Penny’s story: The son I waited decades to meet

What does advanced maternal age really mean when it comes to fertility, family building, and hope? For Penny, it meant a path that was longer and more winding than she ever expected, yet far more beautiful than she could have imagined. This is her deeply personal story of trying to conceive after 35, navigating years of infertility, pursuing IVF in her 50s, and finally meeting the son she had carried in her heart for decades.

Starting a family at 38: When we thought pregnancy would come easily

There are some seasons of life when the future feels simple and full of promise. That is exactly how it felt when my husband Michael and I got married in October of 2005. I was 38 and he was 40, and we were full of the kind of joy that comes when two people know they have found home in one another. Whenever anyone asked when we wanted to start a family, we’d laughed and say,: “On the honeymoon.”

We meant it. We didn’t want to waste time, and we figured life would unfold in the natural order. We thought we would get married, start trying, and before long be preparing a nursery and choosing baby names. I dreamed of my kids growing up alongside those of my best friends.

What I did not know then was that I had already crossed into what the medical world calls advanced maternal age, the term used for pregnancy after age 35. I had never heard those words before. I did not know how often they would be used, how heavy they could feel, or how quickly age could become the first thing people noticed about my fertility.

A year later, we were still not pregnant.

Hearing the words “advanced maternal age” and facing infertility

We walked into a fertility clinic carrying hope and expecting answers. Instead, we left carrying pain we did not anticipate. After testing, we were told two things that stayed with me:

“Why did you wait so long? You’re over 35.”

“You need to decide if you want to proceed using this sperm.”

Even now, I can remember how cold those words felt. Frankly, I was angry at being put into a box. We were not a statistic, and we were not a warning story. We were a husband and wife who wanted a child. 

We did several rounds of Clomid, but they were unsuccessful. What they did leave me with, oddly enough, was ovarian pain during ovulation that lasted for years. I used to joke that it became my superpower because I always knew exactly when I was ovulating.

RELATED: How we conceived our rainbow babies after miscarriage at advanced maternal age 

How trying to conceive can change a marriage and the heart

Infertility has a way of touching every corner of life. It affects the body, of course, but it also affects how you relate to the world around you. I lost count of how many times I’d be in conversation in groups of other women about their kids and invariably someone would turn to me and ask, “do you have kids?” “No. Not yet, we’re trying.” Sometimes the response was, “you’ll understand when you do.” But oftentimes the inquirer would just turn to some other Mom and continue on. The pain of being forever on the outside looking in was brutal and lonely.

There were of course communities for women like me, but somehow I still didn’t fit in.  I spent hours reading online forums filled with stories of longing, miscarriages, failed cycles, and heartbreak. I know those communities helped many women feel less alone, but for me the bleakness of it  became too heavy to carry.  I slowly sank into depression.

I also became someone I did not recognize at times. Intimacy became tied to timing. Romance became tied to calendars. Ovulation became something to track, manage, and optimize. I put so much pressure on myself and my husband to get pregnant that I nearly drained all the joy out of the most beautiful part of marriage. The very thing meant to bring life into our home had become burdened by stress and performance.

The quiet grief of watching others become parents

A year later, we were still not pregnant, and life around us seemed to be moving into parenthood with a rhythm I could not quite understand. Friends became pregnant. Babies were born. Announcements arrived. Showers were planned. 

I was happy for them, and I was hurting for myself. Both emotions can exist together, and anyone who has struggled with infertility knows how true that is.

One of my best friends, Anne, had become pregnant and given birth. Several close friends at work were also welcoming babies. Then my other best friend, Carmen, became pregnant too. Anne lived across the country, so I celebrated her from afar. Carmen, however, lived in Los Angeles while I was in San Diego, close enough for me to be part of the season she was entering.

My husband and I are people of faith, and during that time I prayed hard. In the middle of my own longing, I felt a strong impression that I was meant to care for Carmen through her pregnancy.

So I did.

I bought books on being a birth coach. I helped her think through her birth plan. I showed up in every way I knew how, trying to be steady and joyful for someone I loved while still carrying my own private ache.

And when the day came, I stood in the delivery room beside Carmen and her now husband as my goddaughter Mina was born. It was one of the most beautiful experiences of my life, and even now it still brings tears to my eyes.

