I never imagined that my journey to motherhood would begin with surgery. That before even trying to become a mother, I would have to say goodbye to a part of myself.

I was 32 when I underwent surgery to remove my right ovary and corresponding fallopian tube. The diagnosis: severe hydrosalpinx and inflammation that no longer responded to any conservative treatment. I remember the doctor calmly explaining what was going to happen. And I remember myself, sitting across from her with my arms crossed, as if hearing the news about someone else.

I hadn’t had children yet… nor had I ever tried. And suddenly, I felt like I was starting with a disadvantage. A “half.” But it’s not just the organs that are removed; it’s also that invisible feeling that you’re somehow less, more fragile than other women. That you're no longer equally equipped, equally programmed to bring a life into the world. And maybe you never will.

After the surgery, it took me a while to regain my balance. Physically, I recovered quickly, but mentally I lagged behind. I couldn’t sleep, had nightmares about losing my remaining ovary in an accident, and my anxiety was so overwhelming that I considered freezing my eggs—just in case.

Thankfully, my husband was more optimistic than I was and kept me from losing my mind. The thought “Can I get pregnant with only one ovary?” became my constant companion. The one ovary I had left seemed every month to hold an entire future in its hands!!

I began to observe my cycle. To track its length, to calculate, to hope, and then to feel disappointed. I didn’t want to go through assisted reproduction yet—I wanted to give my body a chance. To see if it could…

I started using ovulation tests and timing our intercourse accordingly, but every time I got my period, despair would set in. I knew I would now have to wait another two months instead of just one. I was the unlucky one—with only about 6 ovulations per year instead of 12…

It took time—not a lot, but enough to question almost everything. To despair, to cry like I never had before, and to fear that I would never hold a baby in my arms like my sister and all my friends.

And yet, one morning, a pregnancy test showed me two pink lines!!! That very test is still in my nightstand drawer, and I look at it every night, deeply moved…

The pregnancy progressed smoothly. Not without anxiety and questions, but every week, every ultrasound was a quiet confirmation: my body—this “half”—was working as a whole. And to me, that felt perfect!!!

Today, I’m the mother of a calm and radiant little girl. I don’t even remember how life was before my little one. My body isn’t perfect, but it did the most perfect thing it could—it created a whole life from nothing.

Because sometimes, a half can lead to a whole…

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