The Long Road to Thomas – Thomas is my Sense.

It felt like an eternity before I finally fell pregnant again. Or at least, it seemed that way. Every month when my period came, I was swallowed up by an overwhelming sense of devastation. It wasn’t just the disappointment of a missed opportunity, but a gnawing feeling deep inside me that left me questioning everything. Why wasn’t this happening for me? What was I doing wrong? And the anger — it bubbled up every time. Angry at my body. Angry at the universe. Angry that life seemed to be moving forward effortlessly for everyone around me, while I felt like I was stuck in place, waiting for something that I could never quite grasp.

Every month, I would cry, and every month, I would pray. I would beg, as though my desperate cries would somehow make the universe hear me more clearly. Each time I wasn’t pregnant, I would talk to myself, reassuring myself it wasn’t the right time, or that I wasn’t meant to have another baby yet. But deep down, I felt the heaviness of that longing, pulling at me — almost like a constant ache I couldn’t soothe.

What I hadn’t expected was the anger that I would feel during that time — not just at the universe, but also at myself. I wondered if I had done something wrong. Maybe my choices, the mistakes I had made in the past, were coming back to haunt me in the form of this delay. What had I missed? What had I done to deserve this?

I even remember the night when it all came to a head. I had fallen to my knees in my bedroom, a broken mess of tears and frustration. It was as if I had hit a wall — no matter how hard I tried to force things into alignment, they just weren’t happening. It was at that moment that I felt like I had reached a fork in the road. I felt like the universe was telling me, you’ve already had your family. Two children is enough. But my heart screamed in opposition. I didn’t want two. I wanted three. I wanted more. And in the midst of the struggle, Michael, my darling husband, ever the practical one, began suggesting that maybe it was time to stop trying. He felt content with our two children. He saw the beauty of our family just as it was. He didn’t understand why I couldn’t accept what I had.

But I couldn’t. I wouldn’t. I refused to believe that this longing in my heart was something I had to suppress. I couldn’t settle. I couldn’t accept a no as the final answer. I had to try, even if it felt like I was fighting the tide.

So, I begged. I prayed. Every night, I asked the universe, please, grant me this wish. Let me have another child. Let this dream of mine come true. There were moments when I felt desperate, as though I was falling apart at the seams. I wasn’t just asking for a child, I was asking for something that felt like a missing piece of my soul.

There’s one night that stands out vividly in my memory. I turned to the Goddess, I don’t even know how I came to her in that moment. It felt as though I had no other choice but to surrender. I poured my heart into a prayer, tears streaming down my face. I remember the weight of the words as I spoke them — asking for help, asking for guidance. But for some reason, I can’t remember who she was. It’s strange, isn’t it? The one being I turned to in the midst of my most intense grief, and yet her name is a blur. I trust that it was meant to be that way. Maybe her presence was simply a reminder that the answer wasn’t about knowing who she was but about trusting that I was being heard.

And then, as if the universe was finally listening, I found out I was pregnant. When I saw the two lines on the pregnancy test, I felt a strange mix of emotions. I was relieved, yes, but also, strangely, embarrassed. It felt like I had cried so much, begged so intensely, that when I finally got what I wanted, it felt almost awkward. I had thrown a tantrum to get my way, and now that it had been granted, I felt weird. It was like a child who finally gets the toy they wanted but feels ashamed of their behaviour.

But I pushed those feelings aside. I was going to have another baby, a boy this time, and nothing else mattered. This little life was growing inside of me, and I was filled with a quiet joy. Still, naming him became another challenge. Michael and I threw out name after name, but none of them felt right. We couldn’t find anything that felt like it truly belonged to him, something that resonated with his energy, his spirit.

Once again, I turned to my guides. I asked them to show me the name, to give me the clarity I so desperately wanted. I had hoped it would come in the same way Daniel’s name had — a voice, booming, clear, and unmistakable. I waited for that moment of divine intervention, that instant when everything would click into place. But it didn’t come. No booming voice. No lightning-strike clarity. I meditated. I sat in silence. And I waited. But still, there was nothing. I was frustrated. Why was it so hard this time?

And then, something strange happened. Out of nowhere, I became convinced that I was carrying twins. I told Michael over and over again, “I’m having twins. The doctor missed the second heartbeat.” I felt so sure of it. The idea of twins consumed me. I couldn’t shake it. I even told him that when the day of delivery came, we would have two babies, not one. Michael didn’t share my conviction. He thought I was losing my mind. But I couldn’t let it go. It felt so real to me, as though the universe was sending me a message I couldn’t ignore.

Two days before my caesarean, we still hadn’t decided on a name. There was still no clarity, and the pressure was mounting. That’s when I reached out to my mother in Australia. I asked her for her blessing to name my son after her father. At first, she suggested we honour him in a different way, but after some discussion, we agreed to use my mother’s maiden name — Thomas. It felt right. The name had strength. It connected my son to my family’s roots. It was perfect. We all loved it.

Thomas was born a few days later, and from the moment I laid eyes on him, I was in love. There was something captivating about him — his energy, his presence. I couldn’t take my eyes off him. He had this pull, this magnetic quality. Even now, people are drawn to him in a way that is beyond explanation. He has a light about him, a charm that is so natural and effortless, it feels like he carries the world’s love with him wherever he goes.

It wasn’t until Thomas was about three months old that I finally looked up the meaning of his name. I had been so focused on the journey to get to him that I had never thought to check the name’s significance. And when I did, I was struck by the revelation. Thomas means “twins.” It was like a cosmic joke, a moment of perfect synchronicity. I had been so convinced I was carrying twins, and here was his name, directly linked to that feeling. I couldn’t help but laugh. The universe had a sense of humour after all.

It was in that moment that I understood. The journey wasn’t just about the outcome. It was about the process, the lessons along the way. The longing, the prayers, the doubts — they all led me to this place, to Thomas.