There is something sacred about witnessing new life arrive. For me, Mina’s birth outshined everything else. In that room I felt awe, gratitude, tenderness, and joy all at once. My own longing faded into the background as I watched her take her first breath. She was, and still is, utterly beautiful.

I remember leaving with the quiet certainty that surely this meant it would now be my turn.

But it was not.

That became one of the hardest lessons of infertility. You can love the people around you deeply, rejoice sincerely in their joy, and still go home to your own unfulfilled dreams. 

Choosing joy for others while carrying my own grief

Not long after Carmen gave birth, another lesson arrived in a form I did not expect.

A few months later, my friend and coworker Melissa called me into her office. She told me she was pregnant and wanted to share the news gently because she knew Michael and I had been trying for a long time. Her kindness moved me. I assured her that I was thrilled for her, and I truly was.

But I was also angry. I suppose I felt on some level that no one else in my circle of friends was allowed  to ‘jump the line’ and have a baby before me at that point. Illogical yes, but pain doesn’t always make sense.

I went back to my own office, closed the door, and said to God, “If you think I’m going to take care of her too, you can forget it.” It was not my finest spiritual moment. I was tired. I was disappointed. I was carrying bitterness that I didn’t know where to place.

A few months later, Melissa was around five months pregnant when she suddenly began bleeding at work. I was standing in the common area outside her office when everything shifted at once. One coworker ran to get the car. Another tried to comfort her as she sobbed, convinced she was miscarrying. I stood frozen, not knowing what to do.

Then I heard a voice, clear as anything I have ever heard in my life: “Go in there and pray with her.”

I hesitated. Pray? What would I even say? Then again, just as clearly: “Go in there and pray with her or you will regret it.”

So I dropped everything and went in. I knelt beside her, took her hand, and prayed. To this day I do not remember the words I said. I only remember that when I finished, she had stopped crying. I looked her in the eyes and said the only thing I knew to be true in that moment:

“You are being watched over.”

By the time Melissa reached the hospital, the bleeding had stopped.

A few months later, she came into the office carrying her healthy baby girl, Grace. As everyone gathered around hoping for a turn to hold her, Melissa made sure I was the first person she handed that baby to.

It was such a small gesture on the outside, yet it meant more than I can fully explain. It felt like grace finding me in the middle of a hard season. It felt like a part of my heart had been healed.

The promise I made during infertility

After that day, I made a promise to myself. No matter what happened, no matter how long it took, and even if I never became a mother, I would do whatever I could to be a blessing to every pregnant woman I met.

That does not mean bitterness vanished overnight. I still had moments when the ache returned sharply. I still had days when grief felt close to the surface. But I stopped living there.

I chose, again and again, not to let resentment become the center of my story. No matter how much life seemed to bless the people around me, I did not want to harden my heart against their joy.

I do not say that lightly, and I do not say it was easy. It was incredibly hard.

But that choice served me well through all the years that followed. It kept something tender and hopeful alive inside me when it would have been easier to shut down completely. Looking back now, I can see that motherhood was not the only thing being formed in me during those years.

So was compassion. So was endurance. So was the woman I would one day need to become.

Why Mother’s Day was harder than baby showers during infertility

People often assume baby showers or pregnancy announcements are the hardest part of infertility. Those moments can be tender, but for me the deepest ache arrived every year on Mother’s Day and Father’s Day.

Church services always celebrate mothers, pray over moms-to-be, and honor families. These were lovely moments, but almost never was there space for the women who longed to be mothers and were still waiting. Rarely was there acknowledgment for the couples carrying invisible grief into the room.

My husband carried it too, though I think many men are expected to hide sorrow more quietly. Sometimes we stayed home. Sometimes we went to brunch alone.

Every year, however, we bought each other Mother’s Day and Father’s Day cards. Sometimes they were “from the cats,” but to us they meant something deeper. They were our private way of saying the dream still lived here.

Fertility after 40: What advanced maternal age does not mean

As the years passed, I learned you can measure the erosion of your dreams by the questions people ask. At first they ask with excitement, “When are you going to have a baby?” Later they ask with concern, “Are you ever going to have kids?”

