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At 27, I carried a secret that weighed heavily on my heart—four abortions, each one a painful chapter in my life that I rarely spoke of, even to myself. The first came when I was young and caught in a relationship with a married man. When I told him about the pregnancy, instead of support, I faced threats and fear. I felt trapped and alone, forced to make a decision no woman should have to face. The other three happened later, each time because I wasn’t ready to be a mother. Life felt overwhelming, uncertain, and I kept telling myself that it wasn’t the right time. Yet, every choice left a small fracture inside me, a silent ache I buried deep.

When I met my husband, everything felt different. Our connection was real—filled with love, trust, and passion. We had a strong, intimate relationship, and our physical closeness was something…

Turning 37 without a child felt like carrying a silent burden every day—a quiet ache that no one could see but that weighed heavily on my heart. I began to isolate myself from friends, avoiding gatherings and invitations, ashamed of the empty chair at the table and the questions that inevitably followed. At one point, I even lied, telling them I was overseas just to avoid visits to our home. The shame of not having children, of feeling like I was somehow failing, made me retreat into myself.

Work became my escape. I threw myself into online projects and deadlines, spending long nights at the computer while the world outside moved on without me. Yet, in the midst of that isolation, my wife and I found a new closeness. She was younger, full of life and hope, and while she carried sadness that we hadn’t yet succeeded in starting a…

At 28, I was a mix of anger, bitterness, and defiance, wrapped up in a shell of dryness and frustration. My husband, 42, call him OB, who once had a vibrant sex drive, had slowly slipped into a frustrating world of erectile dysfunction. Week after week, his desire faded, and with it, our intimacy. That week, I was moody—aching for raw, intense sex, craving that primal connection we used to have. But every time we tried, he faltered. There was that one night, the worst of all, when he couldn’t get it up at all. I remember the cold sting of disappointment as I silently cried inside, slipping away to the bathroom just to finish myself off. Night after night, I found myself alone in bed, aching for his touch but left wanting.

I tried everything—going down on him more, teasing, seducing—but nothing seemed to ignite the fire. The frustration…

Story by: Alethia Lewis-Brown

At 35 years old, I had never experienced the joy of pregnancy. For years, I lived with the heavy burden of fibroids that seemed to control every part of my life. The largest one measured a staggering 11.4 cm, pressing against my body and causing severe pain every month during my cycle. Some days, the pain was so intense I could barely get out of bed. The constant discomfort and the visible bulge made me feel self-conscious and trapped in a body that didn’t feel like mine. I lost confidence, and with every painful cycle, a part of my hope faded away.

One quiet evening, while scrolling through Instagram, I came across an ad for DONMama. I paused. Something about the way the ad was relatable and the message spoke to me. I was skeptical but desperate for change, so I reached out and sent them…

I still remember the night I first caught COVID like it was yesterday. It was the summer of 2020, and everything had already felt like it was falling apart — but nothing prepared me for how much more my life would change after that. I recovered, yes… but I never really recovered. Since then, sleep became something I only heard about. Tossing and turning every night, drenched in sweat, mind racing, heart pounding — and soon, that lack of sleep spiraled into high blood pressure.

Then came the thing no man ever wants to admit — my erections disappeared. Not just once or twice. They vanished. The man I used to be… gone. I didn’t even recognize myself.

My wife, Simone, tried to be supportive at first. But as the months dragged on, her frustration became louder than her compassion. “I need a child of my own,” she’d say, not…

At 29, I wanted to give up. Call me KK.

It started small — a little irritation here, a weird smell there. I thought it was something simple. Maybe a yeast infection. Maybe I was just “off.” But then the discharge started coming. Clumpy. Grayish. The smell? Lord… it could clear a room, even on my best days. And no matter what I did, it just wouldn’t go away.

What’s worse is that I knew exactly when it started — after I began sleeping with someone I thought I could trust. He was charming, affectionate, and comfortable in ways that made me question things I’d normally avoid. Eventually, I suspected he was bisexual. And while I have no judgment, what I do know is that after being with him, my vagina was never the same. I found the evidence laying right there. He would even ask for me to use…

I never imagined hearing the words, “You may need a sperm donor” would cut me so deeply.

At 37 years old, I thought I had time. Not forever, but enough. My dream was never extravagant—a small family, a backyard with a swing set, Sunday breakfasts with too many pancakes. But that dream felt like it shattered the moment the doctor looked me in the eye and told me that my sperm count was dangerously low and my motility nearly nonexistent. According to him, if I ever wanted to father a child, I might need “a little help”—code for using someone else’s sperm.

I nodded in the office, but inside, I was raging. I wasn’t ready to let go of the idea that my bloodline, my DNA, wouldn’t be passed on. I did everything they suggested—vitamins, hormone panels, even clumsy attempts at lifestyle changes—but nothing shifted. After months of frustration and…

I used to say it all the time — “Mi sick, mi cya manage,” or “Mi just feel like something wrong wid mi.” It was my response to stress, my excuse when I felt low, my language when I didn’t know how to face life. I didn’t realize I was casting spells over my own body, speaking sickness into my bones with every careless word.

By 28, my words had caught up with me. The doctor looked me square in the eye and said I had PCOS. And then came Endometriosis. A blocked fallopian tube too. And just when I thought the news couldn’t get worse, I was diagnosed with HSV. I remember looking at myself in the mirror, wondering how I had ended up here — so broken, so ashamed, so tired.

