How a hummingbird helped me hold onto hope. Trigger Warning – grab a tissue. Mention of pregnancy, loss, infertility, miscarriage.
We first saw her on Valentine’s Day, 2023.
A tiny shimmer of movement near the jasmine. A tiny yet mighty hummingbird darting in and out of Henry’s playhouse, quick and purposeful. By the third day, we realized she wasn’t just passing through — she was building something.
Inside the playhouse, tucked just under the roofline, she’d woven a nest no bigger than a ping pong ball. Delicate. Determined. A quiet little promise in the middle of our everyday life.
⸻
The First Egg: February 21st.
We watched her lay her first egg — caught on the tiny camera Mike had set up days earlier. It felt like we were witnessing something sacred.
The day before, Mike and Henry headed north to visit the family and play in the snow. I stayed behind in Vegas for work — vendor meetings, long days, big project deadlines. Every picture they sent broke me open a little more. I missed being with them. I think that’s when I started to feel the pull — the ache for something slower, more rooted, more present.
And while they made snow angels up north, I kept checking the camera. Watching that hummingbird mama settle in, protecting something fragile and new.
⸻
Then came the Storm
That night, a desert storm swept through. The camera triggered. She was still there — wings braced against the wind, holding her tiny nest as best she could.
And then… the egg was gone.
Blown from the nest.
She stayed for two more days. Sat on the empty nest like hope still lived there.
Then she flew away.
⸻
The Nest We Kept
We never touched it.
That little nest is still there today — over two years later — still woven into the beams of the playhouse. I’ve read that hummingbirds sometimes return to their old nests. She hasn’t. But we leave it, just in case.
⸻
What I Was Carrying
Just a year prior, we experienced our fourth miscarriage.
We were carrying grief. Quietly. Constantly. Healing, but was I?
And when that egg fell, I think I felt more than sadness. I felt seen.
Like the world had given me a symbol of all that was breaking and still holding on.
At 38, I had been told several times:
“Miscarriages are common.”
“It’s just part of the statistics.”
“Your eggs aren’t what they were at 25.”
But I knew better. And I kept going.
Fast forward a few months — I left the corporate world, fulfilling the yearning to be home with our son. As he was headed to Kindergarten, I was there, to do school pick ups, and class field trips, afterschool playdates. In the fall of that year, our fifth loss brought us to an OBGYN who finally listened. Who saw us not as a statistic, but as a family longing for something we knew in our bones was possible, since we knew we could conceive, and had a full term healthy pregnancy. The solution? A dozen blood vials later – concerns of blood clotting. The prescription? Daily blood thinners, baby aspirin, progesterone and unwavering support from our doctors, high risk center, and nutritionists. And just a few months later: two pink lines. Nine long months later: our baby girl. Nine months later, the best In’N’Out photo shoot, that’s a post for another day.
⸻
The Hummingbird
I think that’s why hummingbirds mean so much to me now. Their beauty. Their strength. The way they move fast, but pause for sweetness. The way they hover, hold space, and defend what’s theirs.
They’re delicate, yes — but they are also fierce.
Graceful, but unyielding.
Small, but powerful.
Kind of like me, learning to advocate for my health when I was told, “It’s common.”
Kind of like every mother who’s ever held space for hope after heartbreak.
⸻
What She Gave Me
I don’t know if she’ll ever return to that little nest.
But maybe she already gave us what we needed.
She reminded me that fragility and strength can exist together.
That heartbreak can sit quietly beside hope.
That sometimes, even when you think everything is lost… something new is already on its way.
She was fierce.
She was graceful.
She was small — but mighty.
And so was I.
⸻
June – World Infertility Awareness Month
Infertility affects millions of people around the world. It’s not always visible. It’s not always shared. And it’s certainly not simple.
Infertility impacts both men and women — it’s not just a female issue. It comes with physical, emotional, and often financial challenges — and far too many walk through it silently.
While our journey doesn’t necessarily fall as infertility, it was filled with grief, waiting, and a deep longing to grow our family. And during Infertility Awareness Month, I want to hold space for the stories that don’t always get spoken aloud — including my own. Maybe my story won’t be directly labeled infertility, but maybe just maybe it will help open the conversation.
This month is a chance to reflect, to listen, and to create space.
⸻
To Anyone Going Through It:
My heart is with you walking through fertility struggles.
It is a hard, sacred, terrifying, courageous road.
Please don’t stop advocating for your health.
Push. Ask the hard questions. Find a new provider.
Don’t settle for “It’s common” or “You’re just part of a statistic.”
No one knows your body, your instincts, or your story better than you do.
And if this little hummingbird tale offers you even a flicker of hope — hold onto it.
Sometimes hope is feather-light, but it still carries you forward.
Every story is a thread in the nest — delicate, strong, and meant to be held. If this post resonates, let it be a soft place to land. I’d love to hear what you’ve carried. By telling our stories, we create room for others to breathe. Share yours, or tag someone who may need this.
⸻