Seven Embryos
Changed
Everything.
Just Not the
Way I Planned.

BY SHERRI STEVENS
WXN Media

SEPTEMBER 7, 2026

There was never a question in my mind.

I would get married. We would buy a house. And we would have children. Four of them, to be exact. Two girls and two boys. What my mother used to call a “millionaire’s family.”

I’d be close and connected with them, just as my mother and I were close and connected. A bond that passed from generation to generation.

And in many ways, life followed the plan. I walked down the aisle at 26. We got the keys to our first house together. We started trying to have a family.

But the part that felt the most certain… never happened.

 

First You Try

At first, there was no reason to think anything was wrong. We were young and healthy.

So after the first month passed, we kept trying. When the second, third, and fourth ones passed, we kept trying.

Trying turned into appointments with doctors who advised us to give it more time. Time passed. We didn’t give up.

Those appointments turned into meetings with specialists. It’s not a comfortable thing, putting your feet into those stirrups while a squad of people in white coats and scrubs do their procedures. When you endure it enough, though, it stops feeling clinical. The onlookers stop fazing you.

The specialists told me something about my eggs and multiplying them. Regular injections. An extraction process. This was our next best step to having a baby. And if this was how it was going to happen, so be it. Never mind four—one would have been a blessing.

 

You Let Hope In

IVF brought my hopes back.

The specialists were optimistic. They called me “the egg lady” because I had so many healthy eggs.

The day they were retrieved felt like all the others. Another procedure in those stirrups. I watched on a monitor — and I almost laughed. It looked exactly like someone working the plunger on a pinball machine. I wouldn’t have been surprised if lights started flashing, bells started ringing, and music started playing. When it was over, everyone seemed encouraged. This time, it was with good reason.

We had seven embryos. Seven chances.

I went home with instructions and medication. Estrogen and progestogen to prepare my uterine lining. But most importantly, I went home with belief. Ten days later, three embryos were transferred. I laid down in bed and prayed for them. Let them survive. Let them attach to my uterus. Let me be pregnant. And when I got my period a week later, I laid down on the living room floor and sobbed uncontrollably.

 

Then You Try Again

 We still had four embryos left.

After transferring them, I was even more careful. I went right home to bed and stayed there. It’s a myth that embryos fall out, but I wasn’t taking any chances.

I got sick — skull-splitting headache, hugging-the-toilet sick. I thought maybe something was different.

A week later, I got my period again.

I fell apart. Just not publicly. Back in the 1990s, women didn’t share their troubles conceiving. Only my immediate family and some friends knew. But even if the grief wasn’t visible, it drummed steadily under the surface, leaving its tracks everywhere I went.

And I carried it on my own.

 

Grief Gets Comfortable

You come to terms with the fact your “other” life — the one that felt inevitable — isn’t going to happen.

For me, acceptance was gradual.

At first, I threw myself into my work. It was early days building my business, and I returned almost immediately. Staying up late to finalize a big automotive contract. Traveling to tour a new facility. Shaking hands with a new client. My business was my baby, and caring for it became my everything.

My Mama and a close friend listened when I talked. They witnessed my grief. That, combined with my work, saved me.

But there was always a part of me standing slightly outside the room, watching everyone else live the life I thought would be mine.

My friends had children. My nieces had children. No one would have blamed me if I felt anger or resentment. Instead, my thoughts turned to a quiet, consistent prayer: If this is meant for me, let it happen. And if it’s not… then I must have another purpose.

After repeating it enough times, that prayer became a question.

Now what?

 

Fulfillment Is A Choice

 “Now what” meant redefining what fulfillment looked like.

For some women, it’s motherhood. For others, a life of service or a body of
work. And sometimes it’s a life you didn’t expect but chose to build anyway. When having children became something I couldn’t control, I made a choice to focus on the things I could.

I moved forward because standing still felt harder. Movement is where I found peace. Not peace in the traditional sense. Peace was in the things I could build: the business, our home, the next trip. It was a Tuesday afternoon with plans spread across the boardroom table for a work-in-progress taking shape. Not a distraction, but a goal I could bring to life.

I chose the people I love. I chose a purpose. I chose to create memories, because at the end of the day, that’s what we carry with us. I chose to create a life that still felt full. I found meaning in what I was building, not just in what I had lost.

 

Some Truths Surface Later

People ask if I have children. I’ve learned to answer simply, “I wasn’t blessed with children, but I have fur babies. Four rescue dogs from Mississippi.”

At some point, you stop explaining. You realize not everything needs a story. That’s one truth.

Other truths surfaced later, when the movement of youth turned to reflection — though not in a “what if” way. I wondered what it would be like to have a grown son or daughter. I grew curious about what their lives would have been like. I thought about our bond and their comfort as I age.

For the woman quietly going through this today, here’s what I came to realize: childlessness is not what defines you. It’s what you do when you get up off the floor. How you pivot to your next steps. What you build in the space where your plan used to be. Who you bring along with you.

Life without children is not less. It’s just different. And different can still be full of life and entirely your own.

 

Not Lost But Waiting

 There’s a thought I’ve carried quietly for years.

That one day, when my life is over and I get to heaven, I'll see seven beautiful children running toward me — arms out, voices loud — shouting, "Mama! We've been waiting for you!"

Somehow, that gives me peace, too. Because maybe nothing is ever truly lost.

Maybe some things are just waiting to be found.