1st birth, 3rd pregnancy

My first birth was my sweet Alyssa. She came into the world with the kind of presence that changes everything—but let’s be real, she was only the “best baby” if she was fed and had a clean diaper. Some things haven’t changed much—she’s 18 now, and still gets moody when she’s hungry. Classic Alyssa.

Pregnancy with her wasn’t easy. I had already been through two heartbreaking miscarriages, and when I finally got pregnant again, I was constantly on edge. At just 8 weeks, I started bleeding. My worst fear started playing out in real time. I rushed to the hospital, heart in my throat. That’s when I found out I had been pregnant with twins—I was miscarrying Alyssa’s sibling. It was the first time I heard the term bicornuate uterus, and from that moment on, fear clung to me like a shadow.

Everything that could happen in a pregnancy, did. I went into preterm labor at 20 weeks. I was put on medication to stop it. Then came the gestational diabetes. Then the news that I was too small to deliver her vaginally. I was on high alert the entire time.

She came two weeks early, and I remember it vividly—I had just taken my dog for a walk around the block and eaten half a tuna sandwich (funny how I remember exactly what I ate before both my kids were born). And then… the floodgates. My water broke, and Alyssa made her debut on a Thursday—yes, I remember, because I missed Grey’s Anatomy.

The moment she arrived, something in me shifted. Motherhood cracked me open in ways I didn’t expect. My mindset changed. My marriage changed. I went back to work trying to juggle everything—mom, wife, employee—but inside, I was simmering. I was doing it all, and I was exhausted. I started resenting Steve, my husband at the time. I needed help, I needed support, and I wasn’t getting it. I wasn’t just raising a baby—I felt like I was raising a grown man too. Eventually, I realized I didn’t want to be married anymore. And he… well, he didn’t want to fight for it.

We divorced before Alyssa turned two. No bitterness—truly. I’ve always wished him well. For about six months, I was living the single life. It was just me and Alyssa, thick as thieves. My tiny sidekick, my ride-or-die. Then at two and a half, a new family chapter began (a story for another time). But from then on, she’s been with me 95% of the time.

Sometimes I wish I’d been a gentler mom. Patience was never my superpower. I wasn’t the “count-to-ten, let’s-talk-it-out” type. More like: say it ten times, and then I snap. Not just with her—with everyone. But she was the quiet one. The kid who made up her own stories, didn’t care what anyone thought, never fussed about her clothes. I used to say the same thing my mom said to me: “Perception is everything,” though she never seemed too concerned with appearances. She was never the cuddly type, and I’d catch myself wondering if she was a daddy’s girl during her visits.

But she is so smart. She’s always had a plan for her future—something I never had. Maybe she watched me, saw what I went through, and decided to do it differently. I really hope that’s the case.

Alyssa had to grow up with challenges a lot of kids never have to face. Her dad struggles with addiction. There were stretches when he couldn’t see her—either because he was using or sick. He missed programs, ceremonies, birthdays. That stuff stays with a kid. But I showed up. I didn’t always know how to handle it, but I figured it out one day at a time. That’s what moms do.

Through it all, I’ve been her constant—and she’s been mine. We really did grow up together, in a way. She’s one of my best friends, and I’m so excited to see what this beautiful, resilient soul does with her life.

After two miscarriages, the sadness lingers. The wondering why, the questioning—Am I ever going to be a mom? But looking back now… I wouldn’t change a thing. If I’d had either of those babies, I wouldn’t have Alyssa. And she is, without a doubt, one of the greatest blessings of my life.