Wanna know something funny? I originally wrote this whole piece with the “Instagram mom” version of myself in mind. I kept rereading it and realized it wasn’t really me—not completely, anyway. I had tried to craft the “perfect” story, the polished, highlight-reel version. But the truth is, that’s not who I am. The Amber of today is messy, real, exhausted, joyous, and raw. So, I’m going to include it all—the laughter, the tears, the triumphs, the hardships—in hopes that someone reading this feels a little less alone in their own journey.
I’ve lived a lot in my 38 years. Sometimes I feel like there are two versions of me: “Amber 1.0” and “Amber 2.0.” Each version shaped me, tested me, and ultimately prepared me for the mother and woman I am today. With complete honesty, here’s my life story with ten incredible children.
My journey into motherhood began young—much younger than I was ready for. People often tell me I look too young to have ten kids, and they’re right. I had my first child at 18, the product of a passionate teenage relationship. My first labor and delivery were textbook chaotic: pain, medications, doctors, episiotomies, and hospital rules. But in the end, I held my healthy son, Carter, in my arms. That day, I grew up a little, learned responsibility, got a job, finished school, and began navigating life as a young mom. My son’s father and I eventually parted ways, but we remained co-parents.
At 21, I met a man running across a beach completely naked. Crazy, right? But full of life and laughter. We dated, fell in love, and married. He was nine years older and had always dreamed of a family—partly because he was adopted and never knew his biological family. I think that longing for roots shaped the big family he envisioned.
Brooke arrived in 2004. Her birth was the complete opposite of my first: a dream labor at 38 weeks, minimal interventions, just a bit of laughing gas. Forty-five minutes later, she was in my arms. Two hours after that, I walked her to the waiting room to meet our family. My son was in kindergarten, so I had some time to adjust to being a mom of two. Breastfeeding Brooke was a new challenge—my son had never nursed—and I learned everything from a lactation consultant in the hospital.
At my six-week postpartum appointment, my doctor urged me to restart birth control. I did, but my milk supply dropped almost immediately. Brooke’s cries pierced my heart; she was hungry and I couldn’t give her enough. Eventually, I turned to formula, feeling like a failure. But looking back, I know I did what mattered most: I fed my baby and kept her healthy. Shortly after Brooke’s first birthday, we discovered I was pregnant again—baby number three on the way. My husband was thrilled. He wanted six children; I thought four was plenty. We were well on our way.
Emma’s birth mirrored Brooke’s—hospital, no medication—but home life quickly became a storm. She cried constantly, day and night, for the first six months. I remember sobbing in the shower, chasing a toddler, staying awake all night, then waking early to get my son to school. I returned to work sooner than I wished, just to pay the bills. Somehow, I survived. But then, at seven months postpartum, I learned I was pregnant again—and lost the pregnancy. The term they used was “nonviable.” I was devastated. Worse still, it was triplets, none with a heartbeat. I was whisked to a D&C, leaving me in a fog of grief, confusion, and relief all at once.
Over the next three years, I experienced multiple miscarriages—some at seven weeks, some later—and eventually was referred to a fertility specialist. It felt surreal; I had three children, and conception had never been difficult. But I needed this fourth child. During that waiting period, I went on a family vacation to Disney, and miracle of miracles, I got pregnant again. This time, the pregnancy continued: 14 weeks, 24 weeks, 38 weeks. In 2010, I welcomed Addison, a perfect, drug-free delivery. I labored in a tub, used a little laughing gas, and pushed out my perfect little squish. Suddenly, I was a mom of four.
I never imagined I’d get here. Trying to conceive had drained me, taken a toll on my marriage, and sometimes I felt we’d forgotten how to live. Addy’s first birthday came, and so did the end of my eight-year marriage. I often leave this part out because admitting failure is hard. But I failed. I failed at a marriage that had once felt destined. I lost my home, our life, and the family we had built together.
I was nearly 30, living with my four children in my mother’s basement, struggling to hold onto work without transportation. It was humiliating, exhausting, and lonely. Looking back, I see the lessons I learned: resilience, humility, and the truth that I had to rebuild myself before I could truly care for anyone else.
Enter Amber 2.0. I sold my house, walked away with just over $100, enrolled in college, and began prioritizing myself. I worked out, spent time with friends, and reclaimed my happiness. Then I met Eric—a man I never would have expected to love. He was awkward, sweet, kind, and exactly what I needed. Six months in, I was pregnant. We embraced the challenge. In 2013, while a full-time student, with midwives guiding the way, we welcomed Sarah—on Carter’s 13th birthday.
Shortly after, Eric proposed. In a romantic Indian restaurant, they brought out a giant potato Taj Mahal featuring my ring. Of course, I said yes. We married soon after, and despite tragedy in his family, celebrated love and togetherness. Pregnant again on our honeymoon, we welcomed Finlea in 2015—my first home birth. Quick labor led to a perfect unassisted delivery. Thirteen months later, Nolan arrived, our first boy in 16 years.
In 2018, Elliotte came via another home water birth. Eighteen minutes, start to finish. We swore she’d be our last, but the family grew: Miller in 2019, born in our tub with the midwife arriving 20 minutes later. Life was chaotic, joyful, and unpredictable. After Miller, we sold everything and traveled North America in our RV—experiencing Ontario, Alberta, British Columbia, and a month on the beaches of South Carolina. There, I became pregnant with twins… only to experience a near-fatal miscarriage, requiring a blood transfusion. That day, in January 2020, still haunts me.
Traveling through Florida and toward California, the pandemic hit. Amid the uncertainty, we discovered we were expecting our tenth child. Today, Jasper—our youngest—is six months old, named after Jasper National Park in Alberta. I watch her sleep and marvel at the life we’ve built. Ten children. Ten unique personalities. Ten blessings.
Carter made me a mom, Brooke made me a family, Emma made me a warrior, Addy made me a fighter, Sarah made me a different person altogether, Finlea made me a new family, Nolan made me a thinker, Elliotte made me love myself, Miller made me a badass, and Jasper made me a balanced mama.
I’ve learned not to sweat the small stuff, to cherish fleeting moments, and to prioritize self-care. I’ve learned that every journey is different and to reserve judgment. Our life is far from traditional—but it is ours, full of hugs, love, and chaos. At 38, I have truly lived, and I wouldn’t trade a single messy, beautiful, chaotic moment. Wherever you are in your life, I hope you find what truly makes you happy.
