Jodi Tolman had the fight of her life

Photos: Stephanie C. Olsen

By Jodi Tolman

Who knew that one of the most primal, instinctive, humanly fundamental, and natural things in life would be nearly impossible to achieve? Not me. And not the millions of others who will at some point find themselves buried in the same brutal realization my husband and I were many years ago. So why the hell doesn’t anyone tell us?

But here’s the good news: If you’ve been handed an infertility diagnosis, or discovered that your age has rendered you infertile, know that not only can the destination be reached, it is indeed reached every single day by so many women. Like me.

And here’s my very radical theory around how I was equipped to clear what felt like stratospherically high hurdles on the path to parenthood. It was child abuse.

Wait. What? How??

***

Growing up with emotional and psychological abuse thwarted my development of any sense of self-worth, agency, confidence, control, or power. Throw in ongoing intimidation, the threat of, and on occasion actual violence, and you’ll scratch your head in disbelief that I could consider abuse as possibly being the best thing that ever happened to me. To put a finer point on it, I believe it was.

As I struggled to fend off crushing fear as a kid, juxtaposed with ever-rising rage, I was flooded one day with the self-preserving and life-affirming comprehension that fear could cripple me, and fury would save me. That was it. The moment it all changed and my future was defined. I was seriously pissed off. Terror gave way to tenacity. Powerlessness to perseverance. Resentment to resilience. Grief to grit. I stepped into strength.

***

I honestly don’t know what lit the fire in my belly to want children so badly. Maybe it was the deep desire to rewrite the narrative and build a healthy, happy family to replace the roiling dysfunction of my childhood. And it was the attributes forged in the pain of abuse that built the muscle, giving me the strength to get through life’s challenges, setbacks, and detours every damn time.

That ferocious determination ultimately led to The Decision made in my twenties, with nary a romantic prospect in sight. If by the time I turned twenty-eight, I had not fallen in love with a sperm donor in the shape of a handsome, delicious, hilarious romantic, I would hightail it to the nearest sperm bank and fall in love with a good-looking vial. I had no idea what a single facet of my life would look like, but this much I knew: I didn’t suffer the trauma of abuse and emerge equipped with an unflinching resolve to have kids for nothing. I would be a single mom if it came to it, and gather me a gaggle, one way or another.

I didn’t start getting married until I was 31. Joe and I met and moved in together in short order. We were quite taken with one another and decided to get married five months after starting to date. Relatively soon after marrying, things headed precipitously south. I abandoned denial and acknowledged the truth—he was abusive. I insisted on couples counseling, only to find out that Joe did not want to be married. At least not to me. And thus, in the blink of an eye, my first marriage landed squarely in the annals of Jodi Tolman’s Less-Than-Illustrious Marital History. I later learned that odds were placed at the wedding on how long the marriage would last. My parents won the bet.

Now divorced at thirty-three, with love clearly missing from my horizon, I’m five years behind the 8-ball. Amidst my depression, my trusty inner superhero rode in to save the day, shouting, “Get up, Jode! We got work to do! Tick fuckin’ tock!!”

My second husband and I were exceedingly fortunate to get pregnant soon after starting to try. Pregnant! FINALLY!! And oh, how I loved it! With tremendous energy and optimism, I felt like I could do this ten more times, at least. And that was my plan. I may be late to the party, but I’ll accomplish my gaggle-gathering mission.

I gave birth to Charlie at thirty-five. He brought with him much gorgeousness and abundant perfection! Fingers, toes, ears, nose, all in their rightful place. I was euphoric. I felt real hope that the remaining goslings were on their way.

My marriage, however, was on its way out. I had known it for some time. I just could not contemplate another divorce at the age of thirty-eight. We were simply wrong for one another. I needed much more than he could give, and he needed me to need much less.

