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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.

Hello? Infertility Is Reproductive Healthcare, Too. I had one of those moments recently where my brain basically stopped, looked around, and went, “Wait… are we seriously not going to talk about infertility?” I was listening to a presentation on reproductive health, and it covered so many important things: abortion access, pregnancy support, maternity leave, childcare, workplace barriers, and the way people are expected to grow a human, heal, go back to work, afford daycare, and act like a six-week recovery window is totally normal and not completely unhinged. All of that matters. Deeply. But the whole time, I kept waiting for infertility to come up. And it never did. Not once. No mention of the people who are desperately trying to get pregnant but cannot without medical help. No mention of IVF. No mention of fertility treatment. No mention of the medication costs, the insurance gaps, the scheduling chaos, the emotional toll, or the way your entire life suddenly revolves around follicles, lab results, injections, ultrasounds, and whether your ovaries decided to participate in the group project. And I remember sitting there thinking: how is infertility still not automatically part of reproductive healthcare? Because reproductive healthcare is not only about preventing pregnancy, ending pregnancy, carrying pregnancy, giving birth, or parenting after birth. It is also about what happens when pregnancy does not happen. It is about the doctor’s appointments where no one can give you a simple answer. The bloodwork that becomes routine but never stops feeling loaded. The ultrasounds that happen before there is even a baby to see. The medications that cost more than some people’s rent. The treatment plans that sound straightforward until your body responds like it did not read the email. And that is the part people miss. Infertility is not just “trying for a baby.” It is not just “doing IVF.” It is not some luxury science detour for people who are impatient or dramatic or just need to “relax.” It is medical care. It is a diagnosis. It is treatment. It is monitoring. It is procedures. It is medication. It is waiting rooms and lab calls and consent forms and bills and calendars and needles and hope that has to keep putting on pants every morning. And when infertility gets left out of reproductive healthcare conversations, people going through it become invisible in a space that should have included them from the start. That invisibility hurts. Because IVF is not a neat little backup plan. It is not “just try this and you’ll get pregnant.” It is shots. Bloodwork. Ultrasounds. Waiting. Bad news. More waiting. More bills. Hope. Grief. Hormones. Confusion. Google spirals. Pharmacy panic. Calendar math. Emotional whiplash. And occasionally crying in your car because someone said, “Everything happens for a reason,” and somehow you did not launch yourself into the sun. Infertility is physical. It is emotional. It is financial. It is relational. It is wildly inconvenient in the most devastating way. So when reproductive healthcare conversations skip over infertility, they are not just missing a small side note. They are missing an entire room full of people holding syringes, receipts, embryo reports, broken hearts, and tiny scraps of hope. And hi. We’re in that room. We’ve been here the whole time.

This isn’t meant to discourage anyone. Not even a little. This is a “hey bestie, I love you, please don’t get blindsided” post. When I started my IVF journey, I was hopeful and honestly kind of excited. I thought I had done my homework. I read the things. I saved the links. I watched the cute transfer day videos where everyone’s wearing matching socks and crying in their car in a good way. Then five years passed. And I learned there is no pamphlet, no Google search, and no clinic handout that can truly prepare you for how layered IVF is. Financially. Physically. Emotionally. Logistically. Spiritually, if you’re into that. Existentially, if you’re me. So this post is not here to scare you. It’s here to give you what I wish I had: a realistic heads-up, in plain language, so you can walk into this with your eyes open and your nervous system slightly less ambushed. IVF cost is not a “cycle.” It is a whole episode of care. A lot of public talk about IVF cost sticks to a per-cycle number. The problem is that an “IVF cycle price” is often just one slice of the full treatment pathway. In real life, the costs stack up in phases, and they often come from separate billing streams.  In my research paper, I modeled IVF cost as an ART-only episode of care , starting at the first infertility appointment after at least 12 months of trying, and ending at live birth. It includes diagnostics, monitoring, medications, retrieval, lab services, common add-ons like ICSI, storage, transfer cycles, follow-ups between stages, and a probability-weighted “unexpected cost” adjustment to reflect the fine print many of us learn about the hard way.  