A Thousand Quiet Steps

I never thought I’d be the person starting a blog about infertility.
Not because it doesn’t deserve space—it absolutely does. But because saying all this out loud feels like holding my breath underwater: quiet, heavy, and full of pressure I didn’t ask for.

But here I am, cracking open.
Because holding it all inside has started to feel heavier than the sharing.

This space, Love Before You, is a place where I can lay things down—without having to wrap them in a bow or explain them over and over again. Some days I need distance. Some days I need to feel heard. Writing gives me both.

This isn’t the start of my story. Not even close. There were moments—painful, quiet, sacred—that happened long before this post. A miscarriage I didn’t even know I was pregnant for. A diagnosis of endometriosis years later. Doctors, surgeries, waiting rooms, timelines that shifted before we even said “I do.” And in the middle of all that, a heart that kept hoping, even when it hurt.

So if you're here, reading this, what I want you to know is this:
This is not just a blog about infertility.
It’s a love letter.

To the self I was before this began.
To the baby I’ve imagined but haven’t met.
To the parts of me I’ve lost, and the ones I’ve found along the way.
To the heartbreak and the heartbeat.
To the tiny, radical act of still believing in joy.

And maybe most of all, it’s a love letter to the parts of me that struggled to hold both truths at once—
That this journey has been painful in ways I never expected.
And also… it made me who I am.

I’ve wrestled with that tension more times than I can count.
How do I grieve what I’ve lost while honoring what I’ve gained?
How do I sit with the sorrow of what didn’t happen, without missing the strength I’ve found in surviving it?

It’s complicated. And messy.
And sometimes I feel guilty for feeling proud of how far I’ve come.
But the truth is: resilience didn’t come for free.
I paid for it in quiet tears, closed doors, calendar math, and conversations I wasn’t ready for.

So I write.
To remember it all.
To hold space for both the ache and the evolution.

This is a love letter to the before.
And maybe—just maybe—to the after, too.