Jay, my third and presumably final husband and I met at my first wedding, if you can believe that, and developed a close friendship over the next few years. In the throes of my second divorce, I turned to him for a strong shoulder. I hoped he could be helpful in navigating the choppy waters. And he was.

***

As romcoms would have it, Jay and I were married, and at 39 years old, I was not exactly oozing fertility. Two devastating miscarriages soon occurred. Some months after the last lost pregnancy I turned 40—and began infertility treatment.

After several failed intrauterine inseminations, or IUIs, I took a break. I needed to give my body a rest. And that’s when the miracle happened. I got pregnant “naturally.” Unfortunately, our sky-high hopes were obliterated by heartbreak. Excruciating pain, blood tests, pelvic exams, and ultrasounds revealed an ectopic pregnancy. Laparoscopic surgery was necessary to remove it.

IVF was next. After many injections and much medication, my uterus was as hospitable as the goddamn Olive Garden. On the gurney heading into the first procedure, I said to the man with my fate in his hands, “Doc, do me a favor. Knock me out, then knock me up.” Much to my disappointment, he displayed no gurney-side manner, whatsofuckingever. He didn’t even crack a smile. I was hurt. It was one of my better lines.

Three successive IVF cycles failed, each accompanied by indescribable disappointment. Impossible to avoid was the feeling that I was a failure as a woman…an old dried up useless old failure of a really old, old woman. As an ardent feminist, I believed my worth as a woman lay not only in my ability to procreate, but encompassed many other capabilities and talents. This response shook me to my core. The failure felt existential.

From the beginning, it seemed prudent to double-track our efforts and simultaneously pursue pregnancy and adoption. Andrea, an exquisite young woman we would soon meet, had just turned seventeen. A child about to have a child. We were connected through Journeys of the Heart, a wonderful agency in Oregon, to make an adoption plan. A week past Andrea’s due date, Susan, the Director of Journeys reached out to us. Andrea was scheduled to be induced and we could take immediate custody. Nine-year-old Charlie was elated about the addition of a little one to our family. Checking the car seat at the airport in New Jersey, the agent asked if we were traveling with a baby. Charlie chirped, “We’re on our way to pick up my baby sister!”

In joyous anticipation, we all piled into our rental car in Portland, headed to the hospital two hours after Andrea gave birth, when the call came from Susan instructing us to go to the hotel instead of the hospital. In that instant, we knew, but neither Jay nor I uttered a word. We couldn’t even look at one another, knowing that if we met the other’s eyes, the dam would break and a flood of devastation would drown us all. Our greatest fear was realized and we struggled to contain our grief. Back at the airport, we checked the car seat to New Jersey. “Are you traveling with a baby?” asked the agent. Sweet Charlie revealed his great optimism when he said, “Not this trip.”

***

Six weeks after returning from Oregon with our empty car seat and broken hearts, Susan called one night at 11 o’clock to ask if we were still interested in adopting Andrea’s baby. We were on the next plane. I fervently beseeched the universe to finally let us embrace this child. And should we be so fortunate, I so hoped that she couldn’t yet hold her head up. Ohpleaseohpleaseohplease, let her be floppy!

I sat in breathless anticipation of Andrea walking in the room with our daughter. It had been years of Herculean effort to bring another child into our family. Then a beautiful young woman appeared, holding the most magnificent baby on earth.

My reaction was the clashing antithesis of what I expected. Thousands of harpies screeched in my head, maniacally imploring me to escape. Are you out of your freaking mind? There is no more unnatural way to have a baby!! This is a huge mistake! Get out! Get out!! GET OOOOOUUUUUT!

I was paralyzed. I could barely breathe or see or hear. At some point, Susan asked if I wanted to hold the baby. Andrea placed the sleeping child we had decided to call Chloe in my arms, as I careened toward a psychotic break. After a few minutes, Jay seemed to float toward me and took Chloe from my arms. The sight of him holding her extracted me from my nightmare. Slowly, I regained my faculties and was able to speak

I thanked Andrea for the immense gift she had bestowed upon us. And all was right with the world.

