As I sit writing this with my plain buttered toast, I’m encouraged to be grateful for the nausea I still feel at 19 weeks and 4 days—a not so gentle reminder of the human being that I’m finally growing.
When my husband and I first started trying to conceive, we assumed it would happen naturally. But after months of tracking ovulation with no success, we realized it wasn’t going to be that simple. While I understand why high school sex ed emphasizes the fear of teenage pregnancy, one of the biggest gaps in reproductive education is that you can’t actually get pregnant every day of the month. Frustrated and eager for answers, we sought help from a fertility clinic in NYC.
I had no idea what I was signing up for. The endless bloodwork, ultrasounds and early-morning appointments quickly became my new normal. My alarm was constantly set for pre-work checkups, and after two more unsuccessful timed intercourse cycles, we were diagnosed with unexplained infertility.
The clinic recommended we try IUI. At the same time, my husband and I were moving to New Jersey, hoping for more space and lower rent—ideally, for a growing family. But after just one week of waking up at 5 AM to drive into the city for monitoring, I knew I couldn’t keep up this routine. I called my OB/GYN for a recommendation closer to home, and that switch changed everything. My NYC clinic had felt cold and clinical, but my new New Jersey clinic, despite being inside a hospital, felt warm, personal and supportive. Looking back, I’m so grateful I made the move when I did.
After quickly getting situated at the new practice, we tried IUI during my next cycle, only to have to cancel due to too many follicles. I was crushed and felt like I had wasted more time. The doctor said we could try IUI again the next month, but results would likely be the same, or we could move to IVF. My answer was clear, although I was terrified of the next steps.
The First IVF Cycle—And a Difficult Lie
As we mapped out the timeline of my first IVF cycle, we realized the retrieval would likely fall during a long-planned vacation with my entire extended family. My doctor gave me two options: postpone for a month or cancel the trip. The thought of waiting another month felt unbearable.
Instead, we made a difficult decision—we told only our parents about our fertility journey and starting IVF, while telling the rest of my family that I had COVID and couldn’t join. Was it the right choice? I’m not sure. But at the time, it felt like the best way to protect myself. Throughout my IVF journey, my therapist often asked if opening up to more people might help me feel less anxious or alone. But I wasn’t ready to answer questions or navigate other people’s reactions. More than anything, I just wanted to protect my peace.
Finding an Unexpected Lifeline
While I wanted to keep my fertility journey private, I also knew I needed to talk to someone who had been through it. I remembered seeing a post from an old friend—someone I had been close with but lost touch with over the years—about her daughter being an IVF baby. On a whim, I reached out, adding, “Of course, if you’re not comfortable talking about it, I totally understand.”
Within minutes, she responded and set up a FaceTime for that evening. What I didn’t realize then was that she would become my greatest lifeline through the entire process. She shared invaluable tips—how to prepare for injections, which ones hurt the most, what recovery would be like and how to navigate the emotional rollercoaster. Unlike the overwhelming doom spiral of Googling, her guidance felt grounding and reassuring. She even set reminders to check in on me around shot time each day as I approached retrieval. Though we had drifted apart over the years, the bond we formed through IVF was instant and unspoken—one of shared struggle, resilience and understanding.
The Retrieval: A Rollercoaster of Hope and Fear
On the day of my retrieval, July 4th, feeling extremely bloated and uncomfortable, I was counting down until it was time. One ultrasound tech gave me a comparison that has stuck with me and I’ve repeated many times when explaining the process: Normally your ovaries are the size of almonds, but during the retrieval prep and process, they grow to be the size of grapefruits, so much so that they’re touching.
And just like that, it was over. One moment I was being wheeled into the procedure room, and the next, I was groggily blinking awake in recovery. The first words that tumbled out of my mouth were, “How many did they get?” I held my breath, silently praying that enough healthy eggs had been retrieved so I wouldn’t have to go through this again.
I was one of the lucky ones. My eggs—and later, our fertilized embryos—were all incredibly healthy. We ended up with what felt like a full baseball team’s worth of strong-quality embryos for the future. It was a relief, a small glimmer of hope in a process filled with so much uncertainty. This is how I’m meant to have a baby, I thought. But just as I let myself believe it, the next setback came crashing down.
The Transfer—and Another Curveball
Due to the success of my retrieval, my body needed time to recover and we weren’t able to do a fresh transfer, which was fine because we wanted to test the embryos anyway. But when the next month came around, I was ready.
I completed the necessary medication protocol, pills, shots and all, and started the Progesterone in Oil (PIO) shots. Words cannot express the pain that came along with this. I couldn’t walk, I couldn’t sit, I couldn’t lay down, nothing was comfortable. But I thought to myself, anything for a baby.
I went in for the transfer with a full bladder—big mistake. Yes, you’re supposed to have a mostly full bladder, but here’s a helpful tip: don’t start chugging water until they actually take you back into the room. My doctor was running over an hour behind, and I was desperate. Legs crossed, practically vibrating in my seat, I must have looked miserable because a kind nurse finally leaned in and said, “Why don’t you go half and release some?”
I stared at her like she had seven heads. Half? How was I supposed to stop mid-stream when I was on the verge of peeing my pants?! But somehow, I managed. Finally, the doctor arrived, we did the transfer, and just like that, it was over.