I was spiraling, and I felt like God had turned His face away from me. Every woman…

I was 31 when I found love again—real love. The kind that didn’t come with lies or manipulation or fear. The kind that made you dream about white picket fences, baby bottles on kitchen counters, and little feet running around the living room.

But I carried a heavy secret. It was so heavy I fought long and hard to tell myself that I was ok.

Before I met my husband, I had been in a long, toxic relationship. One where I loved more than I was ever loved back. A man who never truly saw me, yet controlled every part of me. I got pregnant four times by him, and each time, the answer was the same: get rid of it. I wasn’t ready, he wasn’t willing, and I was too emotionally weak to say no.

After the fourth abortion, my body started changing. I began having recurring infections—strange discharges,…

For years, I suffered in silence with erectile dysfunction. At first, I thought it was just stress, something temporary. But days turned into months… and eventually years. My ego took a hit. I stopped feeling like a man. I avoided intimacy, ashamed of what I couldn’t do.

My wife—she tried. God knows she did. She bought supplements, booked doctor’s appointments, sent me articles. But I wasn’t ready. I felt trapped inside my own body, and too embarrassed to admit that I needed help. Instead, I watched our connection fade.

Then one day, everything changed. I found out she was cheating. I saw the nudes, I saw how happy she was again and I saw how she was glowing. I was so devastated that it took another man to do that to her and not me.

That crushed me in ways I can’t explain. But strangely, it was also the slap…

For the longest time, I felt like my body had turned against me.

Hello Seba Nation, my name is Amanda, and for years I battled something many women are too ashamed to talk about: recurring bacterial vaginosis. It wasn’t just an infection—it was a shadow that followed me everywhere, especially into my most intimate moments. I was so ashamed of myself. SMH

It would start with a familiar irritation… then the discharge—off-color, foul-smelling, impossible to ignore. But what haunted me the most was the odor after sex. My gosh. No matter how much I cleaned myself, no matter what I ate or avoided, it always returned and I would lie in bed beside my partner, silently crying inside, wishing I could crawl out of my own skin. If you know, you know BV is stinkkkkkk.

Doctors gave me antibiotics over and over—Flagyl, Metronidazole, you name it. It would clear for…

I am Alessandra— and for years, my name sounded more like an unanswered question than a promise.

At thirty-one, the first doctor leaned back in his swivel chair, sighed, and said, “Your ovaries look… shrivelled.” The word clanged in my ears like a bell announcing last call. At thirty-four, the ultrasound tech frowned at the blank screen. “I’m not even seeing a womb,” she whispered, as if sparing me would soften the blow. By thirty-nine, every specialist, herb, prayer chain, and hormone injection felt like another scratch on the inside of a glass jar—something I could see through but never escape.

I blamed it on the unseen. My grandmother used to warn me about night spirits, and I began to believe her. Night after night I dreamt of a faceless stranger claiming my body—sensations so real I woke damp with shame. Other nights I wandered endless corridors, calling for someone…

For nine long years, I wore a silent badge of shame. Not because I was barren—because the world said I was.

I was a wife. A good wife. I cooked, I cleaned, I supported my husband through every storm. But the one thing I couldn’t do, the one thing that haunted me every single day… was give him a child.

The whispers started after year two. By year five, they weren’t whispers anymore. They were Facebook comments. Backhanded statements at family gatherings. Women offering themselves like sacrificial lambs.

“If it were me, I’d give him a baby.”

“You sure your womb even working?”

“You better hurry before someone else gives him what you can’t.”

I am Shelika and this is my story. First of all, thank you so much my doctor for providing a space where we can share our stories about you and about our struggles. I never found the light until I found you my Queen and ever since then I have not been the same.

For a long time, I believed I was broken.

I was 26 when a doctor first told me I had PCOS. I left that clinic with a pamphlet and a hollow feeling in my chest. But it wasn’t just PCOS. Later came the diagnosis of endometriosis, and then a hormonal imbalance that no one seemed to understand fully. My periods were irregular, my body felt like a stranger, and every month I carried the silent grief of not being able to do what I thought should come naturally — conceive.

My first real relationship didn’t survive…

I started with you when I was on the verge of going crazy from comments and more. There was an event and my job had to go and when the boss asked who would get to go and represent one of my coworkers said that I can volunteer because I don’t have any pikney and everyone else a mother. To make it worse they all started to agree and laugh. I was torn that day but one day when I heard my mom tell me that it look like me nyam all a my eggs dem why me caan breed that was my breaking point. I lost 11lbs in less than 2 weeks I was so depressed and sad and even get sick.

Ihave a friend that she and I go to college together and she send me a video you did on tiktok and said to link you. I…

I just wanted to share as I know my story will help someone as well. I am a 41 year old male who started treatments with DonMama for fertility and also stamina. I was given a lot of pills from doctors when I used to visit doctors with my wife and some of them made things worse for me. My diagnosis was pre-diabetes as well as low sperm count and I was placed on drugs to help me get better but they actually made me worse. I started having dizzy spells and rashes over my body and I was never in the mood for sex. One night my wife said to me that she is unhappy because I do not try to make love to her or touch her I just come to bed and go to sleep no matter how she looks. I could see the hurt and I…

Women

Just waiting on my 49yr old baby mama to go to a specific gynecologist I sent her to today. Once she’s in the clear, a pure noise me love! 🥳🥳🥳🥳🥳

Also, I usually tell my baby mamas over 40, always ensure you have a visa to go overseas and have your child because the discrimination here in Jamaica is SAD but it can lead to negligence and that we do not want.

#donbaby