Welcome to our exciting new guest post series! I’m thrilled to finally introduce 'The Motherhood Mondays Series.' I thought it would be the perfect time to start a mini-series on the blog, showcasing real stories from people who’ve experienced how tough, rewarding, and confusing motherhood can be. After all, it’s the hardest job in the world. I’d love to hear your stories—whether they’re good, bad, or ugly—so please message me and share them for Motherhood Mondays!
Starting the first post of this series, I’m excited to share my journey into motherhood.
This part of my story has quietly sat in my drafts for months. I would read it over and over, fingers hovering above the publish button, then closing it again, telling myself it wasn’t time. But tonight… it is. I’m ready.
Nothing can truly prepare you for motherhood. You can read all the books, attend antenatal classes, and take in endless advice, but when it comes down to it, you never really know what it's like until you're living it. For me, becoming a mother is one of the greatest accomplishments of my life and probably will always be. Nothing has ever cracked my heart open so fully. It is love in its most raw, unrelenting form—beautiful, overwhelming, and unconditional. That said, our journey into parenthood has been far from easy.
To understand it, I have to take you back. My childhood was punctuated by fluorescent lights, waiting rooms, and hushed doctors' voices. I lost count of how many hands examined the parts of me I barely understood myself. I remember feeling small, frightened, and exposed—just a girl in a hospital gown trying to make sense of the grown-up faces surrounding her. There were concerns about my body. Unpredictable bleeding. Unanswered questions. And no real clarity until I was sixteen.
That's when I heard the words that would echo through the next decade of my life: "Your ovaries are very small and not developing properly." I was told that conceiving naturally would be extremely difficult. At sixteen, the thought of having children felt impossibly distant. But deep down, I always knew—I wanted to be a mum. Even then, it was etched into me.
Years passed. Life moved on. I learned to lie—mostly to myself. I started saying I didn’t want kids, wrapping that unspoken grief in casual denial. It seemed easier than carrying the weight of dreams that might never bloom. But each time I held someone else’s baby, a piece of me broke. Quietly. Secretly. Every time I held their babies, my heart broke, knowing it might never be me.
Then my husband came into my life. Don’t tell him, but I think I loved him from the very beginning, and we quickly became inseparable . As we grew closer, I knew I had to tell him what no one else really knew—that my body might not allow us to have the family we both wanted. After summoning the courage to share this with him, he was amazing and reassured me that we would focus on building our life together and handle that when the time came. When I finally spoke those words, he held me like I wasn’t broken. Like I was enough, just as I was.
Life got pretty busy after that. I graduated, my husband finished his engineering degree, and we moved out of our parents' homes. We got engaged and eventually married. We relished holidays, spent our extra cash on whatever we fancied, enjoyed lazy mornings, and planned things on a whim. It truly was a wonderful time.
Then the questions started...when are you starting a family? Isn’t it time you had a baby? Is there a bun in the oven? Of course, we wanted to start a family, but no one knew what challenges we were about to face. Harmless for them, but soul-destroying for us. We tried. Month after month. Test after test. Hope rose, hope shattered. We began to feel like our future as parents was slipping out of reach, and it was tearing us apart. So we let go. We stopped trying. We let ourselves breathe again, choosing to live without the ache of waiting.
And then—life whispered a miracle. I became pregnant.
I stared at that test in disbelief, tears streaming down my face. That tiny pink line rewrote everything. I was going to be someone’s mummy. My body had done what I’d been told it might never do. Her name is Amelia. And she is every prayer I didn’t know how to say out loud.
The best way to end this post is by saying, be grateful for what we have in life and always take a moment to remember that everyone we meet might be fighting a battle we know nothing about, so choose kindness!
If you're interested in joining the series, feel free to send an email to mimiroseandme@gmail.com, and I'd be excited to provide you with more details! Don’t hesitate to reach out even if you don’t have a blog and just want to share your story.
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