The Story of Three: Charlotte Emmalin Riley
When you dream of being married and starting a family, infertility is never part of that picture. That’s how my dream began in 2008 when my husband and I got married. After years of trying and experiencing a chemical pregnancy, we sought help in 2010. I was diagnosed with Polycystic Ovarian Syndrome (PCOS), which wasn’t surprising since I also have Polycystic Kidney Disease (PKD). Knowing PKD could affect my health long-term, we had wanted to start a family early.
PCOS turned out to be more difficult than I expected. I faced irregular cycles, painful cystic acne, and hirsutism. We hoped IVF would be the answer, but the cost was overwhelming. I fundraised and even started a GoFundMe, raising $400 before the military moved us across the country in 2011. That move put our journey on pause.
I felt defeated. I had to accept that motherhood might never happen for me. So, I shifted gears and pursued a career I hadn’t initially wanted but thought I could find purpose in. Over the years, I experienced more early losses and never understood why they wouldn’t stick.
In 2017, after yet another military move, I found a great church and started a new job. We thought we had found the perfect church. It later became a complex and difficult situation, but it was exactly what we needed in that season. Still, the ache of longing for a child never left. That fall, we decided to shift our mindset. We prayed and thanked God for the child we had not yet received. We started buying things in faith, preparing for the promise.
In late 2018, during a church service, I heard God say, “By the end of the year, you will have a baby.” That filled me with hope. But God’s timing often doesn’t match ours. In the fall of 2019, we conceived again and saw our baby on multiple ultrasounds. But shortly after Christmas, I went in for a routine checkup alone. The office was still following COVID protocols, so my husband wasn’t allowed to come with me. I sat in that room alone and was told that my baby no longer had a heartbeat. I was devastated.
The worst part was when they asked if there was someone they could call. My husband was waiting in the car in the parking garage. I gave them his number, assuming they would tell him what had happened. Instead, they simply told him to come inside. When he arrived, unaware of what he was walking into, he looked at me and asked, “What happened?” I had to be the one to tell him that our baby was gone.
It broke me in a way I didn’t know was possible. I felt completely failed by my doctor’s office. In one of the most vulnerable and heartbreaking moments of my life, I was left to carry the weight of that news alone, and then forced to break it again to the person who was already grieving with me.
Around New Year’s, I passed our baby at home. It was excruciating in every sense imaginable. I was physically in pain from delivering a child who had stopped developing, and emotionally shattered beyond words.
The months that followed were a blur. I shared our loss publicly on Facebook, and that’s when God truly stepped in. When I felt the furthest from Him, He surrounded us with His love through our community. Friends and family brought meals, flowers, prayers, and baked goods. I couldn’t eat, I didn’t want to talk—I just wanted to disappear.
But God. He showed up and kept showing up.
I began grief counseling, which gave me the tools I needed to start healing. Eventually, we decided to try again. We returned to the same RE we had seen in 2010 and began testing. This time, they discovered I have Antiphospholipid Syndrome (APS), a clotting disorder that can cause pregnancy complications including fetal loss. They believe this was what caused the loss of our sweet Waylon in December.
They completed additional testing, and on the last day of that process, we were told I was about to ovulate. Because of my husband’s back issues, we were only able to try once that cycle—but somehow, 10 days later, I knew. Even though the digital test came back negative, I still knew. I waited four more days and tested again. This time, it was faintly positive.
I called the RE’s office right away. They immediately prescribed Lovenox (a blood thinner), progesterone, and an antibiotic due to inflammation in my uterine lining. Every week, we went in for an ultrasound, and each week we heard the same words: “Your baby looks perfect.” Still, I lived with fear.
Typically, patients “graduate” from the RE clinic at 10 weeks, but since our previous loss had been after that point, I asked to stay until 11—and they agreed. That fear began to slowly ease, replaced with gratitude and cautious hope. At 14 weeks, I finally started to believe this pregnancy might actually result in a baby in my arms.
We were given a due date: December 8, 2021.
But my birth journey was far from ideal. I was forced into an induction, I was disrespected by the OBGYN on call, which led to me feeling unsafe and unable to labor further. I ended up rupturing a cyst mid-labor, which required them to stop the process temporarily. After relaboring, it took me three days to have her. We went in Thursday for the induction and didn’t meet our daughter until Saturday. It was long, painful, and emotionally exhausting—but worth every moment to finally hold her in my arms.
And on December 4, 2021, our miracle, Charlotte Emmalin Riley, entered the world.
Photos taken by Madison Morse Photography – Madison Morse and Live.Laugh.Photograph – Robin Taylor.
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