Important note: this is ART-only , meaning it does not include prenatal care once you transition to OB care, hospital delivery charges, neonatal care, or postpartum care., or expesses like travel costs for treatment, etc. IVF cost line items: the stuff that sneaks up on people Here is the part I wish someone had said out loud to me early on: Even if a clinic lists a base IVF cost, your actual path can include many other costs that are not “extras” emotionally. They are often required medically or structurally. In the model, the major buckets include:  Intake + diagnostics: consults, labs, ultrasounds, HSG/SIS, semen analysis, infectious disease labs, sometimes carrier screening Clearances: some clinics require psychological or psychiatric evaluation in certain situations Retrieval attempt costs: stimulation meds, monitoring, retrieval procedure, anesthesia, embryology services Common add-ons: ICSI is frequently used and may be billed separately Transfer attempt costs (FET): meds, monitoring, thaw/handling fees, transfer procedure Storage: embryo storage during delays between retrieval, testing, and transfer Unexpected extras: extended stimulation, extra monitoring, cancellations/partials, lab add-ons, admin fees, extra embryo handling To reflect “the fine print effect,” the model applies a 15% unexpected-cost uplift on treatment-phase totals, because real-life IVF often includes fees and add-ons that expand out-of-pocket totals beyond what people expect at the start. IVF cost to live birth: what the national numbers suggest This is where I want to be extra careful with tone: These are not “you will pay exactly this” numbers. Costs vary by region, clinic, and plan. What these estimates do is show why so many people feel blindsided when they budget based on a single cycle price.  Using national outcome anchors (SART) plus published cash-pay pricing anchors, the modeled successful-path ART-only IVF cost comes out to:  Women Under 35 (autologous eggs) $40,122–$57,738  Women Ages 38–40 (autologous eggs) $44,802–$64,060  *These estimates reflect average attempts among people who ultimately achieved a live birth, not a guaranteed price tag for any one person.  And here is the key reality check: Even when outcomes are “better” on paper, the pathway can still require more than one retrieval or more than one transfer. IVF is not a one-and-done process for a lot of people.  Donor eggs: often higher odds, still not “cheap” Donor eggs are a separate pathway with different cost and success structures. In the paper, I included a donor egg model because comparing donor and autologous as if they are the same thing is misleading.  Using published cash-pay estimates, donor cycles were modeled around: $41,900–$50,400   SART donor oocyte outcomes vary by embryo state (fresh, banked, thawed), with live birth probabilities per recipient start roughly ranging from about 37.5% to 49.6% .  Also worth saying out loud: donor pathways may include additional costs beyond a single clinic bundle, like egg bank or agency fees, donor compensation, shipping, legal contracts, travel, and required counseling sessions.  Translation: donor eggs can absolutely be a hopeful option for many families, but it is still not the “easy button” financially. The quiet reality: lots of people discontinue, and it matters This is the part of IVF that does not get enough attention. Discontinuation is not rare. Many patients stop before achieving live birth due to cost, time pressure, emotional and physical strain, work and travel constraints, and life simply not pausing for IVF.  In the paper, a systematic review and meta-analysis reported an average discontinuation prevalence of 54.29% , and other research notes dropouts can occur early, sometimes after the first cycle, with reports as high as 65% in some U.S. contexts.  This matters because discontinuation represents a group that can be left involuntarily childless after significant investment . It is not just “treatment didn’t work.” It is often a pile-up of barriers IVF cost is also a mental health topic If you have ever felt like IVF rearranged your brain chemistry, your identity, your relationships, your body, and your entire sense of time, that is not you being dramatic. It is a normal response to a high-stakes, invasive, uncertain medical process.  The research summarized in the paper reports elevated anxiety and depression in infertility compared to fertile controls, and it highlights trauma and grief-related symptoms in infertility and ART experiences.  This is why I say “true cost” includes more than money. It includes what this process asks of you, especially when outcomes are uncertain or losses happen. What supports exist (and where the gaps still are) There are supports out there. They are just fragmented, uneven, and often not built into care in a consistent way.  