Incompetent but Hopeful

“This is the book I needed but couldn’t find.” That sentence haunted me after every loss. I searched for stories that looked like mine. Stories full of faith, fear, and the quiet kind of strength it takes to get up again. I didn’t write this book as a professional. I wrote it as a woman who cried herself to sleep, questioned God, prayed through pain, and still believed in miracles.
My name is Morgan Goodwin. I’m from Atlanta, Georgia. I am married to Marquise Goodwin, a retired NFL wide receiver. I am also a retired track and field athlete. I ran the 100-meter hurdles. But more than that, I am a mother. I’ve faced infertility. I’ve lived through pregnancy loss. I am no stranger to a difficult journey to motherhood. This journey has not been easy. It’s involved deep pain, but also deep love. It included a village of people who stood beside me, prayed with me, and helped guide us on the right path. One person in particular, who deserves my deepest thanks, is God.
My husband, also a believer, played such an important role in our story. With both of us keeping God first, we were able to navigate through the heartbreak and confusion and still find purpose. I feel I am qualified to write this book, not because of credentials, but because I have lived it. Because I know what it’s like to break and still believe.
I wrote this book for women like me. To help them. To encourage them. To tell them: Don’t give up on your dream of becoming a mother. Pregnancy loss doesn’t discriminate. It doesn’t care about status or lifestyle or the image of perfection. It hurts no matter who you are. And if you’re reading this in the middle of your storm, please know: your feelings are valid.
One reason I decided to write this book is because my husband and I were already in the public eye. We announced our pregnancy in 2017 with so much hope in our hearts, believing we’d soon hold our healthy baby in our arms. But that’s not how it happened. At 19 weeks pregnant, we lost our son. And suddenly we were forced to publicly announce our heartbreak.
At the time, I was surrounded by so many women who were also expecting. We were all pregnant around the same time, and that gave me a sense of sisterhood. But after our loss, that sense of community turned into something I couldn’t share in anymore. Everyone else had their baby, but I came home from the hospital with empty arms. Alone.
It was the most humiliating feeling I’d ever experienced. Not just because of the grief, but because of how public our loss was. But over time, I had to shift my thinking. I had to find meaning. I had to believe God was still at work. And I realized: if I could be brave enough to share my journey, maybe I could help others avoid the same outcome.
That’s when I started talking about a condition I’d never heard of until it affected me: incompetent cervix. This condition, incompetent cervix, is so silent, most women don’t even know they have it until it causes the unthinkable. It doesn’t give warnings. It doesn’t cause pain. It just happens. And that’s exactly why I felt it was my responsibility to share my journey. I had to speak up, not just for myself, but for every woman walking blindly into a loss she didn’t know was coming. If I could warn even one woman, it would be worth it.
I wanted women to know: You are not alone. You can survive this. And even after the worst has happened, God still has the final say.
I’ve been there, on the floor crying out, questioning everything, wondering if I’d ever carry a child to term. But I kept going. And I kept God first. I clung to my faith even when fear tried to drown it. If you’re in the middle of your storm, I hope this book encourages you to do the same. You are stronger than you think, and even now, hope is still alive.