The next day, when they called to check on me, I mentioned the unbearable pain I was having from the PIO shots. Turns out, that level of pain wasn’t normal. They immediately switched me to oral medication, which was a huge relief. But now came the hardest part—the dreaded two-week wait.
Anyone who has tried to conceive naturally or with intervention knows how excruciating that two-week wait can be—you’re in your own head thinking you’re feeling things that you probably aren’t. With IVF, doctors often say not to test at home because at-home pregnancy tests aren’t nearly as accurate. But I was of the mindset that I didn’t want to be told over the phone. I had already lost so much of the element of surprise, I wanted to have that special test moment with my husband. I took the test and it was a clear, stark negative. I instantly began to spiral—maybe I wasn’t meant to be a mom. When the blood test came back the next day, it confirmed the negative test was accurate and the transfer didn’t work.
While I was going through this, my sister was having her own slew of medical challenges unrelated to fertility. Ultimately, after a series of tests, her team of doctors concluded that she likely had endometriosis and that they planned a surgery to remove the tissue a few months later. When I shared this with my fertility doctor on our regroup phone call after my failed transfer, she said, “If your sister has endometriosis there’s a 70 percent chance that you do, too. We should try an endometriosis protocol next.” That stat really struck me. Why had no one thought about that before for me and just marked me as “unexplained infertility.” While I don’t have symptoms of endometriosis, to this day I think about how I could have better advocated for myself if only I had known more about the causes of infertility. With better education, could I have more quickly found the root cause and not wasted that first beautiful embryo?
A Life-Altering Injury—and Another Delay
With a revised plan in place, we were ready to start a new transfer cycle with my next period. But just days before it was set to begin, my world was turned upside down—again. I had a terrible fall that left me needing surgery on my dominant arm.
The moment my husband and I were alone in the ER, I broke down, sobbing, “This is going to mess with everything for the baby!” As if the injury wasn’t bad enough, every nurse, resident, and doctor who walked into my room asked about my medications, forcing me to relive my entire fertility journey over and over. The emotional toll of repeating it—explaining the shots, the protocols, the transfer I was about to start—felt almost as painful as my arm. Almost.
To make matters worse, the ER was part of the same hospital system as my fertility clinic. How was there not a better system in place to automatically pull my records and medications? It felt like another cruel hurdle in a process already filled with them.
At this point, it was all just too much. I had battled anxiety and depression before, but this was my lowest low. My arm was immobilized from fingers to shoulder, making even the simplest tasks impossible. And with my injury, our IVF journey had to be put on hold—again.
A Second Transfer
Then, as if the universe wanted to twist the knife a little deeper, I got my period two days after coming home from the ER. Try inserting a tampon with your non-dominant hand while already resenting your period for every other reason imaginable. It was a cruel joke.
Realizing I needed support, I started medication to help manage my anxiety and depression. Not all SSRIs are safe for pregnancy or conception, so I worked closely with a psychiatrist specializing in reproductive health to find one that wouldn’t interfere with our fertility journey.
Still, we pressed on. The following month, as my period approached, I was ready. It was a Friday at 4 PM, and I was on the phone with my fertility clinic, counting the days since my last dose of painkillers and anesthesia, hoping I’d be cleared for a transfer. We made it by just one day.
And so, it all began again—medications, monitoring, oral progesterone (instead of those brutal PIO shots) and finally, the transfer. This time, I timed my water intake better (lesson learned!). Then came the hardest part—waiting. Again.
When I went to take the at-home test days later, I peed on the stick and it read “ERROR”. My husband couldn’t help but laugh, “How did you pee on it wrong?” I immediately made him get in the car and run to Walgreens for a new test.
Round two. I took the test, waited those agonizing two minutes, and then—PREGNANT.
I burst into tears, overwhelmed, barely able to get the words out to my husband. From that moment to now, everything feels like a blur—a blur of nausea, of tears, of anxiety. A constant loop of one question running through my mind: Will everything be okay?
My therapist once told me that my ongoing anxiety likely stems from the trauma of everything it took to get here. At first, calling it trauma felt dramatic—I hadn’t had a miscarriage or experienced what I thought qualified as true loss. But through this process, I’ve learned that trauma is deeply personal. It doesn’t need a specific label or a defined threshold; its impact is what matters.
Looking back, I know I wouldn’t have made it through my version of trauma without the unwavering support of my IVF mentor. When my husband asked if I would share our journey to get pregnant, my answer was an immediate yes.
Recently, a close friend confided in me about her embryo freezing journey. She wasn’t ready to conceive yet but was taking proactive steps for health reasons. Her experience had been grueling—three retrievals, medication complications and an emotional rollercoaster.
At the time, I wasn’t publicly sharing my pregnancy, but something in me knew I needed to tell her my full story. When I did, she burst into tears—relieved to see hope on the other side and grateful to have someone who truly understood.
This journey is impossible to navigate alone—I know I couldn’t have done it without support. But it’s also impossible to fully grasp unless you’ve lived it. My hope is that anyone in my circle, near or far, feels safe enough to reach out—for advice, reassurance or just a listening ear. No one should have to go through this in silence.
If You’re On This Journey—You’re Not Alone
If you’re navigating your own fertility journey, I encourage you to find that one person who can help guide you—whether it’s a trusted friend, a mentor, or someone through your doctor’s network. Protecting your peace is important, but having the right support can make all the difference.
No matter how endless this process may feel, you are not alone. Someone else has walked this road before and is ready to help you through it.
