“What is that?” I asked, peering closer at the ultrasound photo. “Plague?”

“Cysts,” my doctor said, her blue exam gloves snapping as she peeled them off. “Your ovaries are covered in them.”

I was 19 years old, sitting in a sterile room with too-bright fluorescent lights hearing that I had something called polycystic ovarian syndrome (PCOS) and would, in her words, “probably never have kids.” 

As I walked back to my dorm, my world tilted. I’d always imagined my life with kids underfoot, never once considering that might not happen.

Suddenly the Biblical name my parents gave me, Hannah, seemed like a terrible prophecy. Was I destined to struggle like her? 

I decided, no. I wouldn’t even give myself the chance to hope.

Already well into journalism school, I threw myself into becoming an ambitious, career-driven woman. If my future wasn’t going to be what I imagined, I would write a new one. Literally. 

I threw myself into becoming a travel writer, landing prestigious internships and winning awards, carefully crafting an identity rooted in what I could accomplish.

Further, I decided, in lieu of my own kids, I’d be the fun aunt that whisked into family gatherings, fresh off an airplane with exotic gifts and wild stories. 

By the time I graduated college and got married, I was thrilled with the life I planned for myself. Who needed kids? I could have freedom and adventure instead. 

Then, exactly 59 days after my wedding, I took a pregnancy test. It was positive. 

A few days later, I had an ultrasound. And there, in swirling, grainy black and white, were two tiny babies. 

I was devastated.

My husband had just joined the Air Force, and we couldn’t afford two babies, never mind daycare, so I would stay home with the kids. 

And for the rest of my pregnancy, between the bouts of nausea, came waves of grief and guilt. 

Grief for the years of hard work that now seemed wasted and for the life I thought I’d have but couldn’t picture anymore.

And then, guilt. 

Because what was wrong with me? Weren’t there thousands of women who would love to be in my position? Weren’t there women who desperately prayed for exactly this? Women who wanted children. Women who wanted to stay home with their kids. 

And here I was, being enormously ungrateful and wondering what I’d done wrong. 

The plans I carefully made for myself slipped away, replaced by a reality and identity I hadn’t asked for and didn’t know how to embrace. I was losing control of everything I thought defined me.

And letting go of that control—abandoning myself to God’s plan—has been the hardest part of motherhood. Our desire for control is rooted in fear and uncertainty about who we are and whose we are. 

Which is exactly where Satan, the accuser, wants us to stay.

But when we anchor ourselves in God’s truth—that we are His beloved daughters, chosen and equipped for this vocation—we can release the need to control and step into the motherhood He’s called us to, filled with trust and peace.

We become more patient. We’re calm. We become the mothers we want our children to remember and delight in. 

Over time, God softened my heart. Through restless days in the NICU, endless diaper changes, and the midnight hours when my eyelids ached from use, He worked on me.

Slowly, the grief gave way to gratitude, and the identity I once resisted became the one that brought the deepest joy.

Like Mary, we all hold things in our hearts to ponder. And our identity is one of the things we hold closest; it forms the foundation for everything else. So let us remember and fill our hearts with this truth: The same voice that spoke the cosmos into existence is the one calling and claiming us as His own, His beloved.