Caitlin MacIntyre (30 - she/her) and Rafferty (5)

Houston, TX

“The month prior to conceiving Rafferty I had an early miscarriage. It was technically a "chemical pregnancy" which I feel like isn't seen as a real pregnancy or loss, but after struggling with infertility and wondering if I'd ever be able to get pregnant, it was super devastating and I couldn't get out of bed for days. I had already imagined an entire life from the moment I saw those two lines. It felt like yet another failure of my body after the endless heartbreak and frustration that my PCOS had caused, even though I knew logically that wasn't true. We had told a lot of people in our families as soon as we found out, since everyone knew we were trying, and then we had to tell them and our donor that I was actually not pregnant anymore. I couldn't bear to talk to anyone about it, so my partner did all the calling and explaining and shielded me completely from everything, but I know that made her own grieving process more difficult. She was, and always has been, the best partner in everything. I was so relieved to get pregnant right after, but where the first pregnancy had been pure joy and elation and unfettered optimism, it was really hard for me to just be happy and trust we were going to get a baby after losing the first pregnancy. Fortunately, our little Raffe made sure I vomited well into the second semester so I would know he was there before I started to be able to feel him moving around. ;)

How has parenthood impacted your body image?

It's been a long time since I've had any self-consciousness about the way my body looks. I think my body is beautiful and I think it has been beautiful in all its iterations. All the women in my family have this body-- a lot of the people I love look this way, and I think we're all spectacular. When I was trying to get pregnant I did a super intense Paleo diet to try to regulate my hormones--essentially I was eating nothing that I liked eating and a lot of times eating nothing at all because I couldn't find convenient food that was compliant, but was willing to do anything for a baby. I lost a TON of weight and looked almost unrecognizable to myself. Everyone always commented on how amazing I looked, and how much weight I'd lost, which was not a compliment, since I felt like I wasn't living in my real body, it was just this temporary form while I maintained this ridiculous, restrictive, and honestly, disordered eating, and clearly it was the one people thought was better.

But I did eventually get pregnant, and I LOVED that experience. I loved a little human inside of me. I felt radiant and amazing and just ecstatic. I had a great birth and breastfed Raffe for over 3 years, which I also absolutely loved, and then when he weaned I gained all the weight back and then quite a bit. My body is the biggest its ever been by far and I think I look beautiful and sexy. I love seeing the ways carrying and feeding him have impacted and changed and left marks on my body, and I also feel really myself and really comfortable with my body in this form. I also appreciate it so much for doing all the hard work, and it was hard for my poor cystic ovaries, to give me Rafferty.

Parenting has also made me more intentional in thinking about my body --to talk frankly and with affection about my body and the way it looks to my son and also just in general to the people around me, for my son to see that I think my body is great and for him to hopefully learn to love his body and see the beauty in the diversity of bodies around him. Unfortunately, I definitely have struggled a lot with institutionalized fatphobia in a much bigger way in this larger body (even as a small fat with quite a lot of size privilege) and that has made for a lot of challenges and frustrations and heartache in my ongoing infertility struggle.

What was your postpartum experience?

I had a magical (and intense) labor and birth at home in the water. I felt so loved and supported by my birth team--my amazing midwife, my mom, my sister, and my partner. When I dreamed of what my birth would look like, the reality ended up pretty darn close. I felt powerful and strong and so at peace after he was born. I had a great postpartum adjustment. My partner, Jennifer, was amazing at supporting me. I didn't leave the bed aside from bathroom trips for a full week (except to visit my new nephew- my sister who was at my birth went into labor the day after me)-and I was able to heal and choose when I wanted to do more at my own pace. Jennifer even facetimed me from the closet so I could pick Rafferty's outfits without getting out of bed.

Breastfeeding went very smoothly aside from a bout of mastitis a few months in, and we adjusted to side lying nursing and co-sleeping quickly so I was tired, but not super exhausted, even though he nursed essentially all night long. It felt so right to finally have my baby. I felt like I had been waiting for him forever and wanting children was the one thing I had always known to my core I wanted. When I was a kid and people would ask me what I wanted to be when I grew up, I knew I was suppose to pick a career outside of the home, but I always could just think "MOM!" So when he was finally here it just felt so serendipitous, like-- finally.

I know a lot of people struggle with feeling like they're losing themselves after having a baby, but for me I felt like, "There she is." Like this is where I've been heading all along and I've finally made it. I felt like I knew what to do intuitively and I loved figuring him out and getting to know him, and I loved seeing my partnership and relationship grow and shift with the addition of this tiny, perfect person. It felt like such a relief to have finally arrived. Writing it down it seems like an overly polished fantasy world, and it certainly wasn't (and isn't) without its emotions, challenges, and frustrations, but I feel like my postpartum time was one of the best times of my life, and certainly the start to the best chapter of my life (so far).

What is your truth?

