For as long as I can remember, my cycle was a mystery. It was never regular. Sometimes it was delayed by two weeks, other times by a whole month or even two. Back then, in my teenage years, everyone thought it was normal and expected—and I enjoyed having fewer... difficult days.

At some point, when I was 24, I had an ultrasound and received a diagnosis: polycystic ovaries. I didn’t pay much attention to it, even though my gynecologist warned me that I would have difficulty getting pregnant. After all, I didn’t want children yet and didn’t understand what that meant in practice.

Until at 28, now married, my husband and I decided we wanted to become parents. And that’s when I remembered the doctor’s words: “You’ll struggle. Your body doesn’t function like most women’s and your ovulation is irregular.”

I pushed it aside at first, believing (or hoping) that I’d be one of the lucky ones who conceive on the first try. But the months passed, and I began to worry. I had always believed that having a child would be something natural, something that would just... happen. But it wasn’t like that for me.

On top of irregular cycles, I also struggled with my weight. I gained easily, lost weight with difficulty. My hormones were always “confused.” I started using ovulation tests, counting days, trying to spot my “fertile window”—a phrase that began to carry excessive weight in my everyday life. Intimacy stopped being spontaneous. It became almost an obligation, a scheduled effort with a clock in hand. And every time my period came, I felt a small grief.

Things got worse, as I often thought I had a delay due to irregular cycles. I kept doing dozens of pregnancy tests, all of which came out negative. Part of me hoped they were wrong, and another part hoped my period would just come so I could begin another cycle of attempts.

After months of disappointment, finally came a positive pregnancy test. I still remember that morning—I cried, I laughed, I couldn’t believe it. I was pregnant! We shared the news with close family with cautious joy. But it didn’t last... In the first few weeks, I miscarried.

There are no words to describe the emotional pain of a miscarriage, the grief for a life you never met, even though you had dreamed so much about it. You feel something was given to you, only to be taken away before you could even touch it. I fell into real depression. For days I didn’t want to talk to anyone. I was angry at my body—as if it had betrayed me.

But deep down, I knew from the very beginning. The only way to recover was to try again. Not because I had to, but because I didn’t want the loss to define me. I restarted the ovulation tests, started trying again. Almost a year passed, and I was ready to give up again.

And then, that second line appeared again on the pregnancy test. This time, I looked at it with hesitation. I didn’t celebrate immediately. I waited. I held my breath for months. With every ultrasound, with every tiny heartbeat I heard, I felt I was getting closer and closer.

And finally… it happened!

Today, she is a joyful little being who smiles at me, and it feels like the whole world is smiling. I look at her and feel that everything was worth it—the tears, the waiting, the disappointment. It was a difficult journey, but not a pointless one.

In the end, when everything seems hard… the greatest miracle may be waiting for you.

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