Eventually they just assume, “So… you two just never wanted children?”

That last question  carries an unspoken message that time has run out. I refused to accept that. 

This is what I’ve learned: advanced maternal age is a medical term, not a life sentence.

Yes, fertility changes with age. Egg quality changes. Risks can increase, and timelines matter. Those realities deserve honesty and compassionate support. But no label gets to define your worth, erase your hope, or determine every path that may still be available to build your family.

Holding onto the child I believed was still coming

Somewhere deep inside me, beyond statistics, timelines, and years of disappointment, I carried a feeling I could never quite explain to anyone else.

I often felt as though I already had a child.

Not in the physical sense, of course, but in the deepest place of intuition and longing. It was as if my son already existed somewhere beyond reach and I was the only person who knew he was there.

During those long years, I would sometimes describe it to myself as though he were being held hostage in a foreign land, waiting to be rescued and brought home. It may sound unusual, but it was one of the truest feelings I carried through that season. Even when circumstances gave me every reason to let go, something in me still believed there was a child connected to us.

That quiet knowing stayed with me when hope felt fragile.

I often dreamed of a little boy with bright eyes and wild curls. In the dreams, I knew he was mine.

Oddly enough, my husband had the same dreams.

There were many seasons when I did not know how our story would unfold, but those dreams became a kind of reminder to my heart that not every promise arrives quickly, and not every child comes by the path you first imagined.

IVF with donor eggs in my 50s: When hope returned in a new form

By 2016, at the age of 49, I had begun to wonder if motherhood was simply not going to be part of my story and if God had other plans for me.  After so many years of hoping, trying, grieving, and waiting, I reached a place of surrender that was both painful and peaceful. I told myself that if the answer was no, I would learn to be okay. I did not need life to look exactly the way I once imagined, but I did need clarity.

One early April morning, I sat alone in my car in the parking lot outside work and prayed with a kind of honesty that only comes after years of longing. I said, “I need a yes or no. I will be okay with a no, but I just want a clear answer to one question: Will I give birth to a child?” I needed to know whether I should release the dream entirely or keep believing it would come.

As soon as I finished praying, my phone lit up. A friend had posted a verse from Psalm 139 at that exact moment:

“For you created my inmost being; you knit me together in my mother’s womb. I praise you because I am fearfully and wonderfully made.”

The timing of it took my breath away.

Even so, I was cautious. After years of wanting something so deeply, I did not want to read into the moment only what I hoped to see. As I like to say, I am a bit of a sassy-pants Christian, so I looked upward and responded honestly: 

“That’s not good enough.”

Almost immediately, my phone lit up a second time. Another verse from the same Psalm appeared:

“I was intricately woven in the depths of the earth.”

But this time it was paired with an image of a baby in the fetal position, complete with an umbilical cord, surrounded by flowing reeds.

I gasped.

Then I wept with gratitude.  

I did not yet know how a child  would come to us, or what path would open next, but that morning marked a turning point. Instead of feeling only endings, I began trusting in the possibility, dare I say, the certainty of a child in our future.

Years later, after the pandemic, we met another couple in their 50s who had conceived through IVF using donor eggs and were expecting their second child. Watching them changed something in me. Their family did not look like a compromise. It looked like joy.

You would never know their daughter was not genetically related to her mother. That little girl looked exactly like her mom; as the old folks in my family would say, like her mama had spit her out.

Her mother said something I have never forgotten: “I carried her. It was my blood running through her veins. That’s my child.”

Those words landed deep in my heart. They carried a truth I had not considered before. Motherhood is not diminished by the path that leads you there. Love, sacrifice, nurture, and the life you carry in your body matter in ways language cannot fully explain.

They referred us to their doctor, and for the first time in a long while we had a real plan for starting our family.

At first, I was still hopeful we might be able to use my own eggs. But the risks were high, the odds were low, and deep down I had already begun to sense that donor egg IVF might be the very journey meant for us.

Sometimes clarity does not arrive all at once. It can come quietly, step by step, until one day you realize your heart has already said yes.

Preparing my body for pregnancy at 56 with nutrition and support

Around that same time, I had just started working part time with WeNatal, helping prepare for the launch of the company and website. It felt meaningful to step into work centered around fertility and whole-body wellness while I was still walking through my own journey.

