When I had a miscarriage in early 2017, it was such a lonely experience. None of my friends had talked about having miscarriages—it’s just not something that’s discussed publicly. And then my husband told me, “Babe, do you think you’re the only woman going through this?” I was like, “Well, no…but still, no one talks about this stuff, at least in my circles.” So I felt like the only one.
Black women feel a constant pressure to be superwoman—to be strong. We’re the moms, the best friends, the workers, the backbone of the family. So struggling to naturally have children? That’s a sign of weakness that makes you feel like less than a woman. It’s as much about stigma as it is about pride.
In some ways, I had to open up publicly about my miscarriage, because we had already started filming Love & Hip Hop when I found out I was pregnant. So the show had footage of me with the pregnancy test, telling my husband we were having a child, and the two of us shopping for baby stuff. And then I experienced an ectopic pregnancy, which meant that the egg had attached itself to my fallopian tube. I needed an emergency surgery and to have my tubes removed. Suddenly, there was no baby.
After the miscarriage, I was like, “I’m calling Love and Hip Hop, I’m telling them to take all of that out of the show. I just don’t want to talk about it.” My husband was the one who encouraged me to open up. “Babe, the reason why people love you and relate to you is because you’re real and you’re honest,” he said. “If you say how you really feel, there’s some women out there that you’re really gonna help. And you’ll realize that it’s not just you,” he said.
I was scared, and I was embarrassed. But he was 150 percent right. So many women have commented on my Instagram or come up to me to say, “Just hearing your words, seeing what you went through, I finally felt like it wasn’t just me. I felt like less than a woman, and I felt like there was no one I could talk to about it, but you opened that door, so thank you.”
Hearing from so many women who had gone through similar struggles actually helped encourage me to try IVF. But it was scary. My husband and I sat down with a couple of different doctors until we found one who we were comfortable with, and they pretty much told us: “There’s not a guarantee this will work, but that does not mean that it’s not gonna happen.”
We knew it was going to be a long process, but I had no idea how expensive it was going to be. My friends, people around me…no one I knew was talking about IVF, much less how much it costs. But there were so many numbers thrown at us. One medication is $7,000…another procedure is almost $15,000…freezing my eggs would be $500. The amount it can take to bring a life into the world is mind-boggling.
I wish I’d had a friend to talk to about what IVF would be like. I was even surprised at how many different steps there can be and how much waiting there is. You wait while they draw your blood and take samples, wait for test results, wait for medications, wait for egg retrievals…the process is long. And while all of this was happening, I was taking anywhere from two to three injections in my stomach and abdomen every day for about two months, and then there was a giant needle that had to be stuck in my buttocks for eight weeks straight. Fun!
When we were able to successfully retrieve and then implant my egg with my husband’s sperm, we were over the moon. But then there was a lot of anxiety, especially after having experienced a miscarriage.
Our music, the TV show, careers, money—nothing mattered more to my husband and I than focusing on having this baby. I’m 39, and I’m now a month away from my due date. My husband calls the baby the Golden Child. It was a miracle because so many people were saying it might not work. We sacrificed a lot with no guarantees.
I do think time played a big part into my situation. I have an 18-year-old son, and I put off having a second baby for many years. I’d say “Okay, I’m gonna do it next year…” and then I’d get another contract. “Okay, I’ll do it in a few more months…” then I’d start a new TV gig. Before I knew it, I was in my mid-30s and still putting it off, not realizing my body was not the same body I had when I had my son Jayson, when I was 20. My body’s not even the same as it was when I was 30!
I thinka lot of working women feel this way—like they’re forced to make the choice between motherhood and their career.
And for female artists, it’s on a whole different level. We’re supposed to be seen as sex symbols. You’re told to appear single so people want you and desire you. All of these things are stuck into your head by the industry. So when you’re in the limelight, it takes a special kind of woman to say “I don’t care what anybody says.”
I commend the Cardi Bs, Serena Williams, the Beyoncés of the world, successful women who are like “You know what? I love my job, and I love my fans, but I also love my partner and I want to be a mother.” Because when all of the cameras and fame and your career are gone, what do you have left?
Black women, man. We are amazing creatures! Women in general are just amazing creatures. We are able to do so much under so much pressure. So I want to tell any working woman that wants to have a baby: Don’t ever let anyone make you feel ashamed of wanting to take time to build your family.”
And for those who are having issues starting a family, whether it’s infertility, or rebounding from a miscarriage like me, there is nothing wrong with you. You are still amazing. Whether you can or cannot bare children, it does not diminish or lessen the fact that you’re a woman, and you are you. My journey has been difficult, and a lot of women go through difficult things. But we are strong. And I wouldn’t change any single part of my story.
