Brylea's Story
At 14, I received a diagnosis of Endometriosis in Oklahoma—a moment that marked the beginning of a long, unpredictable journey. Little did I know that when I moved to Missouri at 19, that initial diagnosis was only the tip of the iceberg. My new medical team uncovered a series of challenges: PCOS, Hyperthyroidism, Endometriosis (again), a Bicornuate Uterus, and Hypoglycemia. Each new diagnosis felt like another wave crashing over me, as I endured endless surgeries, medication trials, scans, and blood draws.
I married my husband in September 2022, and together we braced ourselves for the journey ahead of trying to conceive—a journey we knew would be fraught with both hope and heartache. In April 2023, we experienced our first miscarriage, a chemical pregnancy that left us reeling with grief and confusion. By August 2023, we faced another loss—a baby who stopped growing at 6 weeks, and although we held onto hope until 8 weeks, the tiny heartbeat faded away.
Then, in December 2023, we learned we were expecting what we lovingly called our double rainbow—a symbol of promise and beauty. We were overjoyed to discover we were expecting a sweet baby boy. But our journey took another devastating turn on March 12, 2024.
That day, as I sat at my desk at work, I felt a deep, unspoken apprehension. My doctor, someone I trusted implicitly, approached me with concern and suggested an ultrasound. I remember the pit in my stomach as the ultrasound began. I could tell something was terribly off—Brexton wasn’t moving like he usually did, his measurements were off, and then the dreaded words: “There is no heartbeat.” It was the worst news I had heard three times before, yet it still struck me like a thousand blows. When I asked about next steps, I was told that I would be induced, that Brexton would be “born sleeping.” I had never imagined coming this far only to face this heartbreak. That evening, at 7:00 pm, I arrived at the hospital, my mind numb as I filled out paperwork and settled in with an IV, still reeling from shock. By 8:00 pm, my mom was there—a small beacon of comfort amid the storm—as the induction process began and I received my epidural. The following day, March 13, 2024, after 20 long hours of labor with little progress, my doctor gently informed me that it was time to start pushing. At 4:47 pm, Brexton was born into Heaven. He measured just 4.75 inches, weighed a mere 25 grams—but in that fragile, brief moment, we held him close. I’ll never forget the delicate perfection of his tiny hands, fingers, feet, toes, and the little legs that seemed to whisper promises of a life never lived. He was, without doubt, absolutely precious.
In the aftermath, I fell into a deep, overwhelming postpartum depression that lasted for three months. Every day was a battle, every moment a reminder of the loss I felt so acutely. I spoke with my husband countless times about the call deep within me to do something more, to transform this pain into hope for others. One night, as we lay together, he urged me to stop just talking about it and to take action.
So, I created a support group on Facebook called M.A.M.A.S. (Moms After Miscarriage Advocacy and Support), initially expecting just ten members and a post a week. When I awoke the next morning to find 50 members, I realized I wasn’t alone in my sorrow or my resilience. What started as a small, intimate group blossomed into a thriving community and eventually evolved into a nonprofit organization—a testament to the strength and courage of so many mamas who have faced similar heartache. Every day, I am humbled by the opportunity to support and uplift those who have felt the sting of loss, and I carry Brexton’s memory with me as a symbol of both our grief and our enduring hope.