An Anchor in the Storm | A Journey Through Infertility

In the absence of answers, faith is born. These are words that ring true as Meagan and her husband walk the road of infertility. Today she shares her story of pain, uncertainty, and faith that will encourage you to see Christ woven into any difficult situation.

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I’ve always wanted to be a mom. When my husband, Tarron, and I were dating I knew he wanted to be a dad. We worked in children’s ministry at church together, and he worked so well with kids. I knew he would be an amazing dad. The desire to have kids was high on both of our checklists for potential spouses. As dating progressed into an engagement, which progressed into marriage, I slowly started to dream of our future babies. For six years of marriage, that vision grew.

Would they have my weird toes that my grandpa and dad also had? Would they have Tarron’s hazel brown eyes and my long eyelashes? Would they be laid back like us? Would they like to sing like me? Would they find interest in golf like Tarron hoped? Would they be good at math like Tarron or count on their fingers like me?

When we discovered that not only would it be difficult to start our family but nearly impossible, we were devastated. I prepared myself to tackle any treatment plan that they were going to give me. But, the treatment plans never came. Every appointment we had and every specialist we talked to told us the same thing. 

Biological children are not in your future. 

To say our world came crashing down is an understatement. We were in the middle of a huge house remodel and living in a spare bedroom and hotels at the time. There was no space to grieve and I remember vividly running a shower everyday and just sitting on the shower floor sobbing. For hours. On weekends, I would stay in bed all day if Tarron let me. For weeks, I remember only eating enough to keep people from questioning me. I remember sending multiple messages to my best friends asking what does depression feel like? When should I get help?

Infertility takes so much from you. It can easily drain your finances, wreck your body, complicate your relationships, and postpone your entire life. Unfortunately, it doesn’t stop with the external changes, because it can also change your personality, your spirit, and your mental well-being. It can halt your ability to dream. Infertility can turn you into a version of yourself you don’t even recognize anymore. It can easily turn you into a version of yourself you don’t even like.

Grief is a weird thing. For so long, grief felt like being down in a valley unable to find any ledge or rope to help you get out. I felt isolated and could only see the darkness surrounding me. I was so frustrated that I couldn’t just climb out of this grief like I had done in past situations. 

It wasn’t until I met with a therapist that I understood what was going on inside of me. My therapist helped me discover I was experiencing a core loss. A core loss is when you lose something that is extremely intertwined into your identity, your worth, and your future. It sounds bizarre to mourn the loss of children who were never conceived. But because I had spent years and years dreaming of them in detail, to me, it felt like my world was crashing down. 

Who was I if I couldn’t be a mom? 

Although I didn’t know it until it was taken from me, my identity was tied up in becoming a mom. To say I wrestled with God and my faith is an understatement. Church became a painful place to visit. To sing about God’s goodness and faithfulness when my prayers went unanswered every month for years was difficult. 

I questioned if I did something to deserve this. I wondered what the point of praying for my desires was if they would go unanswered. I couldn’t even sing one song without tears streaming down my face. 

I knew in my heart God could make it happen. He could make us parents. But it never came.

I’m unsure if I will ever go through an experience as faith defining as this. In some regards I sure hope not, because is it painful. Overtime, it became too painful to try to control the situation anymore and it became too hurtful to pray specifically for a baby.

Finally, I decided to do something different. 

I started praying for God to change my perspective. If my circumstances were not going to change, I needed Him to change my view.

Even through the pain, my perspective started to shift. I began to find comfort in knowing my purpose on this earth was not to become a mom, but to point others to Christ. It’s as simple as that. This does not make my desire to be a mom any less or the pain in waiting any easier. It does provide perspective to get through the difficult days and reminds me of what is most important.

I began to find comfort in knowing my purpose on this earth was not to become a mom, but to point others to Christ.

My circumstances do not define who God is or change my purpose on this earth. God promises that he will never leave us (Deuteronomy 31:6) and that we can cast our burdens on him because he cares for us (Psalm 55:22). He is our rock, our fortress, our refuge (Psalm 18:2) and full of compassion (Psalm 116:5). 

Another verse that I treasure is Hebrews 6:19. I got an anchor tattoo when I went to college for really no reason other than all my roommates were getting one. My parents were quite surprised considering I cried at the sight of needles until I was 18. To justify this decision to my parents, I found a verse in the Bible that had the word “anchor” and went with it. To my surprise, that verse in Hebrews 6:19 reads, this hope is a strong and trustworthy anchor for our souls, and has become permanently tattooed both on my wrist and in my heart. Just as an anchor prevents a ship from being swept away, he is an anchor for our souls, especially in rough waters.

There are still days that I find myself in the valley, because infertility is still very much a part of my story. The difference now is that I don’t set up camp there as long as I used to. I don’t stay there as long because I now have tools to help me reach a ledge a little closer to the top. A rope has been thrown down by loved ones offering their support. A flashlight that came from centering my thoughts on God and His word gives me light. And because of time and practice, I’ve just become a more resilient climber.

This ledge is neither the valley or the mountaintop. It's this weird place in between. The middle is what I’ve come to call it. There may be many of you reading this that find yourself in the middle. The middle of a totally broken and healed relationship. The middle of a disease ridden and healed body. The middle of your reality and hope is a place of isolation, wrestling, and pain. But I’ve found it can also be a place of healing, hope, and refinement. I won’t be thanking infertility anytime soon but this journey has changed me to my core, in a good way.

My relationships have been through the fire and those that made it out on the other side are healthier than ever. My marriage became stronger in the midst of us coping with loss and grief. I am a stronger, more empathetic, more kingdom centered person because of infertility.

I’m confident that when I am standing on the mountain top, that I won’t take any of its views for granted. 

Until then, I will shout my story from this ledge, because there’s something to be learned and shared from here too.

Tell the story of the mountains you climbed because your words could become a page in someone else’s survival guide.

Those words have often run through my mind as I’ve walked through this journey of infertility. I felt that there had to be a reason, and that it all couldn’t just be in vain. So many times, I saw these beautiful stories of the miracle after a storm, but I never heard about what the storm looked like. What was it like during the storm? I felt a passion to share about my storm even before I knew if there would ever be a rainbow. I refused to let Satan keep me from sharing whatever good God was doing. So here is my story, still being written.

To those of you who may be reading this and are waiting for your mountaintop views with a baby in your arms, remember these things.

Remember your purpose.

Remember you are not alone.

Remember where you can find hope.

This hope is a strong and trustworthy anchor for our souls. It leads us through the curtain into God’s inner sanctuary.

—Hebrews 6:19 (NLT)

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Meagan, thank you for sharing your story so openly. You have reminded us to keep following Him when it seems impossible and to set our minds and hearts on the purpose that God has before us.