Sherri’s Story

I don’t remember a time when I didn’t want to be a mom.

When I picture little me, I see dolls lined up across my bedroom floor, Barbies with elaborate lives and stories, and little sisters who always had another game to play. I don’t know why motherhood mattered so much to me, but it always did. It always felt like something I was meant to do and be.

I never imagined what it would take to get there. The journey to motherhood asked more of my heart than I ever knew it could give.

My wife, Caity, and I began trying to grow our family with so much excitement. After selecting a donor, we started with our first intrauterine insemination (IUI). Month after month became blood draws, ultrasounds, medications, procedures, two-week waits, negative tests, and so many tears. Every cycle – all five in a row – asked us to believe again after heartbreak. 

When we decided to try IVF using Caity’s eggs, I grieved the loss of the child I had imagined—one who might have looked like me, shared my mannerisms, or carried that biological connection. It was my first of many lessons that motherhood isn’t always what we picture. Sometimes it asks us to let go of one dream so we can make room for another. And I am truly happy it worked out that way.

Because then came Wyatt.

He is our beautiful, sweet, incredible boy with Caity’s full lips and adorable button nose. He is the most loved, tender, wished for gift. A beacon of so many hopes and dreams.

From the moment I knew he existed, I was his mom. Our pregnancy was exciting and joyful. Every time I walked by a mirror I would stop and smile in wonder and joy at my growing belly and my precious son inside. These were some of the happiest days of my life.

At 36 weeks and 5 days, Wyatt suffered a random, catastrophic umbilical cord compression incident. He was born the following morning via emergency C section. What followed were the hardest days of our lives, as our precious boy endured test after test and we watched helplessly beside him in the cramped NICU. We listened to the doctors explain they had no explanation, and gently prepare us for the worst, all while hearing other parents sing to their babies and feed them at the breast.

Two days later, as one cord after another was detached, Caity and I were finally able to hold our son exactly as we had always imagined. No monitors. No tubes. Just my son against my chest, his head resting over my heart as I rocked him back and forth, whispering over and over, “My perfect baby boy. My perfect baby boy.”

We held him in our arms, telling him over and over how much we loved him, as he took his final breaths.

He truly was the most stunning baby and I remember thinking “how could I have the most beautiful baby and not get to stare at him every day? How could I not get to keep him?” I never appreciated the phrase ‘a living nightmare’ until I found myself in one that I desperately wanted to escape but knew I couldn’t. 

There are no words for the moment your life changes forever. You feel the weight of the suffering and it feels actually impossible to breathe, knowing the vastness of pain ahead, behind, all around you.

We came home to a nursery that was waiting for a baby who would never sleep or play or be rocked there. I collapsed onto the floor, gasping, wailing, choking under the weight of a pain I didn’t know a human body could experience. The days and months that followed became an endless cycle of numbness, rage, despair, and longing. I missed Wyatt in every breath.

The fragile glimmer of a different future somehow survived. Months later, we conjured all of longing and hope for another child and transferred another embryo in a giant leap of faith. 

Being pregnant after your first child died feels like a tiny flicker of a flame in a pile of wet kindling, with gusts of wind and rain threatening it every single second. It was there. It was real. But I spent every moment afraid it would disappear.

This pregnancy was much harder, with more frequent appointments and more curve balls than any of us anticipated. Then, at 31 weeks, my water broke unexpectedly in the middle of the night.

Our son Everett arrived at 31 weeks and 5 days, head full of hair and screaming with a ferocity that surprised us all. Best sound ever. Yet once again, motherhood looked nothing like I imagined. Instead of bringing our baby home, we entered the world of the NICU once more. Six weeks went on as we celebrated victories measured in grams, bottles, heart rates, and quiet, ordinary moments that felt anything but ordinary.

It surprised me how automatic loving Everett felt, while also feeling completely surreal. Sometimes I still look at him and think, I can’t believe you’re real. I can’t believe I get to keep you.

I still wonder what motherhood would have felt like if Wyatt had lived. Would I have felt more prepared? More confident? I’ll never know.

People sometimes assume that because Everett is here, the pain of losing Wyatt has softened.

It hasn’t.

I miss Wyatt in every single cell of my body. Every joyful moment still carries an ache because someone is missing. I will always wonder who he would have been. I will always yearn for him. I will always want people to say his name, remember him, celebrate him, and include him when they speak about our family.

And I want Everett to know something just as deeply: even while I miss his big brother with everything I have, he has always been enough. He is cherished exactly as he is. He healed so much of my heart and gave me reason to smile and feel joy again. He was feisty from the very first kicks and his vitality and strength are a gift. I cannot wait to see who he becomes. Caity and I won’t take a second for granted.

If my boys could read this one day, I hope they would know this:

I would walk this impossible road all over again if it led me to you.

You fulfilled a part of my soul that was always longing for you—and more.

You simultaneously changed me and affirmed exactly who I have always been.

You were the first and only boys I have ever loved.

My love for you is big enough, strong enough, and lasting enough to hold you both.

Forever and always.

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