What Do You Do With the Baby Stuff? The quiet in-between of holding on and letting go

Our daughter is almost six now, and I still have boxes of baby clothes and things I’ve saved—just in case we were lucky enough to have another child.

And I keep wondering… how long do I hold onto them?

Because getting rid of them feels like something bigger. Like I’m acknowledging that this is really over.
That this chapter is closing.

And that feels a lot like giving up.

But keeping them doesn’t feel right either.
It feels uncertain. Like I’m stuck somewhere in between.

I haven’t opened some of those boxes in a long time.
Not because I forgot about them… but because I’m not sure what I’d do if I did.

I think I’ve just been leaving them there—
not ready to let go, but not really holding on either.

And the truth is—it’s not really about the items.

It’s about what they represent. What we hoped for.

Because every box is a reminder of everything we went through with IVF… and the quiet reality that it didn’t work.

The amount of tiny onesies I’ve saved is honestly a little ridiculous. But some of them are special.

Some of them hold memories— of a time when everything still felt possible.

I know I can get rid of some of them.
I probably should.

But I also know… I need to keep a few.

Maybe it’s not really about what you do with the baby stuff.

Maybe it’s about figuring out what you’re ready to let go of… and what you’re not.

And maybe, for now, it’s okay that I’m still somewhere in between.

Infertility isn’t rare – so why is access still so hard

Infertility sucks. Plain and simple.

It’s crazy that we’re finally starting to talk about infertility more—more awareness, more conversation—yet for so many people, access to care still depends on where you live, where you work, and what your insurance decides to cover.

Because it’s not so black and white.

Just because your employer offers insurance that includes infertility coverage doesn’t mean IVF is included. And for most people, it isn’t.

Some states have laws around fertility coverage—about 20 to 25 plus D.C.—but only around 15 actually require IVF coverage. And even then, it’s not always straightforward.

So people pay out of pocket.

A single IVF cycle can cost anywhere from $15,000 to $30,000—and that’s with no guarantee it will work. And most people need more than one.

I know this firsthand.

Our insurance covers none of it. And like so many others going through infertility, we’ve had to figure out how to make it work—sometimes that means loans, sometimes it means hard decisions, and sometimes it just means hoping you can keep going.

And then you look at other places, like parts of Europe, where infertility is treated as a public health issue—not a private luxury.

Which makes you wonder… why isn’t it treated that way here?

It’s hard enough to find out you have to go down this path—one that is mentally and physically exhausting.

But then there’s the other part…
figuring out how to pay for it.

And eventually, for some people, making the decision to stop—not because you want to, but because the “well” has run dry.

We stopped because it became too expensive.

And that’s the part that’s hardest to say out loud.

Because if it were up to me, I would put my body through 100 more cycles if it meant having a baby at the end.

But that’s not our reality.

Even with more awareness—more employers offering benefits, more states passing laws—access to care is still uneven and limited.

And it shouldn’t be this way.

No one should have to put a price tag on whether or not they get to grow their family.
And right now, too many people still do.

We Need to Talk About Infertility: Breaking the Silence

For something that affects so many people, infertility is still talked about so quietly.
Like it’s something we’re supposed to carry on our own.

I didn’t fully understand that until I was in it.

Infertility isn’t just a medical condition—it’s something you live with every single day. Even in the moments where you think you’ve moved on… it finds a way to creep back in.

On the outside, life can look completely normal. But internally, there’s this constant loop—thinking, waiting, hoping… and sometimes trying not to think about it at all.

And for something that feels so loud internally, it’s still such a silent battle.

Which makes me wonder—why is something this big still so quiet?

Because this isn’t just personal.
It’s bigger than that.

Infertility is a public health issue that deserves attention, support, and real change. Because behind every statistic is someone waiting, hoping, and trying to hold it together.

And that shouldn’t be something anyone has to do alone.

So why does awareness even matter?

For one, it reduces isolation. It helps people feel seen in something that can feel incredibly lonely. It builds understanding—for the people going through it, and for the people who want to support them but don’t always know how.

