My Journey to Motherhood: Honoring My Angel, Embracing My Rainbow
Ever since I was a little girl, I dreamed of becoming a mom. I watched family and friends bring home their little miracles, eagerly awaiting the day I’d start my own family.
At 20, I was diagnosed with PCOS. Doctors reassured me: “It might be harder, but you’re young and healthy—it’ll happen.”
Fast forward 12 years. I was later diagnosed with a luteal phase defect and Hashimoto’s disease. That’s when I was labeled “infertile.” I was devastated—hurt, depressed, and angry. At that point, I was referred to a reproductive endocrinologist.
We started with IUI, which was unsuccessful. The next step was IVF. My stim cycle went relatively smoothly, emotionally draining but manageable. Just days after my 33rd birthday, I had my egg retrieval—and five days later, my now ex-husband and I moved forward with a fresh transfer. The doctor was optimistic.
Things looked promising early on, except for some thyroid adjustments. Due to my medical history and IVF conception, I was referred to Maternal Fetal Medicine. At my first appointment, they assured me everything looked great—just extra monitoring.
On June 22, 2019, during a night shift in the ER where I worked, we did a quick ultrasound. I saw that beautiful flickering heartbeat. I snapped a picture and texted my ex: “I bet he’s a boy.” For the first time, I allowed myself to believe this was really happening.
The next morning, everything changed.
I woke up, got ready, and went to visit family. Suddenly, I felt a gush—and saw blood. As a nurse, I knew. At the hospital, they confirmed I had lost my gestational sac, but my baby’s heart was still beating. I was admitted to wait for what no mother should ever have to.
On June 24, 2019, my son, Dominic Lee, was born sleeping.
The autopsy revealed I had developed a clot in my placenta, leading to a placental abruption and premature labor. My body had failed him—and that guilt has lived with me every day since.
We decided my body needed time—physically, emotionally, spiritually.
In November 2019, I did a frozen embryo transfer. It was successful, but anxiety followed me through every step. We planned for a cerclage, weekly progesterone shots—and then, the pandemic hit. Fear, isolation, and uncertainty cast a shadow over a time that should have been joyful.
But finally, I got to bring home my baby.
Everly Rose was born at 36 weeks. Tiny but mighty, weighing 5 lbs 1 oz, she was healthy. Today, she’s the sweetest (sometimes wild) little girl who has given me the greatest gift of all. She was born with a hemangioma on her arm that looked like a kiss emoji. To this day, she proudly tells people, “It’s my kiss-moji from my big brother Dom.”
Before I said goodbye to Dominic for the last time, I made him a promise: I would keep his memory alive. Because his life—though brief—mattered.
Telling our story has become part of his legacy. If you’re reading this and you’ve experienced loss: you are not alone. There can be a rainbow after the storm. And if this helps even one person feel seen or less alone, then Dominic’s light continues to shine.
Find out more about Project Finding Your Rainbow.
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