My husband and I tried for 10 years to conceive and carry a child.

Loss after loss, I began to feel broken.

No one talked about miscarriages. It was like a secret club, and the only entry was the heartbreak of loss. When you dared to share your loss, others finally started to reply, usually in private and with a whisper—”Me too.”

I struggled to hold on to hope, and finally, I let go. I decided nothing would keep me from being a mother. I might not be able to carry a child, but I knew in my heart and soul that there was a child out there who needed me, and my child would find me.

I rooted that into my heart and soul: My child will find me.

We began the process of becoming adoptive parents. My stepdad found his adoptive family at 17 years old, and I held that in my heart as I cleaned every corner of our house, preparing to meet the woman who would decide whether we would be allowed to be on the list. I held my breath as she interviewed us and walked through our home. “Are you open to siblings?” she asked. “Yes. Yes. We’re open.”

“Every parent wants a baby; what age child are you willing to adopt?” “All the ages. Any age. We’re open.”

We got a call that night. “We wouldn’t normally contact you so quickly, but we have a mixed child, a baby here who I think would fit well, and I’m not sure yet, but I wanted to check and see what you thought.”

My eyes filled with tears. My child will find me.

“Yes, we would love to know more; we’re open, we’re ready.” He ultimately went to another family, and one month later, I found out I was pregnant again. I wanted to hope, but I was afraid.

I was five weeks pregnant when I started to bleed heavily. Blood poured down my legs as I ran into the bathroom sobbing, my heart aching. “Not again. Not again. No. No.” I wailed. My husband ran to me. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry—our baby. I’m so sorry,” I cried out. “It’s not your fault,” he said, holding me as I shook and screamed and ached.

I was losing so much blood he took me to the emergency room. I don’t remember him driving me there. I do remember sitting in the waiting room, and I could not stop crying. I could not stop the blood, and I could not stop the tears. I heard a whisper from deep inside my soul, and it said, “Trust what you feel, not what you see.” I didn’t understand it, but I tried to.

I kept repeating it to myself. My child will find me. I remembered, and I focused on my breath. At that moment, I had to summon all of the strength inside of me to trust and hold hope—to know that if this was not the way, that someway, somehow my child would find me.

A beautiful woman with long black and silver hair walked up to me, quietly, gently. Her name was Ruth. “Are you alright, my dear? May I sit with you?” she asked. She knelt in front of me and reached her hands out. I held them. Her hands were so soft, and she was older—a grandmother. “My baby,” I cried. I tried to get the words out. I was gasping for air through the tears. “I think I’m losing my baby. He might already be gone. There’s so much blood.”

She asked if she could pray with me. I said yes. I don’t remember what she said, but I felt held; I could breathe more easily again, and I felt loved. In that moment, she was my miracle. She sat with me until my husband arrived.

The doctor came out and, in a very un-doctor like way, crouched down, touched my knee, and said, “Your baby may be okay. I don’t know yet, but let’s hope for the best.” I don’t know why he would think my baby could be okay. He hadn’t run any tests yet, but I held his words in my heart and sat there waiting—bleeding and waiting, praying and waiting. Hearing within me the words, “Trust what you feel and not what you see.”

It was 11 p.m., and the ultrasound department was closed, but the doctor ordered a portable one and, right there in the emergency room, they did an ultrasound. “Five weeks is often too early to detect or hear the baby’s heartbeat,” the technician said, “but there it is. There is your baby’s heartbeat.”

Trust what you feel, not what you see.

Miracles are available to us all. They may not always come to us in the ways we expect, but they are there and we are worthy of them. Even when everything seems to offer evidence that our dreams will not happen, trust the whisper inside and know that there is always a way. Keep your heart and your mind open for new and different ways to receive.

Our dreams and desires are wisdom, and they will find us—somehow, some way.

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