The Sarah Update

I want to begin with a warning: this is a deeply personal and very emotional post. I’m going to be completely transparent—as I’ve tried to be throughout this entire process. My hope is that by sharing my story, it might help other non-birthing mothers who find themselves holding complicated, uncomfortable, or less-than-positive emotions after birth.

So here it is. My update. You may want to read the other two updates first, The Japan Update & The Morgan² Update.

Ever since Morgan told me she wanted to be the one to carry, there’s been a quiet tinge of jealousy. We always assumed I would be the birthing mother. It wasn’t until after meeting with the IVF facility that we realized this wasn’t going to be our journey.

When Morgan first brought up the idea of her carrying, I met it with hesitation—and if I’m being completely honest, a bit of disdain. How dare she take this away from me, something I had dreamed about doing for years. Instead of focusing on what was best for our family, my brain went inward. I was caught in my own emotions rather than the bigger picture.

I was honest with her from the very beginning, telling her that this was going to be a difficult pill for me to swallow.

I spent weeks working through those feelings, layered heavily with guilt. I wanted to be supportive—this was the love of my life offering to carry our child. How could I be anything less than grateful? And yet, there I was, crying myself to sleep, trapped in my own head, sharing these feelings with no one but my wife.

Using tools I’d learned in previous therapy sessions, I slowly began to reframe the decision. Over time, I was able to see it for what it truly was: a gift.

We began the process. You’ve seen the posts—I won’t rehash it all here (you can always revisit our three-part story). But once we started, something in me shifted. Deeply. Naturally. Beautifully.

I recognized my role: the supporter. And by god, I was going to be the best damn support there ever was.

Caregiving is in my bones. Falling into that role wasn’t accidental—it felt like fate, like something I was born to do. And truthfully, I enjoyed almost every moment of it.

Until we had to move to Japan.

Holy. Shit.

That move was one of the most challenging things I’ve ever done. Packing up our home, doing the heavy lifting, navigating the process of getting our dogs across the globe—it was relentless. The toll it took on me physically and emotionally was severe, and recovery took months.

The outcome was weeks of sleeping just two to three hours a night. Intense emotional swings. Crushing self-doubt. Panic attacks that didn’t last hours, but days. All while trying to keep it together for my very pregnant wife.

Once we finally moved into our new home, I thought relief would come. Surely now things would get easier. But it took months for the apartment to feel even remotely like home—something I had been craving deeply, especially as I wanted to nest before Mojo arrived.

We made mistakes with the move (which you can read about in our Japan update).

Underpacking and having to repurchase nearly everything—furniture, lighting, rugs—was overwhelming. The self-doubt piled on. How could we have misjudged this so badly? How did we get this so wrong?

By this point, it had been nearly two months of extreme sleep deprivation, unrelenting anxiety, and the overbearing pressure to make this apartment feel like home before the biggest life change we’d ever face. I felt like I was drowning. And worse, I couldn’t see a light at the end of the tunnel—everything ahead felt harder, not easier.

On top of all of this, I was trying to restart my business here in Okinawa. What I didn’t fully grasp before moving was just how saturated the photography market is. It makes sense—photography is one of the few careers military spouses can take anywhere, and I genuinely support anyone finding a way to build income in this constantly shifting lifestyle.

But for me, it meant trying to break into an already crowded space.

I dropped my prices to less than a third of what I charged before. I advertised. I even gave away several free shoots just to get my name out there. Spoiler alert: none of it worked. I began grieving the business I once had—shooting 10 to 30 sessions a week, being well known in my community.

It was deeply humbling.

Then, just weeks before Mojo’s arrival, something softened. We finally felt settled after countless hours scouring thrift stores and Facebook Marketplace to replace what we’d left behind. We spent those final weeks wrapped in a kind of quiet romance. I explored the island, soaking in the last moments before becoming mothers.

I swam no less than six hours a week—laps in the pool, snorkeling with the girlfriends I’d made here. I found community. I found peace. I let myself enjoy the adventure before the chaos inevitably returned.

I want to preface what comes next with this: I have long and deeply looked forward to becoming a mother—specifically with Morgan. The strength of our relationship and the bond we’ve built over the years is extraordinary. I can’t imagine a life that doesn’t include her, or a family that isn’t ours together.

And that’s what makes the next part so difficult.

The Birth of Mojo

I imagined the birth of Mojo would come with a tidal wave of feeling—pure ecstasy, overwhelming love, joy, maybe even fear. Some kind of unmistakable emotional marker that would tell me, this is it, you’re a mother now.

Throughout the entire delivery, I was right by Morgan’s side. Her support. Her rock. Whatever she needed in that moment. That part came naturally to me, almost instinctually.

