As I sit here wide awake before the sun in our baby boys’ room, fresh with new paint and stacks of clothes we’ve slowly been accumulating, I can’t help but recall the many sleepless nights that lead me to this one.

This room has played such a huge role in our process. At moments, it was my sanctuary, somewhere I could sing or thrash against my guitar until the longing echos of my soul were quieted. At moments, it was my prison, walls half painted with yellow and pink from the first month we moved in over a year ago–reminding me that these walls were meant to house our baby boy or girl. It was the place where I started Pixie’s Poly, my first clay-based passion project, and eventually PDBD Apparel. In this room I’ve felt inspired. Defeated. Broken. Alone. Driven. Lost. And found.

And now, now I feel a sense of calm that I never thought I would. Our boys are quietly tapping against my belly–just big enough to tell me they are there. My crafts have been relocated to the basement, my guitars to the loft, and the scars along the wall that I made only months ago have been patched and covered. We’ve plotted where the cribs will go, the rocking chair, what drawer will belong to which items of clothing.

It isn’t lost on me that I never thought this day would come. I could never forget the pain that came with trying to and failing to accept that I would never bear my husband’s children. It won’t soon leave me the moments when I fell apart here, on this very carpet and shut the world out.

These moments, these memories are not meant to leave. They are meant to remind me of the beautiful, unearned gift I’ve been given in these two boys.

To be honest, I haven’t been excited in the way I thought I would and, I’ve felt guilty for it. But sitting here, surrounded by all of the things I finally allowed myself to purchase for these little ones, I understand more now than ever why.

This day wasn’t going to come. I told myself. The tests told me. The treatments told me and a part of me accepted that in some way–enough of a way to keep me from getting my hopes up too high. I left this room a mess because I never wanted to picture it as anything more than a studio. It was too painful. And as much joy as it brings me to see the transformation of this room, my body, and our lives, there is a familiar pain that comes with excitement associated with babies.

And I could try to explain, but I don’t need to. These boys know. They hear my heart beating–how could they not know? They know what is beneath my protective exterior. They know what is behind my attempts at being pragmatic and disconnected. They know something that no one else ever will.

For those of you certain this day won’t come for you, for those unpainted storage rooms meant for your little ones, for those little shoes you slipped up and let yourself buy, hold on. Hold on to whatever small spark of hope you have. Hold on to your joy. Hold on to your dreams. You have the heart of an almost mom or an almost dad. And that means you will get your family–regardless of what that ends up looking like, I promise you will have your day. You will have your room. You will have the moment of calm you’ve been dreaming of.