***

Two years and additional failed IVFs later, now forty-five, I told my mother, the funniest person alive, that I was pregnant. She said, “Honey, you’re either very courageous or really stupid.” I was stupid with joy.

Jay and I knew we had the emotional and financial wherewithal for one last shot. While Jay’s boys were still good-looking, athletic, and perfectly viable—my girls were old, tired, and utterly useless. So the donor egg route became the most pragmatic and promising. Judy, our wonderful social worker, with whom we are in touch to this day, helped us find Laura, our egg donor. We chose to have two embryos implanted and for about three minutes hoped to have twins. Great relief accompanied our celebration when we learned I was pregnant with a singleton.

I felt as I did with Charlie, like Wonder Woman. Tremendous power and energy. Invincible. When the time came, I was ready. Really, really, really ready. Unfortunately, the baby we would call Jack was not.

At my checkup a week past my due date, I was immediately admitted to the hospital and induced. Needing an emergency C-Section, Jack emerged looking like an eggplant. The OB nurses took him, worked their magic, and he soon “pinked” up.

On the way out of the hospital, an elderly gentleman with an uncanny resemblance to the old prospectors from those iconic Westerns was on his way in. We were sure he’d busted into the moonshine on the wagon ride over. Grizzly heard us call the baby ‘Jack,’ and yelled in a surprisingly theatrical voice, “Jack the Rippuh!!” It stuck. A “rippuh” he was, and a rippuh he remains.

Life was perfect, if not bone-crushingly exhausting. When I could finally see straight again and complete sentences, I told Jay that I’d love to adopt another baby. He said, “You’ll have to do that with another husband.” I replied, “Don’t tempt me.”

I had run into a friend when I was pregnant with Jack and excitedly reported my happy news. I shared that I would soon have a genetic kid, an adopted kid, and a kid born from a donor egg. She said, “That’s amazing! You should write a book!! You could call it One From Each Column!” That was twenty-seven years ago. “One From Each Column” was published in the Spring of 2025.

So, here’s what I know—and I know it because I lived it. Parenting is a fusion of actions, thoughts, fears, worries, hopes, goals, desires, intentions, responsibilities, disappointments, and dreams. Thousands of moments all at once and one at a time.

Pregnancy is not what made me a parent. While pregnancy is wondrous, when carried to term and culminating in a birth, we become a mother or father. But parenting is in the doing. Changing a diaper, grotesque beyond reckoning, without puking all over your baby is parenting. Sitting up all night with your kid as he cries inconsolably, is parenting. The first kiss from your child, the first hug, their first word, step, peals of laughter, the first ice cream, broccoli, the first injury, nightmare, day of school, playdate, team tryout, bike, the first lie, defiance, punishment, the first song, dance, day of camp, puppy love, puppy heartbreak, driver’s license, car accident, prom, formal dress, tuxedo, the first application to college, the first rejection, the first acceptance, the first day, the first application for employment, interview, the first offer. This to me is parenting. And I learned it all on the job (with one helluva curve!)

And so, 47 years since The Decision, 38 years after Charlie was born, 29 years after Chloe came along, and 27 years since Jack’s arrival, I leave you with this: It didn’t matter how our children found their way into our home and heart, the nature of our bond was the same. Exactly the same. The rest was hard work, delight, determination, fear, pride, satisfaction, wonder, luck, and hope. The greatest joy and deepest love I’ve ever known.

Jodi is the founder of Jodi Tolman SPEAKS!, and the creator of The Rewrite Roadmap™: Rewriting stories. Rebuilding dreams, Restoring hope. She is the author of bestselling memoir, “One From Each Column: My 46-Year Trek from Abusive Childhood to Elusive Motherhood.” Jodi’s mission is to help people navigate the often-roiling waters of trauma, to the safe harbor of healing. Visit JodiTolmanSpeaks.com.