IVF Support: Why I’m Gathering Your Infertility Stories

I did not go back to school because of infertility.

My goal was already there. I was already on the social work track, working toward becoming a therapist, because I have always cared about mental health, trauma, recovery, and helping people feel less alone in the hard parts of life. I wanted to provide counseling services before IVF ever entered the chat.

But then infertility happened.

IVF happened.

Pregnancy loss happened.

And suddenly, the things I was studying in my BSW program were no longer just topics in a paper. They were personal. They were expensive. They were happening in my body, in my marriage, in my bank account, in my calendar, in my nervous system, and in the quiet parts of my life that most people never saw.

During my social work studies, I started focusing more on reproductive health care, infertility, and access to treatment. The more I researched, the more I realized how many gaps exist, especially in places like Kentucky, where infertility care can depend heavily on income, insurance type, employer benefits, and whether a person can afford to keep going. KFF notes that state infertility coverage mandates vary widely, and Kentucky is not listed as a state requiring private insurance coverage for infertility services in its women’s health coverage profile.  KFF has also reported that fertility care in the United States is often inaccessible because of cost, and that public and private insurance coverage remains limited and inconsistent. 

And honestly, once I saw it, I could not unsee it.

I have been sober for five years. I live with bipolar disorder. I have been in and out of treatment. I know what support systems can look like when they exist. I know what it feels like to have language, resources, community, and a path forward. Recovery support matters deeply. Mental health care matters deeply. I am alive because those things exist.

But infertility support?

That still feels painfully invisible.

Infertility often gets treated like a private problem. Something whispered about. Something people are expected to survive quietly. Something reduced to “trying to have a baby,” as if that phrase even comes close to covering what IVF can do to a person.

Because IVF is not just appointments and shots.

It is waking up every day with your life arranged around lab work, ultrasounds, medication schedules, phone calls, insurance questions, pharmacy delays, and the emotional whiplash of waiting for the next result.

It is hoping your body responds.

It is hoping your follicles grow.

It is hoping eggs are retrieved.

It is hoping they fertilize.

It is hoping they make it to blastocyst.

It is hoping genetic testing brings good news.

It is hoping your lining cooperates.

It is hoping the transfer works.

It is hoping the pregnancy stays.

It is hoping you can afford to try again if it does not.

And sometimes, it is doing every single thing you were told to do and still ending up with empty arms.

That is not just a medical process. That is grief, uncertainty, trauma, money, access, identity, and hope all tangled together in one giant emotional sh*tstorm.

For me, infertility did not change my career path, but it changed how I understood my purpose within it. I already wanted to become a therapist. I already cared about people who feel lost, unseen, overwhelmed, or alone. But living through IVF made me understand infertility in a way no textbook could have taught me.

It made me see how much is missing.

It made me see how often women are expected to carry the emotional, physical, financial, and social weight of infertility with very little support.

It made me see how easy it is to become invisible inside a process that requires so much from you.

The tests are hard. The diagnosis is hard. The shots are hard. But there is also the part people do not always talk about: the cycles that fail, the pregnancies that end, the embryos that do not make it, the retirement accounts drained, the jobs disrupted, the relationships strained, the friendships that shift, the body that no longer feels like your own, and the future that suddenly feels like it is being held hostage by biology, money, and time.

And then there is the really painful part: realizing you are not alone, but still feeling alone because there are not enough spaces where people are talking about it honestly.

That is part of why I created IVF*This.

Yes, IVF*This is going to have humor. Absolutely. There will be dark jokes, uterus references, inappropriate metaphors, emotional honesty, and the occasional “what the actual hell” moment. Because if IVF gets to be this unhinged, we should at least be allowed to laugh while circling the void.

But IVF*This is also about truth.

It is about naming what people are carrying.

It is about making room for the experiences that do not fit neatly into inspirational fertility content.

It is about acknowledging that infertility is not only a medical issue. It is also an access issue, a mental health issue, a financial issue, a relationship issue, and a deeply human issue.

Organizations like RESOLVE continue to advocate for expanded insurance coverage because access to fertility care varies so much depending on where a person lives and what kind of insurance they have.  ASRM has also emphasized that equitable IVF access requires stronger policy solutions and broader coverage, not just voluntary employer-based options. 

That matters because when coverage is limited or unavailable, people are not just choosing whether to pay for treatment. They are choosing between treatment and debt. Treatment and savings. Treatment and work stability. Treatment and their emotional capacity to keep surviving the process.

And for many people, those choices are not really choices at all.

That is why I want to gather stories from people who have lived it.

Not because your pain is content.

Not because your trauma is a marketing strategy.

Not because comments are good for the algorithm goblin, although let’s be honest, the algorithm goblin is always lurking.

I am asking because lived experience matters.

Your answers can help reveal patterns. They can help show what people are carrying. They can help shape future IVF*This blog posts, book content, resources, and advocacy-focused work. They can help name the gaps in support, access, and understanding that too many people are still falling through.

Because sometimes the most powerful research starts with someone finally saying, “This happened to me too.”

So when I ask fill-in-the-blank questions, story prompts, or IVF confession-style posts, I want people to know this is bigger than engagement.

Your comment is not “just a comment.”

It is a piece of the larger picture.

It is one more voice saying infertility is not rare enough to ignore, not simple enough to dismiss, and not private enough to keep hidden in shame.

It is one more reminder that IVF is not just about whether someone gets a baby at the end.

It is about what happens to people during the process.

It is about the support they need while they are in it.

It is about the people who stop treatment.

The people who cannot afford treatment.

The people who miscarry.

The people who use donor eggs, donor sperm, surrogacy, or adoption.

The people who walk away childless.

The people who are still trying.

The people who are grieving embryos no one else knew existed.

The people who are smiling at work while waiting for a call from the clinic that could break their heart before lunch.

That is real.

That deserves language.

That deserves support.

That deserves research.

That deserves advocacy.

And it sure as hell deserves more than silence.

So let’s start here.

Fill in the blank:

The part of IVF or infertility that made me feel the most invisible was __________.

You can answer with one word, one sentence, a rant, a joke, a heartbreak, or whatever comes out first.

The Petri Dish is open.