My husband and I had always dreamed of having a big family—of little feet running through the halls, of laughter filling every room, of love multiplying with each passing year. So on May 5th, 2024, after celebrating Cinco De Mayo at a local restaurant named Jalapenos, we took a pregnancy test. When we saw those two pink lines for the first time, our hearts nearly burst with joy; we decided to nickname this little miracle Baby Jalapeno, Baby J, for short. We held each other tightly, smiling through tears, overcome with the feeling that our greatest dream was finally coming true.
On May 8th, I went to my regular gynecologist to confirm the pregnancy, and they ordered bloodwork to check my HCG levels. Two days later, I returned for a second round of labs. My levels hadn’t doubled like they were supposed to, so they started me on progesterone as a precaution. Still, Josh and I clung to hope, praying together every night that our little one was safe and growing strong.
When the numbers began to rise, we took a breath of relief. Overjoyed, we decided to share our news with family—even though it was early—because they are such an important part of our lives. On May 26th, we hosted a cookout and shared our big announcement. The reactions were priceless. My mom immediately started dreaming of baby photoshoots, and Josh’s mom began planning blankets she wanted to crochet. It felt like a fairytale unfolding. Everything was perfect… until it wasn’t.
On June 1st, I started spotting. A quiet alarm rang in my chest. I called my doctors, both my gynecologist and OB, and they reassured me it could be normal, as long as there was no cramping. But on Sunday, the cramps came. The spotting turned heavier, and fear took hold of me. Again, my OB reassured me, saying it was likely just implantation. My first ultrasound wasn’t scheduled until June 20th, and they didn’t feel it necessary to bring me in sooner. So, I tried my best to rest, even as anxiety gripped me harder than it ever had before.
The next morning, June 3rd, the pain became unbearable. I tried to get ready for a previously planned activity, but I couldn’t. The cramps were too intense, and the bleeding no longer felt like “spotting.” My heart sank. I knew. I called my mom in tears, barely able to speak. She rushed over immediately, and I called one of my best friends, Chloe to step in and cover me for the plans I had. I still can’t express how thankful I am for her being there for me and telling me it was okay to cry and grieve. I was in agony—physically, emotionally, spiritually. I cried out to God, “Why?” again and again…
My mom called Josh at work, and he told her to take me straight to the emergency room. He met us there as fast as he could. I remember sitting in the waiting room, curled into my mother’s arms, crying uncontrollably as wave after wave of pain hit me. When Josh arrived, I felt a sliver of strength return, just from seeing him.
The ER visit felt endless. Hours passed. Bloodwork, ultrasounds, quiet conversations with doctors and nurses… and then the unthinkable: they spoke to us about making arrangements for a funeral service. I felt completely numb, like I was watching someone else’s life unfold.
We had lost our baby—our sweet Baby J—before we ever got to meet them, see their face, or hear their heartbeat.
Josh took the next two days off work to be by my side. That first day, he let me stay curled in bed, mourning, crying, praying. But the next day, he gently encouraged me to get up, take a shower, and step outside. I didn’t understand it then, but now I realize he was saving me from falling deeper into the darkness. He knew I needed air, even if I didn’t want it. We spent the day driving around, not going anywhere in particular. He let me lead. That evening, we came home, curled up together, and cried and prayed, mourning the loss of a child we would never hold.
The weeks that followed were some of the hardest of my life. I had to return to my doctor every two days for blood work until my HCG levels dropped back to zero. Three visits. Three emotional wounds reopened. The same sweet nurse tried her best to comfort me each time, but nothing could dull the ache.
I just wanted it all to be over.
Then, months later, on November 23rd, while sitting at dinner, Josh and I realized something—we were late. We stopped at CVS for a test, thinking it would likely be negative, but when we checked it together at home, two pink lines appeared again.
Hope flickered.
And then fear rushed in just behind it.
We stayed up all night praying, asking God to guard this tiny life growing inside me. I went to the doctor the very next day. The same nurse who had held my hand through my loss was the one who drew my blood and confirmed my new pregnancy. When she smiled and said those two lines showed up immediately, I felt a familiar swell of joy—and a cautious peace.
They started me on progesterone right away, and my HCG numbers looked stronger this time. We were cautiously optimistic, praying daily that we’d make it to our first ultrasound on December 12th.
On December 11th, I was so sick I couldn’t keep anything down—not even water. I threw up every twenty minutes, all day and all night, even on the drive to the ultrasound. But I was determined not to miss it.
And then… we saw it.
A flicker of life on the screen. A little heartbeat.
I burst into tears. And when I looked over, Josh was crying too.
Our second ultrasound came on December 20th, and that week we told our family. We had been through so much together, and they had loved us so fiercely through our loss—we wanted them to celebrate this joy with us too.
I continued to be very sick. I lost ten pounds in one week, and by the next appointment, I had lost twenty-seven. My OB diagnosed me with Hyperemesis Gravidarum—a condition I had never heard of before. But even through the nausea and exhaustion, I was grateful. Every wave of sickness reminded me that our baby was still with us.
We chose to do a 12-week blood test to find out the gender—partly because we were excited, and partly because we had so many questions left unanswered from our first pregnancy. We did a private cake reveal for just us, then had a celebration with our family and friends.
We were given two due dates: July 27th and July 29th. And when I saw those dates, my heart knew—we were having a girl.
My Aunt Pam, who passed away in 2013, had a birthday on July 28th. I was incredibly close to her. Without hesitation, I knew her middle name would be Pamela. And Josh chose her first name—Shelby.
Now, as I sit in Shelby’s nursery, surrounded by soft colors and quiet hope, I feel the presence of Baby J and Aunt Pam. I know they’re watching over us from heaven, hand in hand, loving this baby until she gets here safely.
Our journey to Shelby was full of pain, heartbreak, and waiting. But it was also filled with grace, with growth, and with a deep, unshakable love.
God was with us in the joy.
He was with us in the loss.
And He is with us still—in every prayer, every tear, every heartbeat.
I believe more than ever that everything happens for a reason. We don’t always get to see the full picture, but we can trust the One who paints it.
Through this journey, my love for Josh has grown deeper than I ever thought possible. His strength, patience, and unwavering faith pulled me out of despair. And my love for God has grown too, even through the questions and sorrow.This is the story of our first baby, our angel Baby J, and our rainbow, Shelby.
A story of love.
A story of faith.
A story of healing.
A story I will carry in my heart forever.
Photos taken by Taylor Made Photography.
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