I had known Ronit for many years from a previous company, and she had long encouraged my growing interest in health podcasts, nutrition, wellness, and biohacking. I am still an avid biohacker to this day. I had also been following the WeNatal Instagram for quite some time, so when she reached out to me, the timing felt perfect.

Even then, I had a strong sense that these products for women and men were going to help so many families. I believed they would become an important part of the fertility conversation and my own journey.

I was right.

When we met with our fertility doctor, one of the first things he told me was to begin a high-quality prenatal. He also wanted my husband supporting his health with a men’s fertility supplement.

So the moment WeNatal launched, I got it for both of us.

My husband has always been diligent about supplements, but he already had such a full stack that he initially only took one capsule a day. Eventually, I convinced him to take the full serving consistently, and over time he happily reported what he described as a “pretty significant increase in output.”

It took us some time to find the right egg donor. When we finally did, it felt deeply personal. She looked like a younger version of my grandmother, who had passed away in 2020. In a season filled with so many unknowns, that resemblance felt comforting and reassuring.

While there was no way for me to place the donor herself on WeNatal for Her, I had already been taking it consistently for nearly a year before our embryo transfer.

I paired that foundation with a cleaner diet, more movement, and reducing toxin exposure where I could. I focused on sleep, nourishment, stress support, and creating the healthiest internal environment possible.

After years of feeling helpless, preparation felt empowering.

I knew I could not control every outcome, but I could honor my body and give it every chance to receive what we had waited so long for.

We were told to expect at least two or three transfer attempts because the odds were only around 30 percent, and our age was not in our favor.

But by then, something in me had changed. I was no longer preparing from fear. I was preparing from belief.

RELATED: Supporting fertility at advanced maternal age: A functional medicine approach with Dr. Cindy Geyer 

Pregnancy at 56: The son I waited decades to meet

By the time we reached retrieval in December of 2022, I felt different than I had in earlier seasons of waiting. I was no longer clinging to hope with white knuckles. I felt steadier, calmer, and more deeply rooted in trust.

On the day of the egg retrieval, a verse in my daily Bible study seemed to rise off the page and meet me exactly where I was:

“About this time next year, you will hold a son in your arms.”

Unlike the earlier years, I was not the least bit sassy about it this time. That was all the assurance I needed.

From that day forward, something settled in me with surprising certainty. I believed we would be successful on the first transfer. I believed I would carry our son to term. I believed he would be healthy.

Of course there were moments of worry, because pregnancy after years of infertility can make joy feel vulnerable. But whenever fear tried to pull me away, I returned to that promise and let it steady me again.

And somehow, in ways that still fill me with wonder, we beat the odds at every turn. Out of 34 eggs, we ended up with 20 healthy embryos. Our very first transfer, in early February of 2023 just a few weeks after my 56th birthday, was successful. Even now, those words feel miraculous.

I carried our baby through what was, for me, the most beautiful pregnancy I could have imagined. I had zero morning sickness. I experienced only mild gestational diabetes, which I managed through diet and exercise. More than anything, I carried a gratitude so constant it felt like a second heartbeat.

Then, in October of 2023, I delivered our son, Jackson, by C-section.

And there he was.

Beautiful  bright eyes.

And a head that would soon be full of wild curls.

He is  little boy I had seen in dreams long before I ever held him in my arms.

Today he is a healthy, joyful, rambunctious two-year-old who fills our home with laughter, movement, and wonder. He is everything we had hoped for, prayed for, and dreamed of through all those long years. And if you compare baby pictures of Michael and me to our son, you would swear that we’d just spit him out.

What becoming a mother later in life has taught me

You might  wonder what it feels like to become a mother after waiting so long.

When my son was born I expected to have that rush of otherworldly feelings of love I had heard so much about. The kind that parents speak of in language reserved for the sacred. Where the love is so strong and so unexpected they can hardly breathe, let alone hold back tears.  I didn’t have that experience. I loved him immensely and immediately. But there was nothing surprising about it. I quickly realized that I had already been madly in love with him for years. I had already wept with hope. I had already had my breath stolen by my faith that he would one day come. Instead of a new love that overtakes you, it was an unrequited love that was finally made whole. All I wanted to do was hold him, look at him and sing to him all the little songs I’d been holding in my heart through the years. He was home. And so was I.

