Updated: Sep. 4, 2019
Originally Published: July 12, 2019
“Build it, and they will come.” And come we did—three of us. Together, we ventured into a space that felt both nostalgic and hopeful, blissfully unaware that our lives would soon shift dramatically just three weeks later. We made our mark as a family of three at the Field of Broken Dreams.
As my partner, Mark, and I planned a road trip from the East Coast to Colorado, we drew a direct line across the cornfields of Iowa, with a detour up to South Dakota to visit Mount Rushmore. I had always dreamed of seeing those presidential faces carved into stone, gazing down on the land they helped shape, while pondering the future leaders that would follow them. Iowa wasn’t the main attraction, but it was a necessary stop.
Before a pregnancy test revealed two blue lines that would alter our journey—transforming our rented Toyota Rav4 into a vehicle for two adults and an expected baby—we had chosen our Iowa destination: the Field of Dreams. Contrary to what one might think, this iconic site isn’t merely a film set; it’s a genuine, beautiful place. Everything promised by Kevin Costner and James Earl Jones was indeed there.
The road to the Field of Dreams is a winding path. You take a right off the Interstate, which is surprisingly different from the bustling interstates I’m used to—single lanes flanked by towering corn rather than gridlocked traffic. Eventually, a modest sign guides you to your destination. As you travel down a dusty road, you might wonder if you’ve made an error, but then you arrive. The picturesque white farmhouse with its wraparound porch greets you, along with the baseball field carved from the corn. Simple bleachers stand on either side of the field, rising five levels high.
What struck me most was the tranquility. A dad tossed a ball to his kids just a few feet from home plate, while teenagers strolled with their parents along the outfield’s edge, perhaps hoping to witness a little magic. An elderly couple sat in comfortable silence on the second row of the bleachers. The air was filled only with soft voices and a gentle breeze—no loud music or announcements, just an atmosphere of calm.
Even though neither Mark nor I are avid baseball fans, the field’s simplicity and the absence of commercialism made this Hollywood landmark feel more genuine. It was a nostalgic reminder of a time when life moved at a slower pace, and we embraced that by matching our rhythm to the field’s tranquility. There were no lines or tickets—just an open invitation to walk onto the field and connect with the past. Despite my usual impatience, I could have lingered there for hours, simply being.
Behind home plate, a visitor’s book awaited signatures, resembling one you might find at a charming bed and breakfast. After wandering the field and sitting on the bleachers, experiencing both the mundane and the extraordinary, we added our names. Jessica, Mark, and Baby.
That would be the last time I would mark our existence as a family of three. Little did we know, it was one of the final days we would hear our baby’s heartbeat. Three weeks later, in an overly cold doctor’s office, we faced the silence that shattered my world. I broke that silence with cries that echoed off the sterile walls. We entered the office as three and left as two.
Six years later, I still hold a piece of my heart in that small Iowa town. They built the Field of Dreams, and we traveled 1,100 miles to be there, carrying only a couple of duffel bags and dreams of a future that would remain unfulfilled. While our family eventually grew on Earth, our first, second, and third babies will only ever exist in our hearts and imaginations. They are represented by the trees in our yard and Christmas ornaments that reflect their absence.
But there’s one exception—our names in that visitor’s book. For me, the Field of Dreams will always symbolize a place where my dreams were held, only to come crashing down. It remains a sanctuary of innocence and hope. Though my dreams did shatter, it wasn’t within those moments spent strolling past cornfields. I often find myself thinking of how I would have eventually told my first baby that their name was inscribed in that book, wondering if they would ever find it. Sadly, that will never occur.
I plan to return one day. If you make the journey to the Field of Dreams, please take a moment to gently touch each base, snap a photo on the bleachers, and sign the visitor’s book. Then, look back to the signatures from 2013 and trace your hand over ours. In doing so, you’ll help ease our pain by acknowledging that our baby was here, and will always be.