When I saw his head begin to crown, my body filled with excitement and pride for my wife. I couldn’t believe what I was witnessing—what she was doing. More than anything, I felt deep gratitude that Morgan was healthy and safe.

And then he was here. In all his weird-head-shaped, screaming, kicking glory.

And I felt… nothing.

At least, nothing like what I expected.

I didn’t feel that instant connection people talk about. I didn’t feel claimed by him. I felt like a friend. A bystander. Another caretaker in a room full of nurses. I was there for my wife—but not, it seemed, for this tiny human I would hold for the next 50+ years (I plan on living a long life).

I watched my two Morgans, and their bond was immediate. The way my wife looked down at him. The way he instinctively latched, feeding from her body like he had always known exactly where he belonged.

It was beautiful. Sacred.

And it broke something open inside me.

I was in awe—and at the same time, I was unraveling. I didn’t know what to do with the heaviness in my chest, the quiet panic whispering, something is wrong.

I told myself it was just the chaos. Hormones. Shock. That the feelings would come. That soon everything would click and feel natural.

But two nights passed in the hospital, and the feeling didn’t change.

There was a deep, horrible, black void inside me. Self-doubt. Anxiety. Fear. Shame. Every negative emotion showed up, loud and uninvited.

When we brought Mojo home, I kept telling myself this was temporary. Just because I didn’t birth him—just because I couldn’t feed him with my body—didn’t mean I was any less of a mother.

But that’s not how it felt.

I didn’t feel like a mother. I felt like a caretaker. I was there to support Morgan so she could fully give herself to this miracle that had joined our family.

So I leaned into what I knew.

I became the supporter again. The caretaker. The rock. I stayed busy. I stayed useful. I never allowed myself to pause long enough to sit with the grief, the confusion, or the ache of not feeling what I thought I was supposed to feel.

And I want to be very clear—this is not a story about not loving my child. I love Mojo deeply, fiercely, with every ounce of my soul.

What I didn’t have were the feelings I expected. I didn’t have the “oh my god, I’m a mother” moment.

Two weeks into this new life, I finally told Morgan the truth. About the guilt I carried daily. About how I still didn’t feel like a real mother. About the terrifying question looping in my head: What is wrong with me?

How could I feel this way during what was supposed to be the most beautiful experience of our lives?

As she always is, Morgan met me with compassion. She reassured me that these feelings were normal. That nothing was broken. That things would change—it would just take time.

Weeks passed. I bonded with Mojo more each day, but the feeling lingered. I still felt like his nanny, not his mother. I thought seeing my name on his birth certificate would change something. It didn’t.

We did skin-to-skin. Took daily walks. I took him out on my own, hours at a time, so Morgan could heal and rest.

And still, I struggled.

I spent days and sleepless nights wondering if I was broken. If I was missing something fundamental. If I was a psychopath for feeling this way.

I regretted not breastfeeding him—to have that additional bond—something I’d dreamed about since I was a little girl, pretending to nurse my dolls. (This is called induced lactation and is common among adoptive parents, parents using surrogates, and same-sex couples.) That decision still follows me.

I reached out to friends—a same-sex couple who got pregnant two weeks after us. I asked the non-birthing mother if she felt anything like this.

Her answer was immediate. No.

I was gutted. Was I alone? The only one? Did I even deserve to be a mother if these were the emotions I was carrying?

But slowly—so slowly I almost didn’t notice—it began to shift.

Mojo started recognizing my voice. He smiled and cooed when I spoke. When I held him, he would lock eyes with me and smile so intensely it felt intentional.

Like he knew exactly what I needed.

Like he was saying, “Calm down, Mom. You’re the only one who thinks you’re failing.”

I don’t know the exact moment things changed. There was no big “aha.” It just… happened.

If you know me, you understand why this was hard. I’m not a slow-and-steady person. I’m a balls-to-the-wall, 150% all-in, love-hard-and-fast kind of human.

This was different.

This was a slow-cooker emotion. It required time, patience, and trust. There was no rushing it. No shortcut. No fix.

Just time.

I feel more like a mother today than I did yesterday, and I know I’ll feel more like one tomorrow than I do today. It’s a slow burn, and it’s teaching me more about myself than I ever imagined.

It’s too soon for me to say I’m grateful for this challenge—but it has taught me things I will never take for granted.

I don’t know what the future of my career looks like. I don’t know what my “life calling” is anymore. And for now, I’m putting the pressure to do something bigger than myself on pause.

I’m soaking in the small moments: huge smiles, first giggles, blowout diapers my wife and I high-five over, nighttime stories before bed.

Living slower. Living present. Living with intention—not to become more, but to simply be here.

And realizing that this is enough.

I am enough.

Words I have said to my clients, my friends, my family—but never fully allowed myself to believe.