Supports that can help Peer support groups (like RESOLVE) Infertility-informed counseling and reproductive mental health specialists Some clinic-based counseling requirements (especially in donor pathways) Grants and scholarships (limited, competitive, not a guaranteed solution) Financing plans (often dependent on credit and income) Medication discount options (varies by drug and eligibility)  Gaps that still hit hard Mental health support is often out-of-network or self-pay Rural patients and those far from clinics carry extra travel burden Grants are limited and do not cover most of the real costs Financing can exclude people already carrying debt Employer-based coverage is uneven and tied to job status There is little structured support for people after discontinuation, even though that group can carry long-term grief  The takeaway: be hopeful, but do not go in blind You can be hopeful and still be realistic. You can believe it might work and still want a clear financial plan. You can be excited at the beginning and still deserve someone to tell you the truth about how complicated IVF cost can get. If you are just starting, my biggest “IVF*This bestie” advice is this: Ask for itemized estimates early Ask what is not included in base pricing Ask how medications are handled Ask about add-ons you are likely to be offered Ask about storage fees and how billing works Ask what happens financially if a cycle is cancelled Build in cushion if you can, because IVF loves surprise plot twists  This is not about discouraging you. This is about giving you the map I did not get. And if nobody has told you today, I will: you are not weak for feeling overwhelmed by this. IVF is a lot. You are allowed to plan for the reality while still holding hope. What blindsided you the most during IVF — financially, emotionally, or logistically? Comment below! Want the Full Data and Sources? This post summarizes findings from my research paper: “The True Cost and Consequences of Assisted Reproductive Technology in the United States.” 👉 If you want the full cost model, citations, national data breakdown, and mental health research, you can download the complete study here: Because if you’re going to make big financial and life decisions, you deserve more than a brochure.

Infertility and The Scarlet Letter : The Invisible Letter No One Warns You About When most people think of The Scarlet Letter , they think of adultery, sin, and a bright red “A” stitched onto a woman’s chest. What we do not always talk about is what the novel is really about underneath all of that. It is about how society decides what makes a woman worthy.And what happens when she falls outside that definition. That is where infertility enters the conversation. Womanhood, Measured and Monitored In Puritan New England, a woman’s value was tightly bound to sexual morality and motherhood. In modern life, the language has changed, but the measurement has not. Instead of purity, the expectation is productivity. Instead of moral law, it is biology.Instead of a minister, it is a calendar, a doctor, a protocol. Infertility quietly teaches women that their bodies are being graded. On cycles. On numbers. On outcomes. If you do not “produce” in the expected way, you feel it immediately. Even when no one says it out loud. The Invisible Scarlet Letter Hester Prynne’s letter is impossible to miss. Infertility’s letter is invisible, but it follows you everywhere. It shows up in: casual questions about when you are “starting a family” baby showers you feel obligated to attend the card aisle that suddenly feels hostile the silence when you say, “It’s been hard” No one sees the letter, but everyone seems to sense it. You are marked, just quietly. Public Shame vs Private Grief Hester’s punishment is public. She is made an example of. Her suffering is visible and deliberate. Infertility works in the opposite direction. The suffering is private, and the expectation is composure. You are grieving, injecting, waiting, miscarrying, recalibrating your entire identity, and still expected to: show up to work smile politely attend holidays be “happy for others” Both experiences are rooted in control. One is loud. The other is silent. Neither is gentle. Who Owns a Woman’s Body Hawthorne’s novel is ultimately about who gets to decide what a woman’s body means. In The Scarlet Letter , it is the church and the community. In infertility, it is medicine, timelines, insurance, laws, and social expectation. Your body becomes a project. A problem to solve. A thing to be discussed in rooms you are not always emotionally prepared to sit in. And when it does not cooperate, the blame feels personal, even when it is not. Identity Beyond the Letter One of the most powerful parts of The Scarlet Letter is not the punishment, but what happens after it. Hester eventually becomes more than the letter meant to define her. She exists beyond shame, beyond the role imposed on her, beyond what the community decided she should be. Infertility forces a similar reckoning. Who am I if motherhood does not happen the way I was