I’ve always been a Type A person — the planner, the list-maker, the one who needs every detail lined up before taking a leap. So when it came to starting a family, I knew I’d never feel truly “ready.” There would always be something — not enough money, no guaranteed childcare, housing still up in the air. Eventually, I realized I just had to take it on faith. My husband and I decided to start trying at the end of 2024, and before long, on January 19, 2025, I found out I was pregnant.

The first trimester hit me like a truck — morning sickness, fatigue, headaches, and a total loss of appetite. Eating became a strategic operation. I’d scroll through DoorDash and Postmates, studying menus like they held the answer to my nausea. My husband was my rock; he’d have food delivered to my work or rush out at all hours to bring me whatever I could stomach.

By the second trimester, things started to look up. The nausea faded, my energy returned, and we could finally enjoy the sweeter parts of pregnancy — baby shopping, doctor visits, and finding out that our NIPT results were all low risk. That’s also when we learned we were having a boy, and for a moment everything felt perfect.

Then came our 18-week appointment. The specialist told us our baby had a single umbilical artery — something that could mean heart defects, growth issues, or genetic disorders. To make matters worse, a fibroid near my uterus blocked a clear view of his heart. Then came the kicker: my cervix was measuring short, which put me at risk for preterm labor. I left that appointment heartbroken and terrified, convinced I’d somehow already failed as a mother.

My husband, though, stayed calm. He reminded me of the low-risk test results and that we needed to wait for the fetal cardiologist’s opinion. We turned to prayer, asking for strength and for the healthy development of our baby.

Right after that appointment, we had a trip planned to El Salvador for my husband to meet my family and celebrate our pregnancy. We debated canceling, but in the end we went — and I’m so glad we did. Being home is always healing. I was surrounded by love, comfort, and faith. One morning, a few of the sisters from my grandmother’s church came by, as they often do, to visit people who were sick or struggling. I shared what had happened at the appointment, and they asked if they could pray for me.

One of them placed her hands on my belly, and as they began to pray, I swear I felt the Holy Spirit move through me — through my baby. It’s hard to describe, but it felt like peace washing over everything that had been tight and heavy inside me. When they left, the mood in the house was lighter. I felt covered, protected, seen.

Back home, I went to the cardiologist appointment with my best friend since my husband couldn’t get off work. After what felt like the longest silence of my life, the doctor finally said my baby’s heart was perfectly normal. I cried from relief. My next visit with the specialist brought more good news: my cervix had gone back to normal, too. For the first time in weeks, I felt hope settle back into my chest.

By the third trimester, the physical toll of pregnancy had fully kicked in. My back ached constantly, my feet were so swollen I lived in flip-flops, and work was busier than ever as I prepared my team for my leave. The glow was long gone, replaced by waddling and back pain — but my excitement to meet our son only grew stronger.

The cravings came back with full force. I was eating as much, if not more, than my husband. When hunger hit, it hit hard — he had about five minutes to feed me before I turned into a wet gremlin. If you know, you know. 😂 One of those late-night ice cream binges ended badly with a dose of food poisoning, which triggered early labor — over a month before my due date.

Contractions started late at night. After calling my OB, we were told to head to the maternity ward. I, of course, insisted on showering and packing extra things, which drove my poor husband crazy. He’s usually the calm one, but somewhere along this pregnancy, we’d swapped roles — I was the chill one now, and he had inherited my Type A energy.

When we got to the hospital on August 30, 2025, I was already four centimeters dilated. They pumped me full of fluids and gave me steroids to help our baby’s lungs develop, just in case. Miraculously, the fluids slowed the contractions, and labor stopped. We were discharged the next day — tired, hungry, and wildly unprepared. We learned quickly that hospital stays are not for the faint of heart. So naturally, our first stop after discharge? Target. We built the ultimate “hospital snack pack” for when the real thing happened.

Looking back now, every scare, every late-night craving, every answered prayer changed me. I went into pregnancy wanting control and came out learning faith — to trust what I couldn’t see, to let go, and to believe that even during the hardest moments, we were being carried through.