The Journey Part 3: Anchored in Love
Story by Relo Adams, MS, MCP, LPC-C & Ashley Adams, M.Ed, MCP, LPC-C /Contributing Writers
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In November 2024, the weight of unmet expectation arrived like a quiet, unwelcome guest. After weeks of hopeful anticipation, two embryos that had been carefully implanted failed to take root. The details of how this played out were fully shared in July’s article. Ashley sat silent in the kitchen, numb and unable to cry, and I sat in my truck and drank my Mr. Ponca City beer as tears fell silently. I was a bit shocked as I felt the wetness on my cheek, because I don’t cry. The silence that followed that realization wasn’t just a momentary period or a medical setback; it echoed into every corner of our home, our hearts and the rhythm of family life.
The timing couldn’t have been more bittersweet. Ashley had quietly dreamed of sharing the news of a pregnancy with me for my birthday that November. For weeks, I (Ashley) imagined wrapping a small box, inside of which would sit a baby-themed onesie or a +pregnancy test with a pink bow on it, or something symbolic and joyful to mark what I hoped would be a new chapter. But instead of sharing that joy for Relo’s birthday, we instead carried on as if nothing had happened. Again, wearing a mask, presenting as if everything was great, even though it wasn’t. There is strength in that, in handling business regardless of trials, but there is also strength in vulnerability and being honest about what is happening and what feelings are coming up, especially with our son, Peyton. Instead of authenticity, we were on autopilot and celebrated like we normally would, or tried to anyway! Privately, and silently, I believe we both shed tears and prayed and ached for what could have been. The guilt I carried from not being able to give him that moment compounded the emotional toll. I knew it wasn’t my fault, but it still felt personal.
Just weeks later came Thanksgiving, a time meant for gratitude, warmth and the gathering of loved ones. On the surface, everything looked the same because there were food, family and best friends. We were, and are by all outward measures, blessed; however, under the surface, a quiet grief still lingered. We knew we had so much to be thankful for—our health, our home, our son, our community, but the sting of disappointment dulled the sparkle of the season. There was conviction in that realization: gratitude and sorrow coexisting; sometimes the most authentic prayers come through tears, not words. How could we be sad and grateful at the same time? How could we be sad at all considering our every need that has always been met? The conviction I (Relo) felt was heavy. I know what I have been saved from, and carried through, by God alone. I mean the creator of the entire universe cares for me ... a speck in the grand scheme of things, but I was valuable and loved. How humbling. Why am I sad when I have everything to be thankful for, I thought? One Saturday at Saturday morning prayer, I was reminded that my feelings are valid and it’s OK and normal to be disappointed. I was reminded that early on in life, I learned that hardships occur in order to inspire us, or me, to chase God harder and more fiercely, that suffering could be viewed as a way for God to refine my character and to teach me to trust Him, and draw me closer to Him. And again, it was OK to be disappointed, “It’s OK not to be OK.”
By December, we wanted to try again. The desire hadn’t faded; it had deepened. But circumstances seemed to resist. Weather delays, clinic closures and travel complications all became unavoidable roadblocks. Each time we tried to reschedule, something interfered. It was as if every sign was pointing to “not yet,” a divine pause we didn’t understand but couldn’t ignore. Our 14-year-old son began to unravel in ways we hadn’t fully expected. The previous year, he had shown subtle signs of insecurity, pulling away at times, being unusually quiet or defiant, and those behaviors were escalating. When January rolled around and he caught a cold just before his birthday, he spent most of the day in bed. He barely touched his cake … no sparkle, no joy, just fevers and coughs! We felt awful for him and helpless and just wanted him to feel better.
His sadness wasn’t just about feeling sick. He had attached deep hopes to the idea of Ashley being pregnant. He had believed a new baby would somehow fill in the gaps, would make things more secure, more certain. He came with us in November to implant our embryos and began telling everyone, “I’m finally going to have siblings.” He told his favorite teacher Ms. Tane Kester and even showed her pictures of the embryos, and she was the first he told when things didn’t work out too! What we realized later was that the IVF process had stirred something painful in him. Despite our reassurances and the years of unconditional love, a subtle fear had taken root: that he might not be “enough.” That a biological child would change things. And when the embryos didn’t implant, he internalized the loss. Somehow, heartbreakingly, he blamed himself.
In hindsight, it made sense. The emotional rollercoaster of fertility treatments is exhausting for any couple, but for a child watching from the sidelines, especially one adopted, the complexity is immense. His behavior changes, his sadness, even his physical illness were his own cries for stability in a season that felt unpredictable. The holidays passed with a kind of melancholy undertone. Thanksgiving didn’t feel like Thanksgiving. Christmas lacked its usual sparkle. Peyton and Relo’s birthdays came and went like a shadow. It was as if the entire household was holding our breath, unsure what the next step was or when it would come.
