Campaign Story

There are stories you never expect to tell and some journeys you never expect to walk. Ours is one shaped by loss, love, and a hope that—somehow—has kept our family standing when everything else felt like it was falling apart.

My name is Chanda. For years, my husband, Levi, and I have held a space in our heart for another child, a dream built on a foundation of profound love and unimaginable loss. I have been pregnant twenty times. Only four of those pregnancies made it to term, and today, we are blessed with three beautiful, living sons. Each loss carved a piece of my heart away, a silent grief carried through years of hope and heartache.

We have experienced 17 pregnancy losses.

One of them was our daughter, Ella, whom we carried to 40 weeks, right in the middle of what would become 10 consecutive losses. We lost her during the week of Chanda’s birthday—a week that should have been filled with celebration, now forever marked by grief, a week that has become one of the most painful markers in our lives. What was once a birthday now arriving each year carries grief and heartache, forever tied to the loss of our daughter. Ella was deeply wanted, fiercely loved, and she will always be part of our story.

Her loss changed everything—including our children.
Our three boys have grown up alongside hope and heartbreak. They’ve celebrated pregnancies that never came home. They’ve learned grief before they had words for it, including attending their sister’s memorial.

Our youngest, especially, struggles. He cries about wanting to be a big brother, asking why he is the only one who hasn’t gotten to experience what his older brothers already have. Watching him carry that longing—watching him wait—has been one of the most heartbreaking parts of this journey. And yet, we are still here: together.

The losses has woven us closer. We’ve learned how to hold each other’s pain, how to communicate on hard days, and how to keep choosing love when it would be easier to shut down. We are resilient—but resilience doesn’t mean untouched. It means carrying hurt while still moving forward. We have led by example, teaching our boys to put one foot in front of the other, to take things one step at a time when that’s all we have, and to trust that we can get through hard things together. Hope has not erased our pain, but it has held us together. We are strong, but we are also hurting—deeply, collectively—and there remains a space in our family that longs to be filled.

Ella is still present in our home. Her clothes and blankets are carefully kept, waiting to be used by a baby. Her photos adorn our walls. A display case holds her hand and foot casts, ultrasound photos, the pictures from her memorial, and the hospital hat she wore. And when we leave our home, we take her with us—wearing small urn pendants, carrying Ella on our chests as we move through the world, on everyday errands and family adventures—because in reality, without the hurt, she would have been with us then too.

In the months after Ella’s loss, Chanda underwent heart surgery while still shattered by grief. Levi took time off to care for our family while she healed. We didn’t start a GoFundMe. We didn’t ask for help. For nearly a year, Chanda’s heart rate had to stay under 100 beats per minute—a significant challenge while living on a farm and chasing three boys.

When Ella died, we didn’t ask for help then either.

We chose to carry our grief without asking for help, believing that was what strength looked like. We held everything close. Quietly. Privately. That choice came with a cost. Grief carried alone is heavy—and lonely. Yet even in the depths of loss, one thing never changed: our belief that our family was not finished.

Since Ella, we’ve learned why loss has followed us for so long. Through extensive testing, we now have medically diagnosed reasons that explain what we have endured. Treatment has been extensive and challenging in its own right. And when we have conceived again— even with the most aggressive, carefully monitored care imaginable—we have still been unsuccessful even with, blood draws every 48 hours, hormone and blood thinner injections and doing everything medically possible, loss has continued to find us again and again.

Bianca. Bennett. Emmelina.
And a couple too early to name.
All after Ella.
Grief stacking upon grief.

So now, we are choosing a different path. After much soul-searching, countless medical consultations, and deep acceptance of the reality Chanda’s body has endured, we have reached a point of surrender. We are turning our hope toward other paths to complete our family, through surrogacy. Surrogacy is not something we ever imagined for our family.

This is not about replacing what we lost—nothing could ever replace Ella. This is about completing our family. About continuing to heal. About giving our children—and ourselves—the chance to move forward while still honoring what we carry. At this point, short of selling our souls, Levi said simply, “Whatever it takes.”

We are now establishing care with Pacific Northwest Fertility in Seattle, a clinic we trust deeply. This path is hopeful—and it is expensive. More than we can do alone.

For the first time, we are asking for help. After years of heartbreak and perseverance, we have reached a place of humility. We have carried so much on our own for so long. But we believe in the power of community—in compassion, shared humanity, and the understanding that sometimes people simply need support.
In addition to this campaign, we are applying for grants and working with some IVF coverage through our current insurance. Chanda is operating a “side-hustle for surrogacy” through our family farm LLC—selling fresh sourdough bread, cinnamon rolls, and farm goods, with every dollar going directly toward surrogacy-related expenses. We will also be offering raffle tickets in the near future (details to come) as another way to raise funds and invite community involvement.

Every contribution—whether through donating, purchasing from our farm, participating in the raffle, or sharing our story—moves us closer to covering the medical, legal, and surrogacy costs required to bring a child into our family. We are working, sacrificing, and contributing in every way we can. Asking for help now is not a lack of effort—it is an act of honesty.

We are humbly asking for your support to help us fund this next chapter. Every contribution will go directly toward the medical, legal, and surrogate fees required to finally bring a baby home. Your generosity can turn our years of longing into a lifetime of love. Your support brings us closer to a future we’ve fought for with everything we have.

A future where our children welcome a final sibling. Where our youngest becomes the big brother he longs to be. Where healing continues—not by forgetting what we’ve lost, but by making room for what is still possible. Where laughter lives alongside remembrance, and Ella’s legacy remains one of love, hope, and resilience.

If you are still reading this, thank you. Truly. If you’ve never donated to something like this before, please know: we didn’t ask for help when we were drowning. We carried unimaginable loss without asking—for years. We are asking now not because we are weak, but because we are ready to let our village in.

Your compassion helps a family who has carried so much learn how to receive—after giving so much.

With our deepest gratitude,
Chanda & Levi and the Boys