promised? Who am I if my body does not follow the expected narrative? Who am I outside this label? These are not questions anyone prepares you for. But they are deeply human ones. The Modern Takeaway Infertility is a modern Scarlet Letter. No fabric. No embroidery. No public square. Just expectations burned quietly into your nervous system. And like Hester, many of us are not broken by it. We are reshaped. Softer in some places. Stronger in others. More honest about how cruel these systems can be, and more compassionate toward anyone carrying an invisible letter of their own. If you are living this, you are not imagining it. And you are not alone. Resources for Long-Term Infertility and Life After IVF If this post resonated, here are supportive, realistic resources for women navigating infertility beyond the “just stay hopeful” stage: Support & Community Resolve: The National Infertility Association – education, advocacy, and peer support groups Gateway Women – community for women who are childless after infertility Childless After Infertility (CAI) – peer-led groups focused on grief and identity Mental Health & Grief Therapists specializing in reproductive trauma, infertility grief, or medical trauma Recommended books: The Next Happy – Tracey Cleantis Silent Sorority – Pamela Mahoney Tsigdinos Unsung Lullabies – Janet Jaffe et al. Practical Support Document IVF cycles and financial costs for yourself. Naming the loss matters. Seek providers who speak honestly about age, diminished ovarian reserve, and long-term planning. Curate social media. Protect your nervous system If this felt familiar, you’re not alone. More honest conversations are coming.

When IVF Becomes Too Much: The Quiet, Brutal Point Where Your Heart Starts Saying No There is a version of IVF people talk about.The inspirational one.The hopeful one.The one with cute embryo nicknames and Pinterest boards and “just keep trying” energy. Then there is the real version.The version where you give everything you have for years and still watch your body, your bank account, and your hope drain in slow motion.The version where you lose pieces of yourself long before you ever lose a pregnancy.The version no clinic brochure will ever prepare you for. This is the part women whisper about in bathrooms and parking lots and DMs.The part where IVF stops feeling like a path to a baby and starts feeling like a slow erosion of the woman you used to be. This is the part where many of us start quietly askingHow much more can I take and What happens if my answer is no more. Here is what it feels like when you hit that point. The Long Decline You Can’t Pretend You Don’t See I started IVF six years ago.My egg count was lower than ideal even then, but I had something dangerous and intoxicating. Hope. I did five retrieval cycles. Not one or two. Five. And across those cycles, I watched my body give less and less, no matter how hard I fought to give more of myself. Cycle one gave me more eggs. Cycle two gave me fewer. Cycle three gave me two that were not viable after testing. Cycle four gave me even less. Cycle five was the one that broke something inside me. The one where my entire twenty thousand dollar cycle hinged on one lonely follicle we were begging to grow. There is a specific kind of heartbreak when you wake up every day knowing your entire future might depend on a single cell the size of a grain of sand. And you keep going anyway because what else can you do. The Stim Cycle From Hell That last stim was supposed to be eight days.It stretched to almost twelve. The meds had to be adjusted.I was out of town.The pharmacy didn’t ship on weekends, which is absurd because IVF does not observe federal holidays or business hours. Then the rental car wouldn’t start. My husband had to Uber across town to pick up emergency meds. I was two hours late for a time-sensitive injection. I was trying not to lose my entire mind while pumped full of hormones, steroids, fear, and the tiniest sliver of hope. That whole cycle felt like the universe was saying "You are out of time, and You are out of luck, but also Here, keep injecting yourself and smile for the ultrasound tech". By day ten of that stim, I wasn’t hopeful anymore. I wasn’t scared. I was numb. Going through the motions like a medicated ghost. Every injection and patch and pill just part of the routine. Every morning a game of "What fresh hell will my ovaries serve today?". My body hurt. My heart hurt. I wanted to scream and sob and break something. But I held it all in because I was terrified that losing my shit would jinx the last microscopic chance I had left. That is the kind of superstition IVF creates. That is the level of desperation this process breeds. Three Transfers, One Pregnancy, One Baby Girl I Loved With My Whole Soul Out of five cycles, I made it to transfer three times. One of them worked. During that transfer, something happened that had never happened before. The second my baby girl was placed inside me, tears filled my eyes. It was