Someone asked me if I felt I had lost my identity after becoming a mom. Without hesitation I said, “No! Not at all.  I found the part of me that I was missing.”

My OBGYN still tells people about what she calls my miracle pregnancy. Before me, she had never had a patient over the age of 45 carry beyond 26 weeks. For me to go nearly the full distance and deliver only nine days shy of 40 weeks was unlike anything she had personally seen.

I believe many things supported that outcome. I know at the core of my being that taking WeNatal for Her and Omega DHA+ was a meaningful part of preparing and supporting my body through that season. I also believe nutrition, movement, and caring for my health consistently mattered.

But if I am being completely honest, I know my faith was the foundation. It carried me when medicine could only give probabilities. It steadied me when fear tried to take over. It reminded me that statistics can inform a story, but they do not always finish it.

One of the things I love most about WeNatal is that we recognize the essential connection between mind, body, and spirit. Fertility and pregnancy are never only physical experiences. They touch emotions, identity, relationships, stress, hope, and the deeper parts of who we are.

That is also why I loved using the WeNatal Journal during my journey. I wrote so many prayers, dreams, hopes, and fears into those pages. Looking back now feels almost sacred, because so many of the things I once wrote with trembling hands are slowly unfolding like a garden of spring flowers in bloom.

Not many people would choose to step into parenthood in their late 50s, but we feel deeply grateful to be here. We take care of our health. We still take WeNatal for Her and WeNatal for Him as part of our wellness routine, and I also take Egg Quality+ because, frankly, it is incredible support as you age.

We are deepening our faith, learning every day as parents, and leaning on our tribe in ways we never take for granted.

We also come from strong examples. My grandmother lived to 99 and had her last baby in her late 40s. My parents are just shy of 80, still active and vibrant, and when I became pregnant they dropped everything and moved across the country to be near their grandson.

That kind of love changes you.

So when people ask whether I worry about becoming a mother later in life, my honest answer is that I feel good about our future.

As much as I would welcome another baby with joy, I also feel a deep sense of peace that our family may already be complete. We still have several healthy embryos, and we are exploring embryo adoption in hopes of blessing another family someday. After waiting so long to receive, the idea of helping someone else receive feels like a beautiful full circle.

RELATED: Pregnancy after 35: Why more women are having babies later in life

A note to anyone trying to conceive after 35, 40, or beyond

Today, one of my roles at WeNatal is overseeing our Care Team, and it is work I hold close to my heart. We have the most extraordinary group of people supporting our customers every day with compassion, wisdom, and genuine care. They handle most of the messages that come in, but from time to time I get tagged in on special requests or conversations where a more personal touch is needed.

Those moments mean a great deal to me.

In many ways, I feel that I am still living the promise I made years ago during infertility, that no matter what happened in my own story, I would become a blessing to women walking through pregnancy. What I didn’t know then was that the promise would grow larger than I imagined.

Now it extends not only to pregnant women, but also to women trying to conceive, men working to support their fertility, couples navigating loss or treatment, and parents stepping into a brand-new season of life. There is something deeply healing about being able to offer comfort in a place where I once needed so much of it myself.

When customers share their struggles, it still moves me deeply because I remember those years so clearly. Sometimes their messages bring tears to my eyes, both because I have been there and because I carry unending hope for the miracle babies I believe may still be ahead of them.

When customers share pregnancy news or send photos of their WeNatal babies, I rejoice with them wholeheartedly. Every announcement feels like a reminder that hope is alive in so many homes at once. And if you are still waiting, still hoping, still wondering whether motherhood or fatherhood will ever find you, I want to tell you what I now know in the deepest part of me:

Life does not always move on the timeline you expected. Some stories take longer because they are being written with greater depth. Some prayers travel farther before they return. Some children take the scenic route home. You are not forgotten. You are not alone. I am praying for you.

We are here to support you in any way we can. And I believe one thing with all my heart:

You are being watched over.

RELATED: The ultimate preconception guide: What to do when you’re ready to get pregnant