.

Looking back, that trip is bittersweet. It was magical, full of baby clothes, bump pictures, character meet‑and‑greets, and hearing my husband talk to Bodhi with so much love. After we got back from Disney World, still holding onto the joy of that trip, my husband and I went to our first maternal‑fetal medicine appointment. It was supposed to be a reassurance scan just a check to make sure everything still looked good. I walked in hopeful, still carrying the magic of the trip, still believing Bodhi was safe. But the moment the nurse placed the ultrasound wand on my belly, the room changed. It was the loudest silence I have ever heard. She didn’t speak. She didn’t turn the screen. She quietly stepped out of the room. My heart sank. When she returned with another doctor, the silence grew even heavier. And then came the words that shattered everything: Bodhi had passed away. In an instant, the future I had been dreaming of disappeared. I had carried both of my babies through Disney World. I had taken pictures with them. I had bought clothes for them. I had listened to my husband talk to Bodhi with so much love. And now, suddenly, both of my babies were gone.

I was sent to labor and delivery to deliver Bodhi and Owen. But unlike so many families who leave with nothing, I did have something precious I had photos. I had keepsakes. I had proof that they existed, that they were real, that they were mine. Those keepsakes became my lifeline. They were the only tangible pieces of my babies I could hold onto when everything else felt like it had been taken from me. My babies were later cremated and laid to rest at a beautiful baby‑heaven cemetery, a peaceful place where their names, their existence, and their impact are honored. It’s a place where I can visit, sit with them, and feel connected to the little lives that made me a mother.

After losing my twins, I went through a postpartum period that no one prepares you for, the kind that happens when your body has delivered babies, but your arms are empty. People talk about postpartum depression, postpartum hormones, postpartum recovery… but they rarely talk about postpartum after loss. My body didn’t know my babies were gone. It still acted like a mother. I went through the skin changes, the hair loss, the hormonal crashes. I felt the physical emptiness in my stomach where my babies had been. I felt the ache in my arms from wanting to hold them. I heard phantom cries, my mind trying to fill the silence with the sound of babies who should have been there. These are the parts of loss that no one warns you about. The parts that happen behind closed doors. The parts that make you feel like you’re losing your mind when really, you’re grieving and postpartum at the same time. I was recovering from labor, recovering from surgery, recovering from trauma, and recovering from heartbreak, all while trying to understand how to live in a world where my babies weren’t.

After physically healing from the loss of my twins physically, emotionally, hormonally, my husband and I made a decision that only grieving parents truly understand. Even through the pain, even through the postpartum symptoms no one warns you about, even through the emptiness of our arms, we still wanted to try again. Hope didn’t disappear with our babies. If anything, it grew louder. We threw our twins a memorial, honoring their short but meaningful lives. We visited their resting place. We held our keepsakes. And in the middle of all that grief, we still felt the pull toward parenthood. So we tried again.

Very quickly, in December of 2024, I found out I was pregnant again. For a moment, hope returned. For a moment, I let myself believe that maybe this time would be different. But almost as soon as the line appeared, it began to fade. What followed was an early loss, a chemical pregnancy before five weeks, and it was absolutely devastating. I remember being in the ER because of cramping, sitting in that cold hospital room, and just sobbing. Not quiet tears, the kind of crying that comes from the deepest part of your chest. The kind that feels like your body is breaking all over again. I felt so sad, so defeated, so confused about why this kept happening. People underestimate early losses. They call them “chemical pregnancies,” as if that makes them less real. But to me, it was another baby. Another future. Another piece of my heart. Another reminder that something was wrong, and still, no one was listening. This loss wasn’t just physical. It was emotional, hormonal, and deeply traumatic. It was another postpartum my body had to go through. Another grief cycle. Another moment where I had to pick myself up and keep going, even when I felt like I had nothing left.

After that December loss, me and my husband still held onto hope. Even with our hearts shattered, even with the trauma of losing our twins and the pain of another early miscarriage, we kept trying. Month after month, for an entire year, we tried with no luck. And during that year, I wasn’t just dealing with infertility, I was dealing with chronic pain that had been part of my life since middle school. Pain during my cycle. Pain during ovulation. Pain during intimacy. Pain that doctors brushed off as “normal.” Pain that I now know was my body screaming for help. I had been living with reproductive‑related pain for so long that I didn’t even know what “normal” felt like. I had learned to push through it, to minimize it, to accept it, because that’s what the medical system teaches young women to do. But after a year of trying with no success, after multiple losses, after feeling like my body was betraying me over and over again, I finally reached a breaking point. I knew something deeper was wrong. I knew I couldn’t keep living in pain. I knew I deserved answers.

