Already Yours, Even Now

My Dearest Little Ones,

Before anything else, I need you to know this: we’re truly sorry we haven’t met you yet.
I’m writing this just two days after turning 31. It's quiet today—one of those soft, reflective kinds of quiet—and my heart is brimming. Hopeful, excited, and honestly, a little impatient. You’ve been in our hearts for four years now. Four long, humbling, love-stretched years of wishing, trying, and holding on.
Your journey to us has been anything but linear. PCOS has been one of the big hurdles, along with a few personal battle scars I carry from long before you were even a thought. And yet, despite all the blood tests, hormones, tears, and dashed hopes—we never stopped dreaming of you. Somehow, you’ve always been here with us, in the unseen corners of our days. In every plan we make, every future we imagine. You are already so deeply a part of our story.

These years have taught your Baba and me more than we ever thought possible. Patience—not the passive kind, but the kind that requires grit. Resilience—not the loud, heroic kind, but the quiet one that whispers, try again tomorrow. And love—the kind that deepens with every hard moment we face together.

We’ve also fought. Oh yes, we’ve had passionate debates about which school you'll go to (and you’re not even here yet). I dream of you barefoot in nature school, learning through mud, trees, and wonder. Baba, ever the realist, votes for a proper international school with structure and global exposure. “The world’s tough,” he says. “They need armor.” He’s not wrong. And yet, neither am I. We’ll probably end up compromising, just like all great parenting duos eventually do.

But I want you to know this—none of this waiting is in vain. We’re not standing still. We’re preparing. We’re doing the work—emotionally, mentally, spiritually—so that when you arrive, we won’t just be ready to have you. We’ll be ready to raise you.

You are not a box we’re waiting to check. You are not a missing piece. You are a whole universe we're slowly moving toward. You are the journey, not just the destination. And when you look back at this time—if you ever read this one day—I hope you don’t see just a gap. I hope you see how loved you were even in your absence.

Because every day that passes, our love for you grows fiercer. Every tear, every clinic visit, every moment of doubt—it all comes from how badly we want to know you, hold you, guide you.
So bear with us, little ones. We're walking toward you. We don’t know how much longer the road will be, but we know who’s at the end of it. And that makes the journey worth every step.
When you arrive, it will be loud, joyful, chaotic magic. And we’ll be ready—not perfect, but real, steady, and yours.

With all our love,
Can't wait to meet you—Mommy