When the Desire to Be a Mother Feels Heavy

I don’t talk about it often, but becoming a mom is one of my deepest desires.

It’s one of those quiet prayers that never really leaves my lips... it just sits in my chest, humming. If you’ve followed along on my blog for a while, you might remember when I first opened up about my PCOS diagnosis. 2015… late at night… passing out, vomiting, scared out of my mind because I had no idea what was happening. That moment changed the way I saw my body. It introduced a fear I still don’t always know what to do with: What if motherhood never happens for me?

PCOS feels like this shadow that moves with me. Some days it’s barely noticeable; other days it stands in front of every dream I dare to imagine. And as much as I hold onto hope, there are moments where hope feels fragile. Like one doctor’s appointment, one irregular cycle, one reminder of what my body struggles with, is enough to make the “what ifs” louder than the promises I’ve prayed.

And then there’s the part of me that still wants everything in the “traditional” order.... marriage first, babies after. I grew up envisioning a story where I meet my husband, we build a life, and then we welcome little ones into it. That picture is still beautiful to me. I still want it. But lately… I’m learning to hold that dream with open hands.

Because the timeline isn’t timeline-ing, and there’s a quiet thought whispering in the background: “What if the baby comes first?”

And you know what? I’m realizing that’s not wrong. It’s not shameful. It’s not a failure. It’s not me going off the rails of God’s plan. It’s just life... real, unpredictable, sacred life that doesn’t always follow the flowchart we drew at fifteen.

But if I’m being completely transparent, even admitting that feels heavy. Not because I think it’s wrong…but because I’m scared other people will.

I can already hear the comments, the raised eyebrows, the assumptions, the disappointment. Especially from the people who love me, the people who want “better” for me. And yet, they’re not the ones who have to live with the ache in my chest. They’re not the ones navigating a diagnosis that tries to dictate my future. They’re not the ones who feel the tug between hope and biology. They’re not the ones praying for a miracle while trying to make peace with every possible outcome.

Here’s the truth I’m slowly absorbing: My life might not look traditional, but it can still be meaningful. My story might not follow the rules, but it can still be holy. And my desire to be a mother isn’t diminished just because my path there may look different.

I still want the husband.

I still want the home.

I still want the family built in order.

But more than wanting the order, I want the child.

And I want the joy.

And I want the chance.

So I’m learning to trust that whatever route brings me there will be wrapped in grace. That God isn’t limited by my diagnosis, my age, or my timeline. That motherhood isn’t slipping away from me… it just might be arriving differently than I imagined.

And maybe, just maybe... that’s okay.