Pollin CEO, Melody Adhami’s Fertility Journey: In the Wake of Hope, Ocean was Born

My name is Melody, and while I’m one of the people behind Pollin, I’m also someone who has walked the long road of fertility firsthand. This is the story of how our family grew. Not the way we first imagined, but in the most extraordinary way.

I’ve carried this story quietly for years, unsure of how it would end, or whether it would end the way I hoped. And for a long time, I wasn’t ready to tell it. I think part of me feared putting words to something so vulnerable. But now, with our son Ocean in our arms, the words feel ready.

We began this journey four years ago. I was 39, sitting in a fertility clinic, listening to a doctor explain how my fertility was “rapidly declining.” The message was delivered like a weather update, very matter-of-fact. It felt clinical and cold but behind all the words, there was a glimmer of hope. And despite the odds and the statistics, we decided to move forward. Like many do, we clung to hope not yet understanding that hope will share a room with heartbreak

Our first IVF cycle felt promising on paper. Twelve eggs retrieved. Eleven mature. I let myself imagine a baby. Maybe even more than one. I didn’t yet understand how much the numbers would narrow, how it would all feel like a funnel. By day 6 and 7, we had four embryos left. We sent them off for genetic testing, confident something good would come back.

The call came on a Friday evening as I was driving to meet my husband Sep and the kids for a ski weekend in Collingwood. I picked up the phone feeling light, certain we were one step closer. But instead, I heard the words no one preparing for new life ever wants to hear: all four embryos were genetically unviable.

I pulled the car over. The tears came fast, hot, silent. The rest of that weekend was a blur. I told myself I was done. That I was too old. That the window had closed and maybe it was time to let go. I reminded myself — again and again that I already had three beautiful children. That maybe this was just how the story ended.

But Sep didn’t believe that. Gently, persistently, he kept asking, Should we try again?

It wasn’t until I sat across from Dr. Kim Garbedian, Pollin’s medical director and one of the people I trust most in this field, that something shifted. She looked at me and said, “I’ve had many 43-year-old patients who’ve had babies. Try one more time.” And somehow, despite the fear of another heartbreak, I did.

Our second round felt eerily familiar: 11 eggs retrieved, 3 embryos for testing. But this time, one came back viable. One was unviable. And one was mosaic—a kind of coin toss. It wasn’t perfect. But it was enough.

We decided to pursue surrogacy. And eventually, we were matched with Cortlyn, a woman we met through an agency, initially over Zoom. I approached it cautiously. After years of disappointment, I had taught myself not to get too close to anything too soon. Not to feel too much. Not to let excitement creep in before safety was confirmed.

For six months, we told almost no one. I tiptoed emotionally through every stage, careful not to let myself fully imagine what it would be like to meet this baby. Even the kids picked up on it. Just a few weeks before our due date, I asked my 10 year old, Cyrus, if he was getting excited. He paused and said, “What’s the probability that it’s really happening?” I told him, “Ninety-eight percent.” He nodded. “Then I won’t get too excited. Just in case. That quiet, cautious hope lived in our house for a long time.

But when July 1st drew near, something shifted again. We packed up the car and drove to Kentucky to meet Cortlyn and her family. And the moment we saw them in person, something opened in me. They were kind, open, and so warm. She let our kids feel her belly. We laughed together. Talked about parenting, life, and the excitement of the new addition.  I realized then: she wasn’t just carrying our baby. She was becoming part of our story.

The morning of the delivery, we were all up before dawn. The baby was breech and we had a scheduled C-section. I hadn’t slept much, neither had Sep, and the kids were buzzing with anticipation. By 4:30am, they were dressed and texting me nonstop from our airBnB: “Can we come yet?”, “What’s happening?”, “Is it time?”

They wouldn’t be ready to see the baby until about 9:30 but at 7:30am, I relented and told them to just come and wait at the hospital. Meanwhile, I stood beside Cortlyn in the operating room, holding my breath. I’d had three C-sections of my own. I knew what was coming. But watching someone else—this incredible woman who had carried our child for nine months—go through it on our behalf was something else entirely.  I watched her lips tremble, saw the nerves in her face, felt her strength as she asked the doctors, “Is everyone okay?” more than once.

And then, at 8:21am, Ocean was born. Healthy. Beautiful. Ours. And Cortlyn, despite the nausea, despite the discomfort, was safe and recovering.

The hospital gave us a room just beside Cortlyns. As I walked in with Ocean in my arms, Nava (my 12 year old daughter) spotted us first. She ran toward me with tears rolling down her cheeks, her arms wide open, and I knew right away, this little boy already belonged to all of us.

Since that moment, I’ve barely had a turn to hold him. The kids are obsessed. They’ve created their own system of shifts, who gets to feed him, who sits closest in the car, who sings him to sleep. Kami, our youngest, is revelling in his new role as big brother.

It’s loud. It’s chaotic. It’s absolutely beautiful.

There’s so much I could say about this journey—about the science, the heartbreak, the small miracles. About the strength it takes to keep going when every stat says not to. About Cortlyn, who gave us a gift bigger than we could ever repay.

But for now, I’ll say just this:

We are six.

We are so deeply grateful.

And after four long years — we are finally, fully home.