In December 2014, my husband Jordan and I decided during a vacation that it was time to start trying for a family. We had been married for over a year, and most of our close friends already had children. Everything felt aligned, like the perfect moment to begin this next chapter. Or so we thought.
After about seven months of trying, we still weren’t pregnant. I met with my OB/GYN, and after running all the necessary tests, I was diagnosed with Polycystic Ovarian Syndrome (PCOS). Once a year had passed without success, we were referred to a reproductive endocrinologist (RE). At the same time, Jordan spoke with his doctor and was referred to a urologist for a semen analysis. The results for him were all positive, which was a relief.
My results, however, were more complicated. The RE noted that while I showed signs of PCOS, I had no cysts on my ovaries—it was purely symptom-based. The official diagnosis was Non-Cystic PCOS. That night, lying in bed together, I told Jordan, “Male infertility is a much simpler process to deal with. I wish it were you.” He paused for a moment, but immediately responded, “If it could have been me, we would have swapped places immediately.” I felt a wave of guilt and heartbreak. The realization that my body was the obstacle was overwhelming.
In February 2016, we began fertility treatments, starting with Intrauterine Insemination (IUI). It was the most cost-effective method and came with a high level of confidence from our doctors. IVF was an option, but in Michigan, fertility treatments aren’t covered by insurance. Fully aware of the financial commitment, we dove in, paying out-of-pocket without loans, armed with a plan and a sense of determination.
Our first cycle ended in a negative pregnancy test, but we remained hopeful. Take two brought cautious optimism. Take three, four, five—all negative. We followed the doctor’s orders meticulously: strict diet, low-impact exercise, daily walks, fertility-friendly foods, plenty of rest, and absolutely no stress. Take six, seven, eight, nine, and finally take ten—still no success.
By the tenth cycle, almost ten months had passed, and we were emotionally and physically drained. The relentless schedules, charts, early morning monitoring—it all felt exhausting. We longed for a child, yet the journey was far more challenging than we had ever imagined. Growing up, we were told getting pregnant was easy. No one had prepared us for infertility, and we navigated uncharted territory with our families and friends, none of whom had faced this struggle. Their support was unwavering but often uncertain, as month after month brought more disappointment. From the beginning, we had chosen to be open about our struggle on social media, hoping to let others know they were not alone.
After ten unsuccessful attempts, we decided to take a break from fertility treatments. The injections, pills, strict regimens, and promises of miracle foods online had taken a toll on my body. We needed to reconnect as a couple, to breathe, to live without constant medical oversight. IVF and relocation to a state with better insurance coverage were considered, but for the time being, we paused and focused on life, letting time heal our hearts.
By the end of 2017, the desire to start a family returned. Fertility treatments were no longer an option, so we began researching adoption. We explored local and international options and decided that adopting within Michigan felt right. The Michigan Adoption Resource Exchange (MARE) listed hundreds of children in need, and it was here we felt called to act.
We reached out to five local agencies; only Child Safe Michigan in Royal Oak responded. After speaking with the adoption supervisor, we were invited to an orientation on February 22, 2018. I had a long list of questions, but by the end of the two-hour session, our hearts knew this was our path.
Then came the paperwork. Endless forms, background checks, fingerprints, financial disclosures, and references from friends and family. Home studies followed, where inspectors visited our house to ensure it was safe and welcoming. I even vacuumed six times that week, lit candles, and debated baking cookies. Looking back, the process was rigorous but necessary for the safety of the children.
We completed the Child Questionnaire, identifying our openness to any race, single children or sibling pairs, and ages 0–7. P.R.I.D.E classes (Parent Resources for Information Development and Education) were next. Though dated and often amusing, these trainings gave us tools we would repeatedly use in our parenting journey. Additional voluntary classes focused on transracial adoption and hair care, culture, and history, preparing us for children outside our race. Jordan even attended haircare classes as the only male, fully committed to understanding the needs of a child of color.
On October 12, 2018, after months of preparation, we were officially approved as adoptive parents. Jordan came home from work, and I surprised him with balloons and a card—but tears had already claimed me. The waiting began. We monitored MARE daily, emailed our social worker, and grew anxious with each passing day.
Then, on January 29, 2019, we got the call. Jordan was at a meeting, and I answered the phone. Our social worker’s excitement was palpable: “Sydney, we have a perfect match—a single, 18-month-old biracial boy.” I was speechless. Despite not having a photo yet, we immediately signed the intent to adopt and submitted paperwork to become foster parents, ensuring he could join our home.
Visitation days were magical. Our son arrived shy and curious, and over an hour of play, he slowly warmed to us. On the second visit, he finally called me “Momma”—my heart exploded with love. The weeks leading up to our foster license approval were the hardest of our lives, as I drove him to daycare each week while longing to hold him full-time.
March 22, 2019, brought the call we had been waiting for—our foster licenses were approved. Two days later, our son officially moved in. Michigan law required six months of living with us before final adoption, and each day was filled with growth, laughter, and family bonding.
Finally, October 9, 2019, arrived. Adoption day. Our village of family and friends filled the courtroom. The judge marveled at the turnout. Eight minutes later, it was official—our son was a Newman. Over four years of heartbreak, hope, and perseverance culminated in this single, perfect moment.
To our son: We will always be your greatest supporters, your biggest fans. We fought for you, prayed for you, and will continue to do so every day. You are our perfect. Momma and Dada love you.