My truth is that I am a powerful and confident and talented woman. I feel parenting is my calling and I feel so lucky to be able to do it, and I am also very good at it. The work I do as a mother to my child and a caregiver to the people in my life is incredibly valuable. Even if people can't see all the things I'm doing, I can, and I don't have to play small or downplay my value. I want new parents to know that the work you do day in and day out, the slog, the invisible unseen labor you are constantly holding is incredible, and just because we live in a society that doesn't value caregiving labor, doesn't mean its not indescribably, immeasurably valuable. You don't have to downplay yourself and your skills and your talents, just because they don't come with a paycheck, and you don't have to hold yourself to impossible standards of perfection to know you're doing an awesome job.

Why did you choose to participate in this movement and share your story?

After struggling with annovulatory PCOS and some known donor complications with Rafferty, I knew it might be hard to get pregnant again. With R I managed to get pregnant with DIY at-home insemination with a known donor both times I actually ovulated after a year and a half of stringent diet, twice weekly accupuncture, and Chinese medicine. When we were ready to try again I decided I didn't want to restrict my eating in a way that didn't feel healthy or life-giving for my body, and I especially didn't want to severely restrict my eating with my child watching me. So I decided I would take fertility drugs and then I would certainly ovulate and when I was able to ovulate, I would get pregnant easily.

We started the process almost 3 years ago and I'm obviously still not pregnant. I fully believe that if I had a lower BMI or I wasn't queer I would have a baby by now. Doctors assume if I just lost weight all my problems would magically be solved. Instead of making habit/behavior based suggestions (or making them but assuming I'm not compliant because I'm still fat), trying different medications and protocols, or reassessing when things don't work all they can talk about is losing weight or doing IUIs or IVF which I can't afford instead of just concentrating on working on getting me to ovulate.

My first OBGYN said I would NEVER get pregnant, refused to prescribe anything but Clomid, which I am resistant to. He also wrote on my actual medical chart that I didn't want to try IUIs at a fertility clinic (which cost $3,000 a pop) and wanted to "continue using a turkey baster." My last OB/GYN stopped prescribing me letrozole, which had been working for me, because I hadn't gotten pregnant after 3 ovulatory cycles and one where I didn't ovulate. The last cycle, he actually told me that this was "really frustrating for [him]." For HIM. The fertility clinic I visited wouldn't give me meds and monitoring if I was doing DIY cycles at home, which is the only thing we can afford because our insurance doesn't cover fertility. Every clinic in my major city we called said the same thing. They cited STI risk, even though I have used our donor before so I have already been exposed, would be doing the inseminations myself so they would not be responsible, and straight, cisgender couples can also be at risk for STI transmission and do not face similar scrutiny.

In short, Rafferty is almost 6 and it's becoming clear we are just about out of financial resources and I am out of emotional resources to keep trying, and am now in the position of trying to come to terms with the fact that I will almost certainly not be having another baby. It is sometimes hard to love my body when I can't get it to do this one thing, this most important thing to me. I want to have these pictures of my beautiful baby and my beautiful body to remind myself that this life I have is wonderful, that my body gave me him, that he is the most magical person and it could never have given me anything better.

I want to remind myself that my body is not a failure and I am not a failure. Capitalism is failing when it puts parenthood out of reach to people who don't have significant class privilege. The medical industrial complex is failing when it says people's complexity can be boiled down to a number on a scale and when it calls itself LGBTQ friendly but can't accommodate the ways queer people build families. I hope someday I stop bursting into tears when I see siblings fighting at the grocery store. I hope I can slowly let go of the overwhelming grief that I can't expand my family. I hope I can let go of the vision in my head of a house full of kids, and just love all the wonderful things about it being just the three of us and all the love we could possibly imagine. I hope one day all the pregnancy announcements and birth pictures are only sources of joy and wonder, and not tinged with jealousy and longing. I hope I can someday look at my body and say, "It's ok. You did great. You did just what I needed you to." I hope this can be a little bit healing for me, and a first step.

Tine (30 - 39 weeks pregnant), Tavish (35), and Miles Henry Mathiasen (19 months)

Grass Valley, CA | Reno, NV

Tine shares -

“I have never felt such gratitude or such heartache as I did while trying to conceive Miles. Gratitude that our dear friends would open their family to ours and take on a known donor role and all that comes with that - logistically, socially, politically, legally. Gratitude to live in a state that makes it relatively easy for my trans spouse to claim parenthood to a child to whom he is not genetically related. Gratitude that I had little reason to doubt that my body was capable of creating and carrying life. But for me, gratitude and heartache turned out to be so intrinsically entwined that it was almost impossible to feel one without the other.

There was the heartache of the cycles that did not "take" despite everything being so painstakingly planned. Heartache and fear that I was at the whim of another person to grow the family I so desperately wanted. Most deeply, there was the heartache of not being able to create a family privately and on our own schedule with my spouse. The very evening our friend offered to be a donor, an evening of hope and celebration and joy, Tavish and I drove home and sat in our driveway while I cried. We mourned. It was only when we had finally found our path to family that we were able to face the mountain of grief we carried in not being able to do so on our own.

