The dreaded two-week wait—as it’s called in the fertility community—is the stretch of time between ovulation and implantation. Having tried to conceive on and off for nearly five years over a decade, I knew this period all too well. I had come to recognize a pattern in my body: implantation reactions, a subtle but unmistakable signal that my body was rejecting implantation.
Most people only acknowledge pregnancy once a test comes back positive or an ultrasound confirms it, so this delicate, in-between phase often goes unnoticed. But I always knew when a month was different. My senses heightened, nausea appeared, and sometimes, right when implantation was supposed to happen, panic attacks and night sweats would strike—an almost allergic reaction to the possibility of pregnancy.
When Mattias and I first began trying to conceive, I felt all the familiar symptoms. I withdrew into myself, hesitant to share anything, wary of having my intuition dismissed as I had so many times before—by former partners, by doctors, by fertility specialists. Mattias noticed the change.
“Something seems to be bothering you. What’s wrong?” he asked gently.
I hesitated. “I feel like I could be pregnant, but I’m scared it won’t work out. I can’t handle one more person telling me I’m wrong.” Tears spilled before I could stop them.
Instead of dismissing me, he said, “I believe you. I don’t know what the outcome will be, but we’re in this together. I’m here, no matter what. You can talk to me.”
I realized then that he was different. I had been holding my breath for years, expecting disbelief, judgment, or dismissal. Instead, I found warmth and reassurance—a feeling that reminded me of the comfort I had felt when we first met four years earlier.
It was the summer of 2010. At 37, I was living near Seattle, on Bainbridge Island, recently divorced. After more than four years of infertility struggles and multiple miscarriages in my previous marriage, I was trying to rebuild my life. Yet deep down, I knew I had to become a mother—whether through adoption or pregnancy. I had always wanted a child of my own.
I was already a mother figure to many—through my years as a music teacher and mentoring my three nieces—but I knew something would always feel incomplete without a child to raise from infancy. Dating was complicated: many men I met either had children and didn’t want more, or weren’t aligned with my life stage.
During those years of infertility, I discovered that dancing made my soul soar. I tried many styles, but Lindy Hop became my favorite. In November, when my family planned a trip to Stockholm, I made a point to attend the weekly swing dance evening. Little did I know, Mattias had started dancing the same year I did. I watched him dance Balboa with someone else and waited for the right moment to ask for a dance myself.
“So, what brought you to Stockholm?” he asked.
As I paused, he gently took my hand, guiding me off the dance floor. The softness of his touch, fingertips connecting, was extraordinary—I hadn’t felt something like that in years. I shared a story about seeing my father honored for excellence in medical education research, a night my mother declared unforgettable. At that moment, I didn’t know my own night would become just as unforgettable.
Mattias and I added each other on Facebook, exchanging sporadic messages over the years. In the summer of 2013, I decided to make a bold change: I moved to India to teach orchestra, hoping life abroad might bring clarity or perhaps a partner. By spring 2014, I resolved to focus on becoming a mother, pausing the search for a romantic partner.
I asked a friend to be my sperm donor, intending to pursue single motherhood. Then, in September, Mattias reached out, curious about my visit to Chicago. Something inside me told me I could trust him, so I shared my plan.
“I want to be a single mom by choice,” I admitted. “I haven’t found the right partner and I can’t wait any longer.”
His response surprised me: “I’ve always dreamed of having a child too. How old are you?”
“I’m 41.” He was 37. It was rare to find someone single, desiring a child, and within a compatible age range. From that point, we began writing more regularly, eventually video chatting on Skype.
By November, my grandfather’s health declined rapidly. Mattias was among the first to reach out, showing genuine concern for me and my family. Our bond deepened—not with infatuation, but through a calm, growing friendship that hinted at romance.
By December, I confided in him that I wanted to move to another country that would be accepting of a single mom. He sent me a video extolling all the virtues of Stockholm. Encouraged by a friend to dream again, I allowed myself hope.
In January, Mattias asked, “If you move to Stockholm, would you consider dating me?” I said yes. We agreed to prioritize co-parenting first, knowing we didn’t yet know each other deeply enough for marriage, but trusting we could parent together. In July 2015, I moved to Sweden.
Culture shock hit hard. I had taken a suboptimal job just to be in Sweden, struggled with a new language, and adjusted to living with Mattias, a lifelong bachelor. I had spent a decade hoping for a child, and each month felt unbearably long. But Mattias remained calm, patient, and steady.
We consulted a fertility clinic, discussed embryo adoption, and explored infant adoption options. In Sweden, adopting a newborn over 43 was nearly impossible. Pregnancy was the path that made the most sense.
After my 43rd birthday, I felt depressed. Mattias didn’t fully grasp the weight of my infertility journey, but he listened, remained optimistic, and held me through the storm. During Christmas break, I attended an intense swing dance camp, and life felt a little lighter.
By our first fertility clinic appointment in January, I was a few days late. Nausea and heightened senses were unmistakable, yet we agreed not to test beforehand. The positive pregnancy test at the clinic was a small miracle that began our journey in earnest.
Pregnancy brought both challenges and profound joy. Mattias celebrated every symptom with me, helped me rest through dizzy spells, and supported me when I had to pause dancing. At a swing dance event during Easter, he proposed publicly where we first met—an unforgettable full-circle moment.
Our 20-week ultrasound confirmed a healthy baby. Tears flowed freely. This was the child we had dreamt of, and suddenly, pregnancy felt tangible. Mattias attended birth classes, learned exercises and breathing techniques, and when labor came early, he became my anchor—offering guidance, massage, and encouragement.
After birth, our baby needed immediate care for breathing difficulties. Being separated from both Mattias and our child was excruciating. But when we were reunited, the overwhelming awe and love of holding our child together was indescribable. We navigated the NICU, pumped milk, and shared the small moments that mattered most.
Our child arrived in 2016. We married on 7-7-17, and in 2018, I launched a business helping others through fertility challenges while continuing my musical pursuits. The trials we endured strengthened our relationship, teaching us the value of listening, supporting, and loving unconditionally. Fertility, birth, and parenting brought not only challenges but also the deepest lessons in love, resilience, and partnership.
Through it all, Mattias and I found our light together—one we now share with the world.
