The Story That Made Me a Mom (and the Woman I Am Today)

For those who know me, you’ve probably heard this story a dozen times. It’s one that shaped me in ways I’m still unraveling. For those who don’t know me yet—here’s a little peek behind the Sherbear curtain.

I got married when I was a senior in high school. I wasn’t dreaming of white picket fences or a house full of kids. I just wanted out—out of my parents’ house, out of high school, and out of the small town that felt too tight around the edges. Beyond that, I had zero aspirations.

Fast forward a few years. I was married, living away from my hometown, and—thanks to some nudging from my husband—we were both enrolled in college. By 21, I had checked every goal off my very short list.

We lived in a married student section of campus and quickly made friends with other young couples, including some from our church. Life started to settle into a rhythm. Our friends began getting pregnant. And then, something shifted.

Suddenly, I wanted a baby. Desperately. It hit like a freight train—this biological urge that I had never expected to feel. It was 1996. I was in my early 20s. And while everyone around me seemed to be announcing pregnancies, I was just… waiting. Hoping. Trying.

We tried. And tried. And tried some more.

Eventually, I stopped going to church. Being surrounded by baby bumps and diaper bags was more than I could handle. Even commercials for baby wipes felt like personal attacks. I lost my best friend during that time, too—our paths just couldn't bridge the aching silence between her motherhood and my longing. (That’s a whole story in itself.)

I saw doctors. I was diagnosed with PCOS. I had procedures. I took meds. I tried the diets. My emotional state cratered. Looking back, I became a hollow version of myself—functioning, but barely. The longer it dragged on, the less I believed it would ever happen.

Then came a moment I’ll never forget.

It was General Conference, October. A talk about prayer caught my attention—not because it was new, but because it spoke directly to my battered heart. It wasn’t about praying harder or believing more. It was about understanding God's timing. That He already knows the desires of our hearts—and He also knows when (and if) the answer should come.

That night, I prayed again for the child I wanted so badly. But for the first time, I told Him I trusted His timing. I gave up the begging, the bargaining, the timelines. I just… let go.

My heart felt lighter than it had in years.

A few weeks later, on September 4, I found out I was pregnant.

I don’t use the word “miracle” lightly—but that’s what he was. My son came exactly when he was meant to. He hasn’t always been easy to raise (what kid is?), but he is absolutely the answer to that prayer.

Now, 18 years later, I still stand in awe of how he came to be.

To the women still in that waiting place—please hear me. I can’t promise your story will end like mine did. But I can promise that Heavenly Father knows your heart. He knows what you need, and when. And there’s peace in trusting that.

And to every mama reading this: When you look at your child today—whether they’re toddling through Cheerios or off at college—take a moment to remember what a blessing they truly are. I know I will.