Growing up, I wanted to be a variety of things ranging from a boy, ice skater, ballerina, teacher, dragon to a housewife. Through the ever changing list, one always remained. I wanted to be a mom. The older I got, the more intense the desire to have kids became. At one point, I stopped caring about being a wife, and decided to just be a single mom. God had other plans.

Stabbing pain, and a slew of other side effects brought me to a gynecologist who wanted to do a laparoscopy on me to find out if I had endometriosis. I did. She told me that I would most likely never be able to have children. I still remember the anger and devastation I felt. The anger was directed at God, and my body. I felt that they had both failed me.

I got pregnant one time. It wasn’t with my late husband, nor was it with anyone I cared about, it was with a man who raped me. My child was conceived in the same way I was. I decided to keep it to myself for awhile as I juggled my emotions. Of course, I decided to keep the baby, I was going to make the best out of the hellish situation. I went out and bought some onesies, and was starting to fall in love with the little innocent miracle growing inside of me. I was going to keep them safe, and they were going to grow up so loved. I miscarried. The anger I felt towards God cannot be put into words. I called Him every name in the book, I yelled, I cursed, and I cried hysterically. I hated Him.