Because there’s often a gap between what people think infertility is like… and what it actually is.

Expectation:
“Just relax.”
“It’ll happen when the time is right.”
“There’s a reason for everything.”

Reality:
Infertility—and the treatments that can come with it—are an emotional rollercoaster.
It’s constant waiting.
Holding onto hope… and sometimes losing it.
Trying to stay positive while also protecting your heart.

Infertility Awareness Week is about bringing visibility to something so many people are silently going through.

Because maybe it’s been a quiet struggle…
but it was never meant to be invisible.

What people don’t see are the appointments, the waiting rooms, the constant mental load—even when you try to take a break from it. The bruises from injections. The endless blood draws. The egg retrievals that don’t go the way you hoped.

The questions you carry about your own body—why isn’t it doing what it’s supposed to?

It’s not something you just go through.
It’s something that stays with you.

It’s hard to explain how you can feel heartbroken and hopeful at the same time. Happy for someone else… while quietly grieving for yourself. And then the guilt that follows.

What actually helps isn’t fixing it.

It’s being seen.
It’s being heard.
It’s someone saying, “I’m here,” without trying to make it better.
It’s not having to explain everything just to feel understood.

If we want this to feel less isolating, it starts with awareness—but it can’t end there.

It looks like more open conversations.
Better support.
And access to care that doesn’t feel out of reach.

Because something that affects this many people shouldn’t feel this invisible.

Maybe it’s been a silent battle for so many of us…
but it was never meant to be carried alone.

If you want to learn more about infertility, find support, or get involved in advocacy, organizations like RESOLVE: The National Infertility Association offer resources, education, and ways to connect.

Navigating The Unexpected Journey: Secondary Infertility

I became pregnant with my daughter relatively easily. I was 34 when we found out we were expecting. My husband and I had waited about eight years after getting married before trying to conceive. Fast forward four years, and we are now facing secondary infertility.

If you’re unfamiliar, secondary infertility occurs when someone conceives their first child without fertility treatment but struggles to conceive again. It wasn’t something I had ever considered—why would I? I got pregnant within two months and successfully gave birth to my daughter. The idea of now needing medical intervention to have another child has been incredibly difficult to process.

After experiencing a chemical pregnancy, I went to my OB for an ultrasound to check my follicle count. That day, when my doctor told me I had only two follicles on my right ovary and none on my left, our IVF journey began.

I am grateful to have friends who, unfortunately, know the IVF process all too well. I had no idea how much support I would need—emotionally, physically, and financially. The toll IVF takes is almost indescribable. One of my closest friends warned me that the hardest part is having hope, only to be met with disappointment over and over again. She was right. With every hurdle you clear, there are five more waiting. There are no guarantees in IVF, and with that comes a complete lack of control—two very difficult things to accept.

I was 39 when I started my first IVF cycle—estrogen patches, injections, a mock embryo transfer, and an egg retrieval—only to end up with one embryo that came back chromosomally abnormal. Now, at 40, I’ve just completed my second cycle, with the exact same result. One embryo, not viable.

Waiting for that call from the doctor is gut-wrenching. It’s either a step toward a viable pregnancy or another cycle of injections and procedures. And now, here we are—about to start our final round of IVF, holding onto hope for a better outcome.

Failed IVF cycles bring grief, anxiety, depression, and guilt. After our first failed round, I felt lost. I wasn’t sure how to process the grief of losing an embryo. I remember listening to a podcast about the many ways people grieve during IVF, and it resonated deeply. The loss of a potential life—a little pocket of cells—was more devastating than I had anticipated. I had just put my body through so much, and for what? Nothing.

We had to pause before starting the next round. I needed to give my body a break, and we needed time to recover financially. This last round of IVF was the hardest yet—mentally, physically, and emotionally. The endless procedures, the uncertainty, the complete lack of control—it left me feeling utterly defeated.

It’s an incredibly painful reality to pour so much time, effort, and money into something with no guarantee. And yet, if we are able, we continue. Because even in the darkest moments, hope lingers.