Embryo donation stories: The author behind You Were Meant For Me shares her journey

This one’s personal

TRB Founder Eloise has had five children through donor sperm conception – so when it comes to embryo donation stories, this one hits close to home.

Today, we’re sharing Sheri Sturniolo’s powerful story of embryo donation, and the beautiful children’s book series that grew from her own fertility journey.

In this heartfelt piece, Sheri walks us through the thought process behind her decision, the emotional questions she faced, and how it all eventually led her to create You Were Meant for Me – a growing collection of books that honour the many incredible ways families come to be.

Now, over to Sheri Sturniolo.

My embryo donation story

The universe said, coldly, “You won’t be a mother.” I replied, “wanna bet?”

I am a mother – of two precious babes, both born to me through the incredible gift of embryo donation. It’s not the path to parenthood I ever imagined I’d take, but looking back now, I’m so deeply grateful that this was the way motherhood came into my life.

Thanks to this family-building option, two beautiful little souls were given their chance at life and love – and my husband and I were given the extraordinary privilege of being their parents.

The process

Getting to that point, though, wasn’t all clear skies. Like so many navigating the world of donor conception, I was full of questions in the beginning. “How will it feel to carry a child that’s not biologically mine?” “Will I love them the same?” “Will they love me?” And perhaps one of the most delicate: “How would my husband and I talk to our future children about this unusual – but beautiful – start to their story?”

I remember rocking my firstborn during those quiet, still moments and feeling my mind swirl with ideas about how to tell him his origin story in a way that felt true, loving, and age-appropriate.

For that first year, I found myself singing to him – soft verses I’d made up, weaving together the story of how he came to be. And with each word, I imagined pictures to match, slowly giving shape to his beginning in the world.

Mourning my genetics

Now, all that might sound nicely packaged, right?
Wrong.

Anyone who’s walked this road knows better, and knows that I didn’t just ‘end up here’ painlessly.

At 35, after a year of trying to conceive and one miscarriage, I had some blood work done. My OBGYN explained that the levels used to indicate ovarian reserve were “undetectable.” A fertility specialist would likely be our next step. We needed help.

I remember sitting in the car as my husband drove us home, just sobbing – deep, heavy sobs.

I’m a fairly pragmatic person, and in that moment, I’d already begun to accept that I might not have a biological connection to my future child. I knew the road ahead was going to be long and difficult. My sobs were filled with the weight of that realization.

Even though it wasn’t a physical loss, it was an emotional and deeply personal one. Just as others grieve the loss of a pregnancy or baby, though different, this was still a loss.

It was the loss of hope.
The loss of something I’d quietly carried for as long as I could remember.
The loss of a version of motherhood I’d always imagined.

And grieving that loss was an important, necessary part of my journey.

Our fertility report card

Just as my doctor had predicted, I never produced enough eggs to justify an egg retrieval. So, after four IUIs and two more miscarriages, we moved on to IVF using donor eggs.

Imagine the exhilaration when the donor retrieval gave us 26 beautiful eggs.
Now imagine the next day, when the embryologist called to tell us that ZERO, yes ZERO, of those eggs had fertilized.

I was driving to work and had pulled over, excited, to take the call. Anyone who’s waited for that call knows just how nerve-racking it is, but I had no idea the level of devastation I was about to feel. I remember hanging up the phone in complete shock.

In that moment, I became so angry. Yes, it was the disbelief of that day’s news – but it was also everything else from the past three years bubbling to the surface. I could do nothing but scream and slam my fists into the steering wheel.

For hours, all I could do was cry, shake my head, and scream.

Acceptance

This was my moment. The emotional tipping point, and a kind of deep, soul-shifting grief that cracks something open inside you.

And through that crack came acceptance. Acceptance of the path – my path – to motherhood, through embryo donation. Not just because it seemed like the only option left, but because, deep down, I knew it was my option.

Because somehow, I’d been led right here. To these babies. And there was only one explanation: they were meant for me.

Thoughts on DNA

Since I don’t have any other children, the idea that I might not love a child who wasn’t biologically related to me wasn’t something I really worried about.

My bigger concern was this: what if the child didn’t feel as strong a connection to me, knowing we didn’t share DNA?

The DNA piece is genuinely mind-bending. On one hand, we know (instinctively and intellectually) that DNA doesn’t dictate love or emotional connection. But on the other, there’s no denying the unique pull of biological ties.

Think about it: until just a few decades ago, it wasn’t even possible to give birth to a child you weren’t biologically related to. Sure, caring for and raising non-biological children has always existed – probably since our cave-woman days.

But to grow, nourish, and birth a child who doesn’t share your DNA? That’s nothing short of revolutionary. I truly believe our hearts have caught up. But I’m not sure our minds fully have.

And that mental tension is hard for adults to sit with, let alone explain to a child.

I worried that if I chose this path and waited “too long” to tell my child their story, it could trigger a kind of identity crisis later on.

So I didn’t wait. I wrote his story. I read it to him every night. And I make sure that everyone close to us knows and respects the way he came to be ours.

Talking to donor-conceived children

I know not everyone is as open about this as I am. And honestly, even I’m not always sure I’m doing it “the right way.” But what is the right way? How do we even know we’re getting it right?

My kids are still young, but I never want them to feel like I’m hiding part of their story. That’s tricky, though, because sometimes what looks like concealment to a child is really just privacy in action. For example, when you find yourself nodding along to a stranger’s casual comment just to move the conversation along. Kids are incredibly intuitive. They can sense the difference, even if they can’t quite name it yet.

So I practice. I’ve found that sharing a “version” of their story, depending on who’s asking, helps me feel grounded. If it’s someone I know well, I might say something like, “Yeah, I actually had blonde hair as a kid too, but she was adopted as an embryo and grown by me. And somehow, there are these wild physical similarities!” Or, “Nope, they don’t look like their dad since there’s no genetic link. But trust me, they’ve inherited all his quirks.”

If it’s a stranger making a comment in passing, I usually just smile, agree, and then gush about how sweet and beautiful my kids are. Because they are, and that’s what matters in that moment.

What I’m learning is that part of being transparent in a healthy way is finding the balance: being proud of their incredible story and shouting from the rooftops how freaking awesome it is. All while also just being a regular mom with amazing kids.

And I want to acknowledge this too: choosing to grow your family through egg, sperm, or embryo donation is a big decision. It comes with its own unique worries, questions, and fears. And all of those feelings are valid. Let yourself feel them. Sit with them. Reflect on them.

The truth is, love doesn’t follow one formula. There are different kinds of love, different depths, different connections. And every person you love is a new experience. A mother to biological children might say she loves all her children “the same,” but part of me believes she loves them differently. Not less, just differently. And that’s OK.

Realising that, and letting go of the guilt or pressure to make it all feel the same, has brought me a kind of peace I didn’t expect. I don’t feel loss. I don’t feel regret. I just feel love. Immense love. And gratitude – for the donors, for the path, and for how this journey has changed me.

“I am a mother,” I say, almost defiantly, to the universe. And though she doesn’t speak back, the sun hits my face, and I know she’s smiling.

Want to get your hands on a copy of You Were Meant For Me, or another title from the series? Shop the book and find new titles and updates.