As someone who has gone through IVF, I genuinely am happy when it works for other people.
I know how much goes into it—the emotional toll, the physical exhaustion, everything it takes just to get to that point.
But just like hearing someone got pregnant naturally and feeling that quiet ache…it happens when someone has success with IVF too.
And that’s the part that feels hard to explain.
I keep coming back to the same feeling—being happy and grieving at the same time.
Because it feels… abnormal.
Especially when it’s someone who went through IVF.
All of the thoughts start creeping in.
How were our situations different? Low egg reserve? Age? Financial stability?
It worked for them. Now they have a baby.
So what went wrong with my journey? What’s wrong with my body?
And even when you know those thoughts aren’t helpful… they don’t just go away.
They show up at random times. In moments you’re not expecting.
I was recently at a doctor’s appointment with my mom, and somehow infertility came up. The PA told me she was going through treatment and asked where I went, what my experience was like.
And I remember wishing I had a better story for her.
She’s young, and I truly hope she has a different outcome than I did.
When we were leaving, she thanked me for sharing. I told her good luck—and I meant it.
But it stuck with me.
Because it brought up that familiar thought… If only I could start over.
Maybe we would have done something differently. Maybe a different protocol. Maybe it would have worked.
And it’s not as simple as turning those thoughts off.
They come back. More often than you’d expect.
These are the moments people don’t really talk about.
The ones that don’t always feel safe to say out loud.
The ones that make you question yourself.
Does this make me a bad person?
Here’s the reality check—
It’s not about the other person’s success.
It’s about what it represents.
Hope.
Seeing something work for someone else… and realizing it hasn’t worked for you.
The timeline you thought you might be on… happening for someone else.
Wanting something so badly… and realizing you’re still standing on the outside of it.
Proof that it’s possible—just not for you.
And that quiet question that lingers: Why not me?
It’s not that I’m not happy for them.
I am.
It’s just that I wish I was there too. And maybe that’s just part of this—learning how to hold joy for someone else…while still carrying your own grief.
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.
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.
There is nothing “basic” about stopping IVF and returning to the so-called natural route. There is no guidebook for what comes next. The protocols and procedures that once dictated every step suddenly disappear. The appointments, alarms, and instructions are gone—but the emotions and unknowns remain. There is no protocol for going back to the basics.
When we decided to stop IVF and try naturally, I wasn’t prepared for how difficult this next part of our journey would be.
During IVF, everything had structure. There were calendars to follow, medications to take at exact times, appointments that filled the weeks. There was always something happening. Even when things were hard, there was a sense of movement—like we were actively doing something to grow our family.
When IVF ended, that structure disappeared almost overnight.
There were no more early morning monitoring appointments. No more medication schedules. No more calls from the clinic explaining the next step. The silence after all that noise felt strange. After months of constant activity and decision-making, the journey suddenly became quiet again.
I thought the quiet would feel like relief.
Instead, it felt like uncertainty.
I remember the first period I got after we started trying naturally again. I wasn’t prepared for the wave of emotions that hit me—and continue to hit me every month after that. I know the chances of me getting pregnant are slim, yet I still cling to that small, fragile hope that maybe this month could be different.
It’s back to ovulation strips, tracking cycles, and the dreaded waiting.
Each month carries the quiet belief that this will finally be the one with a positive pregnancy test.
And then the period comes.
Every time, it feels like a quiet, recurring loss.
Infertility has a way of changing how you experience time. Months don’t just pass—they are measured in cycles, ovulation windows, and two-week waits. Every month begins with cautious hope and ends with the same familiar disappointment.
Still, we keep trying.
Because after everything, defeat already feels familiar—so why not keep going?
There’s also a strange mental math that infertility creates. You start calculating timelines in ways you never did before. You think about ages, about how many cycles might be left before another birthday passes.
It’s exhausting carrying those numbers around in your head all the time.
And while we try, pregnancy announcements begin to appear everywhere.
On social media. In group texts. In casual conversations I wasn’t prepared for.
Friends are growing their families while I am still counting days, tracking cycles, and waiting.
There is an immediate ache that follows the news—one that arrives before I can stop it. It’s a strange, conflicting feeling: being genuinely happy for someone while simultaneously grieving for yourself.