So far, conceiving and carrying our second child has been easier on me than my first pregnancy was, more mild in both joy and pain. I feel more emotionally tempered. My body and spirit have gone through the wringer these past two years and I’ve found my power. I have no doubt that I can get through this pregnancy, delivery and postpartum period.

Years ago, much of my queerness involved dysphoria and discomfort in my body. Finding usefulness - all the bits and functions involved in conceiving/carrying/feeding a new life – has helped me embrace my physical self. Once I had Miles, I felt connected to my body and its amazingness in a new way. However, the message that bodies are “made for this” and are therefore magical/beautiful/powerful had a dark side for me. If I was made for this, what did it mean that I had had a cesarean delivery? If I was made for this, why did feeding my child hurt me? And if birth was magical, why was I so angry?

With the help of doctors, time and a strong support network, I was able to realize that I had been woefully underprepared for a less-than-ideal birth and postpartum experience. My body and I weren’t broken, we just needed extra support. I've made different decisions with this current pregnancy - choosing a different birthing facility with more options and resources for delivery, surrounding myself with young and queer-affirming doctors, not being married to a particular method of delivery - and my spouse and I are confident that we've set ourselves up for success no matter how this impending birth unspools. My body is awesome and I am proud of it, and if it needs help, that doesn't mean I am any less.

The first three weeks postpartum with Miles had both joys and struggles, but then everything became terrible. The baby became inconsolable and cried nonstop for weeks. I also rapidly developed pretty severe postpartum depression. Thankfully, I recognized this drastic shift in my mood and when I did, I immediately sought help and was able to bring the PPD under control. Just last week, I met with a perinatal psychiatrist and we came up with a plan to get ahead of any potential PPD that could arise after this delivery. Prevention will hopefully make all the difference in this next postpartum period.

When I wore my queerness more brightly on my sleeve and prior to Tavish's transition, the two of us stuck out in most "family-friendly" settings. Now we are the image of successful domesticity and look like a straight, cis, married couple. This ability to pass comes with great privilege and great loss. Where can we go to find our community, especially now that we live in a small town and have kids? How do we stay visible and out? Well, we've learned that queerness extends beyond sexual orientation and gender identity and into family structure as well. Forever connecting our family to another through known donation is one of the queerest things I'll ever do. I'm proud of it and it requires navigating a different kind of "outness" that I'm still learning to perfect. Queer kinship in all forms is powerful and never to be underestimated.

I want to capture this incredible moment my family is in. The last few days of my final pregnancy. My son on the verge of becoming a brother. My second child still unknown. My spouse freshly recovering from surgery. We are beautiful. I want to remember for myself and I want the world to see us, too. Update: Willa Lane was born healthy and happy at 41 weeks. Her birth was a phenomenal experience, no doubt one of the best of my life. Postpartum with a newborn and a toddler is wild and witnessing sibling love is magic.”

Tavish shares -

“Being transgender, I have experienced grief and sadness in lacking sperm to procreate with my wife. Before we found our donor, I didn't know how we would be able to have children. The cost of sperm at a bank felt out of reach and the prospect of having to pay for IVF or IUI was daunting. In that time, I wished my body had the genetic material we needed to grow our family. I have always wanted children and had begun to doubt that they would every be a reality in my life.

When our son, Miles, was born, it was a long labor that ended in c-section. Miles and I were very quickly separated from my wife. It was 2 long hours before we were reunited with Tine. At this point in time, I had not had top surgery. I wore a binder all the time. I was so very self conscious about my chest and how it looked. I wore baggy tee shirts all the time and was always tugging at my shirt, afraid it would cling too much. So, when the nurse asked me if I wanted to have skin-on-skin time with Miles while we waited for Tine to finish in surgery and recovery, I declined. It makes me sad that he had to wait those 2 hours to have skin-on-skin contact, and I was just too uncomfortable in my skin to make it happen for him. I had top surgery this last spring. I am more confidant and comfortable in my body than I have every been. I am excited for the skin-on-skin time that I will be able to share with our daughter.

Postpartum time with Miles was awesome, beautiful, crazy, terrifying and exhausting all at once. He was so tiny and helpless and perfect in his little body. He was also colicky and cried for weeks. There were times I just wanted him to stop crying and nothing would sooth him. There are pictures of me holding this crying baby while bouncing on a yoga ball, shaking a rattle and holding a music box. We tried everything to sooth him, and nothing worked. It felt like it would never end, but then it did. In this time Tine was experiencing postpartum depression and I was trying to hold the pieces of our world together. To say the least, it was a trying time and we got through it with love, patience and lots of tater tots.

My wife introduced me to this movement. I normally would not be comfortable with minimal clothing photography, but the message behind what this project is doing is powerful. I chose to participate to show others that a family that appears to be hetero can underneath be super queer and awesome. I want to represent the invisible queer families and show the world how beautiful we are.”