instant. My body recognized her even before my brain could process what was happening. I found myself touching my stomach, talking to her, loving her. When I saw her heartbeat for the first time, I almost fell off the table. Hearing the rhythm of her tiny heart felt like the world had finally opened for me. I took home pictures of her. I watched her grow. I listened to the soundtrack of her little life. And then one day, without warning, there was silence. No more heartbeat. No more music. Just the kind of quiet that only happens when your world collapses inside your chest. The Loss That Tore Me Apart My body did not want to let her go. First they gave me medication to pass the pregnancy. It felt like forced labor. The pain was so intense I threw up. My husband sat on the bathroom floor with me for hours with cold rags and a bucket anf flushed the toilet for me- i couldn't bare to look... the thought of it made me sick. I did this twice. Two rounds of agony and vomiting and heartbreak. And she was still there. Part of me likes to believe she was holding on because she loved me too. Eventually I had to have a D&C a few days before Christmas. And the part that destroyed me was not the surgery. It was signing my name next to the word mother. Seeing it in writing for the first time. Knowing the first time I got to claim that word was at the same moment I had to say goodbye. There is no recovery plan for that kind of grief. There is only learning how to carry it. What IVF Took That No One Sees IVF took so much from me that people will never fully understand. My money. My savings. My career stability. My health. My sleep. My joy. My body as I knew it. My mental health. The version of myself who trusted her own biology. It took years of my life that I cannot get back. Years of being tied to appointments, instructions, injections, protocols, transfers, grief cycles, and hope cycles. It took friendships that could not hold the weight of my trauma. It took the ability to answer the simplest question, "How have you been?" without wanting to punch someone in the throat because the only honest answer would be "Well I’ve been grieving my baby and injecting my ass every night and trying not to fall apart". It took my sense of belonging in rooms full of people talking about their kids’ milestones while I was praying for a follicle to grow or an embryo to live. IVF did not just take embryos. It took pieces of me. Why Women Stop IVF Women do not stop IVF because they didn’t want it enough. Women stop because IVF costs more than any human being should have to pay. Women stop because their bodies break down. Because their hearts shatter. Because their bank accounts empty. Because their marriages strain. Because their mental health collapses. Because the trauma piles higher than the hope. Because their grief needs a place to land. Because they can no longer breathe under the weight of trying. Stopping is not quitting. Stopping is survival. Stopping is finally hearing the quiet voice inside whispering "You cannot lose yourself any further, not even for this dream". If You Are Wondering If You’re Reaching Your Limit You are not weak. You are not a failure. You are not alone. You are a woman who has endured more than any person should ever have to endure. You have given your body, your heart, your money, your marriage, your identity, and your sanity to something that never guaranteed anything in return. You are allowed to stop. You are allowed to breathe. You are allowed to grieve. You are allowed to choose yourself. You are allowed to honor everything you’ve survived and say "I cannot go through this again". Whatever comes next for you will not erase what you lived or what you loved. And nothing will ever erase the truth that you were a mother the second your baby girl found you. Not even loss can take that away. Helpful Resources Here are a few resources I found helpful, that hopefully can provide you with comfort, support, or healing, too: IVF Trauma Recovery Workbook: An Evidence-Based Guide for Surviving IVF by Amy F. Frederick, PhDA trauma-informed workbook designed specifically for the emotional aftermath of fertility treatment. Includes grounding exercises, coping strategies, and gentle guidance for women who have endured burnout, loss, failed cycles, and medical trauma. Link: https://www.amazon.com/IVF-Trauma-Recovery-Workbook-Evidence-Based/dp/1764378253 AllPaths Family Building — Infertility Support Groups One of the most compassionate and validating communities for women considering stopping treatment or grieving the end of the fertility journey. Includes virtual peer groups and workshops across the board. From childless after infirtility to surrogacy and more. Link: https://allpathsfb.org/support/ What about you? If you’re in this place, have been here before, or are terrified you might be heading toward it, comment below. Your words could be the lifeline another woman finds today. *Any resources that helped you? Let us know! Comment below!