You want to celebrate with them. You want to share in their joy. But there’s also a quiet sadness sitting beside that happiness, reminding you of the family you are still hoping for.
There is no manual for how to navigate this space. No instructions for how to hold joy and sadness at the same time.
You simply learn to carry both, whether you’re ready or not.
And beyond real life, there is social media.
A constant stream of curated joy—pregnancy announcements, newborn photos, growing families. Instagram doesn’t show the waiting, the tracking, or the quiet losses that happen in between.
It’s a bizarre thing being on social media and posting life while making it appear as normal as possible.
I still take my daughter to do fun activities. We still have family gatherings, playdates, birthday parties. Life goes on.
From the outside, everything looks normal.
But behind every “normal” post is the sadness that people don’t see.
This is what social media often is—showing the good parts of life and hiding the painful ones. The highlight reel instead of the full story.
That said, I do appreciate the people who are willing to share the real, raw parts of life online. The struggles with illness, infertility, grief, and the complicated realities that so many people quietly carry. It takes courage to show those parts of your life publicly.
I admire that honesty.
At the same time, I understand why most people don’t share those pieces. Some things feel too personal, too heavy, or too complicated to put into a small square on a screen.
So instead, life continues as usual—at least on the surface.
Trying naturally after infertility feels strangely invisible. There are no injections, no clinic visits, no outward signs that anything is different. From the outside, it probably looks like we simply decided to move on.
But internally, the same cycle continues.
Hope slowly builds throughout the month. You start noticing small things that make you wonder if maybe this time is different. Maybe this month will surprise you.
And then the cycle ends, and everything starts over again.
Some days I try to convince myself not to hope. To stop analyzing every symptom or wondering if this month feels different.
But hope has a way of showing up anyway.
It sneaks in quietly every cycle, whispering the same small possibility: maybe this time.
And maybe hope is the only thing that keeps us moving forward.
Infertility changes the way you see the world. It makes you more aware of the invisible struggles people carry every day. It teaches you a kind of patience and resilience that you never asked to learn.
So for now, we go back to the basics.
Not the simple version people imagine, but the complicated one that lives somewhere between hope and grief.
We keep trying. We keep living our lives. We keep showing up for our family and the life we already have.
And we keep carrying both emotions at the same time.
Because sometimes moving forward doesn’t look like progress.
Our IVF journey is over. No double pink lines appeared, no transfer date was set—instead, we are left with emptiness, frustration, and feelings of loss.
Deciding to stop IVF treatment brings a unique kind of grief. It’s not the loss of someone we had, but the loss of someone we imagined. We’re grieving the hope of expanding our family. And that’s a strange feeling to sit with, especially when we’re so lucky to have a healthy, beautiful daughter.
How do you balance grief and gratitude?
I’m grateful—I love my daughter more than words can describe. I know how fortunate I am. But I’m also grieving. I’m sad. I’m angry. And those feelings don’t cancel each other out. One doesn’t diminish the other. Gratitude doesn’t erase grief.
I find myself sitting and thinking about all of the early morning appointments, the blood draws, the injections. The endless waiting. Waiting for the nurse to call. Waiting for good news that never came. I put my body through hell, and I’m left with this heavy heart—and no baby.
Secondary infertility after motherhood is a strange and lonely place. There’s this unspoken assumption that you should be “done” or “grateful.” And I am. But I also wanted more. That’s not selfish. That’s human.
Now we’re living in the “after” part of the IVF journey—this in-between space that feels like limbo. There’s this immense sadness that lingers. It doesn’t go away. Yet, life moves forward. Parenting still has to be done. Meals have to be made. Bedtime routines still happen. Being a mom doesn’t pause for grief.
Some days, I feel like a child on the verge of a tantrum. It’s not fair, my heart screams. I’m not ready to say I’m done. But the reality is… the odds are not good. And of course, there’s still that tiny, painful part of me that whispers: Maybe it’ll just happen. But in many ways, that faint hope makes it harder.
So where do I go from here?
How long will I carry this emptiness? How long will I long to feel pregnant again? No one has those answers. There’s no guidebook for this part. No plan, no calendar, no protocol.
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.