Amid all of this, Relo, devoted and steady, did what he knew to do: he pressed in. He began rising early each morning to read his Bible, not out of ritual, but out of desperation to hear from God. His prayers intensified for wisdom, for healing in our son, for clarity in his leadership, for me, not just for a baby. He began meeting weekly with pastor Flint Funkhouser. What started as a conversation about how to support our son through this emotional transition turned into a life-changing season of discipleship. Initially, Relo wanted to get with Flint to seek guidance and pick his brain about what The Word says about hardships, leading a family, resilience and effective parenting, and it turned into an every Monday morning meeting of them sharing coffee, life, support, prayers and digging in the Word. Relo didn’t know it at the time, but it was never about finding the perfect parenting strategy. It was about becoming the kind of man God was calling him to be—spiritually grounded, emotionally aware and fully surrendered. Flint guided him not with formulas but with Scripture, prayer, truth and brotherhood. Their Monday morning meetings were something Relo looked forward to. I could tell because he was early. If you know Relo at all, you know he doesn’t believe in time. He often says, “Time is a man-made construct.” The guidance, prayer and accountability he received in those early hours bled into the rest of his week and bled into our home.
That spiritual growth didn’t go unnoticed. His leadership at home became quieter, yet stronger. He didn’t just read from The Word, he studied it and tried to be intentional with applying it. And slowly, that posture began to shift the dynamics of our household. Yes, Peyton still occasionally crashed out, but the emotional upsets became less intense and less frequent. Yes, Relo still struggles with cuss words and yes, I still struggle with some things as well (my dog thinks I’m perfect, though), but the life change is developing in each of us daily (sanctification) and is undeniable. Together, we reevaluated everything. We had earned a reputation as helpers, partially due to our profession, and due to our decision to be youth mentors, church youth group leaders, board members and volunteers. Our calendars were always full. But this season required a different kind of service, a service to each other and to our son. We began saying “no” to social obligations, board invitations and community events. We reduced our client loads when possible and stopped operating from burnout.
When this happened, something beautiful began. I’d like to say that meals were slower, but they continued to be fast. Conversations grew deeper and our son laughed more. There was space to breathe and space to heal. We stopped trying to prove we could “do it all” and instead started practicing presence. In doing so, our family, once fractured by grief, began to be reassembled with grace. By March, we sensed that the time was near not because circumstances had changed, but because our hearts had. We no longer approached IVF with a grasping need to fill a void. We approached it from a place of peace. From the beginning, our identity as a family had been rooted not in biology, but in calling. We knew our son felt safe again, and we knew God was with us whether a pregnancy occurred or not.
In April 2025, with that peace anchoring us, we implanted two more embryos, and this time, the embryos implantations stuck and the news came with joy, tempered by caution. We knew all too well the fragility of hope. We told no one at first, not because we lacked faith, but because we wanted to protect what was sacred and savor this moment we had waited 14 years to share.
For several weeks, everything looked strong. But around the 5 1/2-week mark, a series of stressful events, emotional strain, travel fatigue and a minor medical scare led to the loss of one of the embryos. A heartbeat that once flickered strong was suddenly gone. It was a moment of piercing grief, but also clarity. We allowed ourselves to mourn, but we did not spiral. This time, we knew how to anchor. The remaining embryo continued to grow, thriving against the odds and by week 6 1/2, the remaining baby’s heartbeat continued to be strong. Each doctor’s appointment came with cautious relief and more instructions for Ashley to take things easy. Our son began asking questions about the baby and although we agreed as a family not to share our good news just yet, he couldn’t wait to share the news with the sweet, older praying members of our church. The ones who pray with him, the ones he can hug when he is uneasy about something, the ones that correct him with a stern voice and tap on the rear. Sweet and all, but you know what all that means? News travelled quickly! Ashley’s ability to make an official announcement was almost completely taken because everyone was so excited for us! For Peyton, the shift was visible, tangible. He no longer saw the baby as a replacement, but as a gift to be shared. What was once uncertainty became anticipation and as summer pressed on, Ashley entered her second trimester. In August 2025, she is FIVE months pregnant with a healthy baby due in December. Nearly a year after our initial attempt, we are preparing for a new life.
This is more than just a story about infertility. It’s a story of restoration, of faith deepened through waiting, of a family re-anchored through prayer, of a son reclaimed through love. The growth that took place wasn’t, or isn’t, measured in fetal size or test results, it is measured in spiritual maturity, emotional healing and relational connection. It’s seen in the way Relo prays with authority. It is evident in the way Ashley now rests without guilt. It shows in Peyton’s peace, his laughter and his ability to say, “I can’t wait to meet the baby!” Looking back, we no longer question the delay. We see how every closed door had opened a deeper well of faith. Every “not yet” had drawn us closer to God, to one another and to our son. Our journey through IVF was not just about adding a child, it was about aligning our hearts, refining our purpose and redefining what it meant to be a family. We had always known that love builds families, not biology. But in this season, that truth became more than a belief. It became a constant reminder, our lived reality.
By the time Ashley’s second trimester approached, we were no longer just waiting for a baby. We are preparing for a new chapter, one written not in desperation but in trust. One shaped not by what we thought we lost, but by what we know we gained. In December 2025, nearly a year from when the journey began, we will welcome another son; a boy born not just of science, but of prayer, patience and divine timing.
If you or someone you know needs mental health assistance of any kind, please feel free to reach out to your local community mental health agency or call or text 988, the suicide and crisis lifeline or call 911 for immediate emergencies.
Take care of yourselves, and each other,
~ Ashley Adams & Mr. Ponca City, Relo Adams
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