Every November, social media turns into a gratitude parade. Everyone is posting perfectly lit photos of their kids, their pies, and their beautiful, peaceful lives. And then there is the fertility community, trying to practice something called IVF gratitude while also trying not to scream into a couch cushion. The truth is, infertility changes what gratitude looks like. It shifts the scale. It twists it. It makes the tiniest things feel monumental and the biggest things feel impossible. So here is the real, unfiltered version of what many of us are thankful for this season. The Weird Things IVF Makes You Grateful For Let’s kick this off with the stuff no one else understands. The journey of in vitro fertilization (IVF) is often filled with emotional highs and lows, and along the way, it introduces a unique set of experiences that can reshape what we find ourselves grateful for. These moments may seem trivial to those outside the IVF community, but they represent significant milestones in a challenging process. Here are some of the weird yet heartfelt things that IVF makes you appreciate deeply. The phlebotomist who finds your vein on the first try This is basically a spiritual experience at this point. It’s not just about the physical act of drawing blood; it’s a moment of relief and triumph. After countless attempts and the anxiety that comes with each needle prick, finding a skilled phlebotomist who can swiftly locate your vein on the first try feels like winning a small battle in a much larger war. It’s a reminder that sometimes, even in the chaos of IVF, there are moments of grace and efficiency that can lift your spirits. Your progesterone shot not leaving a welt the size of a dinner roll Small wins. Micro wins. Microscopic wins. In the grand scheme of IVF, where every injection can feel like a monumental task, celebrating the absence of a painful bruise or an unsightly welt becomes a victory worth noting. Each smooth injection is a testament to your body’s resilience and a small reminder that not every aspect of this journey has to be painful. It’s these little victories that help maintain a sense of hope and normalcy amidst the medical whirlwind. A clinic that runs on time for once Better than the Macy’s Parade. When you step into a clinic that actually respects your time, it feels like a miracle. The endless waiting rooms and delays can be a source of frustration and anxiety, so when an appointment goes off without a hitch, it’s a breath of fresh air. You find yourself appreciating the efficiency of the staff and the organization of the clinic, which allows you to focus more on your journey rather than the clock. The heating pad that has seen more action than your social life A real one. This trusty companion becomes your solace during the rollercoaster of IVF. While social outings may take a backseat due to the demands of treatment, the heating pad stands by you as a source of comfort and warmth. It’s a reminder that self-care comes in many forms, and finding solace in small, everyday items can help ease the physical discomforts and emotional strains that accompany this journey. Leggings you can wear even when your abdomen is staging a coup Bless them. The comfort of stretchy leggings becomes a lifeline during IVF, especially when bloating and discomfort are constant companions. These garments offer not only physical comfort but also a sense of normalcy in a time when everything else feels out of control. They remind you that it’s okay to prioritize comfort over style, and they allow you to navigate the world while feeling a little more at ease in your own skin. Science Not the inspirational quote version. The small, messy, chaotic version that keeps trying. In the midst of all the uncertainty, there’s an underlying appreciation for the science that fuels your journey. It’s not always glamorous; it’s often filled with trial and error, research, and the relentless pursuit of answers. Yet, this raw and imperfect version of science embodies hope and tenacity, reminding you that progress is often made in small, incremental steps, and that every effort counts in the quest for a family. IVF Gratitude Is… Complicated Plenty of people talk about gratitude like it is a light switch you turn on. But when you are living cycle to cycle, month to month, and heartbreak to heartbreak, gratitude is not a switch. It is more like a ghost light in a theater. Even when everything is dark, something tiny stays lit so you can find your way back. During the holidays, that can be even harder. You may feel joy for others and grief for