So I made the decision to pursue endometriosis excision surgery, the gold standard, the surgery that actually diagnoses and treats the disease instead of masking it. And when they went in, they found what I had suspected all along: Stage three endometriosis. Mostly on my bladder. Exactly where my pain had been for years. It was validation. It was heartbreaking. It was infuriating. It was relief. It was proof that my pain had never been “in my head.” It was proof that my losses were not random. It was proof that my body had been fighting a disease no one took seriously. After being diagnosed with stage three endometriosis finally having proof of what my body had been trying to tell me for years, more answers began to unfold. Not long after surgery, I was also diagnosed with POTS, hEDS, and fibromyalgia. Suddenly, the symptoms I had carried since middle school made sense. The chronic pain. The fatigue. The dizziness. The inflammation. The reproductive struggles. All of it had a name now. It was validating, but it was also overwhelming. Because these diagnoses didn’t just explain my past, they shaped my future.

Once I was cleared to start trying again, me and my husband felt something we hadn’t felt in a long time: excitement. Real, genuine excitement. We finally had answers. We finally had a plan. We finally had hope that maybe this time, things would be different. We reached out to the fertility clinic we had started working with, and they recommended a medicated IUI cycle. We agreed immediately. We were ready. We were hopeful. We were desperate for our rainbow. And the IUI worked. I got pregnant again. For a moment, everything felt light. We were so happy, the kind of happiness that comes after surviving so much darkness. We had our first hCG blood draw, and the number came back strong. It felt like maybe, finally, our story was turning. But then the second draw came back. And the number had dropped. Another early loss. Another pregnancy gone before five weeks. Another baby we would never get to meet. I remember the moment the nurse told me. I remember the sinking feeling in my chest. I remember the way hope slipped through my fingers like sand.

After everything, the surgery, the diagnoses, the treatments, the planning, it still wasn’t enough to save this pregnancy. This loss was different, but it hurt just as deeply. It was another reminder that infertility is not linear. That endometriosis is not just a reproductive disease, it’s a whole‑body disease. That chronic illness affects every part of trying to conceive. That women with conditions like mine deserve more research, more support, and more compassionate care. After everything my body and heart had been through, the losses, the surgeries, the diagnoses, the treatments, the hope and heartbreak, I finally realized something that took me far too long to understand: Healing isn’t just physical. Healing is mental. Healing is emotional. Healing is allowing yourself to be supported. So I made the decision to work on my mental health. I reached out for help. I began therapy. I started learning how to process trauma instead of carrying it alone. And I learned that mental health support is not optional for women who have gone through pregnancy loss, especially recurrent loss. It is essential. It is life‑saving. It is part of the recovery that no one talks about.

My husband and I are still on our fertility journey. We are still fighting for our family. We still have hope, real hope, that our rainbow will come, no matter what path it takes. I know in my heart that I will always be a mother, because motherhood is not defined only by who you hold in your arms, but also by who you carry in your heart. However our path unfolds, I trust that it will lead us exactly where we are meant to be. And this is why I advocate. I advocate for endometriosis. I advocate for POTS, hEDS, and fibromyalgia. I advocate for pregnancy loss, infant loss, stillbirth, miscarriage, early miscarriage, and infertility. I advocate because my story is not rare, it is simply rarely talked about. I advocate because silence helps no one. I advocate because women deserve better. I advocate because my babies matter. I advocate because I matter. And I advocate because every woman walking this road deserves to be heard, believed, supported, and cared for with compassion. My story is not over. My fight is not over. And my voice will not be quiet.

I wrote my whole journey for you and also I have four little angels but only would like to give the names of two my twins who I was further along with their names are Bodhi Wayne Garner and Owen Robert Garner. Date of birth 10-2-24. Both boys. And I did get lots of keepsakes and they are buried. I did redo support after loss but also the opposite which was crazy. And Bodhi is remembered by bears