“I Always Wanted To Be A Father”: Jay’s Story
Fatherhood doesn’t arrive the same way for everyone.
For some, it’s a straight path.
For others, it’s a long, aching sacred fight.
As we prepare to release our very first book — 10 years in the making — we’re revisiting some of the moments that have marked us most.
Stories that shaped this project from the inside out.
Stories like this.
This is Jay’s story —
a story of endurance, belief and three hard-won miracles.
Fatherhood.
I always wanted to be a father.
Growing up, you hear all the talks — don’t have sex, use protection… because you’ll get pregnant. So when Brooklynne and I were finally ready to start trying, we assumed it’d be “one and done.”
But that wasn’t our story — it was the beginning of perhaps the hardest journey we’ve ever had to walk: infertility.
The rhythm became painfully familiar — try every month, wait, hope… nothing. And as the months passed, the likelihood of naturally falling pregnant grew dimmer and dimmer.
We did all the tests. “No real reason.” So, after three years of trying, we began IVF.
The journey of IVF is not for the faint-hearted. The injections for my wife alone were a mountain to climb. But perhaps the hardest part was witnessing her wrestle with quiet shame “my body is meant to do this.” Even though it was never concluded that either of us had any underlying issue, that thought lingered like a bruise that never quite healed for her.
Without too much complication, we ended up with two viable embryos — a miracle! We were so relieved. We had always dreamed of three children, but to even have two felt like a gift.
But as hope began to rise, we were also buried beneath the legal jargon — the disclaimers, the percentages, the endless ways this might not work.
And then came the wait. 10 days between transfer and the pregnancy test — the longest days of our lives. And it’s not a pee-on-a-stick test, it’s a blood test. You leave the hospital and you just have to wait for the call.
I can still feel the ache of that wait — hours of silence, the phone on loud, the air thick with prayer. We decided to swim in the ocean, to breathe, to rest… and when we came back — a missed call. We called back. “Congratulations, you’re pregnant.”
I still tear up thinking about that moment. Hope poured in like golden light at sunset, washing over the pain we had carried. At our first appointment, we saw that flicker of life in my wife’s womb — a heartbeat that rewrote years of disappointment.
But again came the warnings. The high chance of miscarriage. The cautious smiles from doctors who had seen both sides of the story. I remember feeling numb — yet so alive.
Here we had life and another mountain to climb of “it might not”.
By the grace of God, that life grew strong, and on August 9, 2022, my son Lohia burst into the room — and not a minute since has he stopped bringing joy.
We were blissfully happy, thrown into the wild wonder of parenthood. Soon after, an opportunity arose in the USA, and we moved — knowing one day we’d have to revisit the journey of the other embryo, now frozen in a lab in Sydney.
Every now and then, I’d think about the embryo — that tiny spark of life on the other side of the world. But mostly, I tucked it away. I knew that to go there would mean walking through fear, faith and fragile hope all over again.
After two years of contemplation, we knew it was time. We wept when we decided the dates... mostly because we understood the cost. The emotional toll. The surrender it would take to do this again.
With just enough courage to board the plane, we returned home to Australia for a 14-week visit to transfer our second embryo. I thought I knew the fear to come, but nothing could have prepared me for how much deeper the ache, the hope and the sorrow would cut this time.
It was because this time, seeing my son — knowing he came from a “viable embryo” — I couldn’t help but see this second one as a child already. To lose it would be to lose my child.
It began with the doctor appointments — another set of statistics, this time about thawing risk, age risk. But with every ounce of courage, we walked the familiar steps again — back to the waiting, back to the silence, once again waiting for that phone call to see if it worked.
I remember sitting on the edge of the bed, staring at the mirror, my chest trembling with emotion I couldn’t contain. I wanted to scream and laugh all at once. Numb, yet alive. Broken, yet brimming with belief.
Finally, the phone rang. Again: “Congratulations, you’re pregnant.”
Fear lifted. Colour returned. My soul erupted in harmony and light.
We waited for the first scan, hearts still cautious. More statistics. More disclaimers.
We arrived, my son in tow, sitting with our wonderful (and very socially awkward) IVF doctor.
A heartbeat appeared on the screen “LIFE”... and every fear began to fade.
But then I hear our doctor start counting. Baby 1, size 32… Baby 2, size 31.
I paused him. “Excuse me — did you say two?” He looked up, almost casual. “Yes, two babies.”
A flood of joy with a hint of terror consumed me.
Identical twins!
Moments later, we were sat down in the office and hit with more disclaimers… higher risks, endless statistics — but by then, I’d learned to tune them out. We went back to the USA, twins in the womb, faith in our hearts.
Then came the call that tipped my world on it’s side. I was on a work trip and Brooklynne calls me “Hey, they think we have something called Mono-mono twins.”(Mono-mono twins share one placenta and one amniotic sac.) I could hear the fear in her voice. I go numb. I didn’t know what that meant - I returned home and after another scan, it was confirmed.
The specialists laid it out plainly: “Your babies have a significantly reduced chance of survival. They will never make it full term. You’ll have to move into the hospital months early for constant monitoring. The road ahead of you is incredibly challenging.”
Lesson learned now: never Google it. But we did — and fell into a sea of stories of loss, of pain, of premature goodbyes. But we also found stories of LIFE… stories of uncomplicated pregnancies and healthy babies… stories of hope. It was all too much to take in.
My faith was still there — but so dim, like my son’s glow stick barely giving light after 3 days.
Still, we gathered ourselves. Sent out prayer requests to anyone who would listen. And we moved forward.
It didn’t take long to realise that healthcare in the USA was not built for our situation and to avoid financial ruin, we’d need to return to Australia. Everything happened fast. 17 weeks into the pregnancy, the specialist said, “If you can, you need to leave before 20 weeks.”
Three weeks later, we packed up our lives, stored everything, and put our life on hold again… and flew home.
Day one, we arrived at Westmead and were met by a team — the state’s most senior maternal and fetal medicine specialist, a perinatal midwife, and an entourage of calm faces. I still weep remembering the relief that came to us in that room.
Our doctor looked at us and said, “The global standard is delivery at 32 weeks. We’re aiming for 34.”
But still a relentless road ahead. From 26 weeks onward, Brooklynne was there at the hospital — every day, Sunday to Sunday. Sometimes an hour scan, sometimes six. Sometimes overnight. It wasn’t simple.
There were moments of doubt, of… “Can we do this?”
But on October 17th 2025, at 33 weeks and 5 days, our identical twin daughters entered the world.
Being early, the flurry of risk took us straight to NICU along with breathing tubes, IVs, wires. But through the chaos of those early moments, the miracle playing out in real time was clear: these girls were fighters.
Within days, they were moved to special care, then to a lower-risk hospital, and they began the slow and winding journey of hitting every marker.
As I write this, I’m sitting in my daughters’ hospital room. They’ve just turned three weeks old today. This morning, we heard words we’ve been longing to hear since that 17 week scan… “You’ll likely take them home in a few short days.”
The road to fatherhood for me was not a common one — it was a path of fear and fire,
but also of faith and grace and holy resilience.
Now, with three children in my arms, it is the greatest gift I will ever know.
To have fought a seven-year journey to get here means I will forever look at them with nothing but gratitude — for God’s kindness, the prayers of so many and the overflow I did not deserve.
Even in this remarkably hard journey, I got to be a dad to three miracles — the hope my wife and I always held.
A miracle.
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