yourself at the same time. You may feel hopeful one second and completely hopeless the next. All of it counts. All of it is valid. None of it makes you ungrateful. It just makes you human. **Side note:** Being alone in the fertility struggle can be isolating, especially at social events. It often feels overwhelming, like needing a hype song just to enter. However, I've learned some helpful tricks. When faced with intrusive questions, try saying, "Let's switch topics before I turn Aunt Susan's mac n' cheese into a puddle of tears," or simply, "It's been a journey, and I'll update you when there's news." Be brief and direct; setting boundaries is self-care, and there's no need to feel guilty about it! IVF Gratitude and the Things We Don’t Say Out Loud Here are the things that rarely make it into the social media gratitude posts, but are real and true for so many of us. Partners who sit through the meltdowns Even the ones that happen at 1:13 a.m. for no apparent reason. Friends who ask instead of assuming The ones who say, “Do you want to talk about your cycle, or do you want to talk about anything but your cycle?” The fertility warriors you only know from the internet The ones who understand you more than half your family. The moments when you find humor in the chaos If you can laugh at least once every cycle, that is survival. Here are the things that rarely make it into the social media gratitude posts, but are real and true for so many of us, often overlooked yet profoundly impactful in our daily lives and emotional journeys. Partners who sit through the meltdowns Even the ones that happen at 1:13 a.m. for no apparent reason. These partners are the unsung heroes of our lives, the ones who quietly support us during our most vulnerable moments. They are there, not just physically, but emotionally, providing a steady presence when everything feels overwhelming. Their patience and understanding during these late-night episodes, where emotions run high and logic seems to fade away, are invaluable. They listen, they hold us, and they remind us that we are not alone in our struggles, no matter how irrational they may seem at that hour. Friends who ask instead of assuming The ones who say, “Do you want to talk about your cycle, or do you want to talk about anything but your cycle?” These friends are a rare breed, demonstrating a sensitivity that is often missing in conversations about personal struggles. They recognize that sometimes we need to vent and share our experiences, while other times we just want a distraction from the heaviness of our reality. Their ability to gauge our needs without making assumptions shows a level of empathy that is deeply appreciated. They create a safe space for us to express our feelings, whether they are related to our fertility journey or simply a need for lighthearted conversation. The fertility warriors you only know from the internet The ones who understand you more than half your family. In this digital age, we often find solace in online communities, where fellow warriors share their stories, struggles, and triumphs. These connections, forged through shared experiences and mutual support, can sometimes feel more authentic than those with people we see every day. They understand the nuances of our battles, the heartaches and the small victories, often better than those who are supposed to know us best. The solidarity we find in these virtual friendships can be a lifeline, reminding us that we are part of a larger community fighting similar battles, even if we have never met in person. The moments when you find humor in th e chaos If you can laugh at least once every cycle, that is survival. Humor can be a powerful coping mechanism, especially in the midst of chaos and uncertainty. Those fleeting moments of laughter, whether they come from a funny meme shared by a friend or a lighthearted joke made in the heat of the moment, can provide a much-needed respite from the stress and anxiety that often accompany fertility challenges. Finding humor in our circumstances not only helps alleviate tension but also fosters resilience, allowing us to navigate our journeys with a lighter heart. It’s these moments of joy, however small, that remind us of our strength and ability to endure. Top 5 Things I’m Grateful For That Are Not My Hormones Snacks Warm socks My couch Memes The clinic nurse who talks to me like she is my ride or die Things I’m Grateful For Even Though IVF Is Testing Me Like a Final Exam My determination The scientific breakthroughs that give me hope All those supporting me on this journey My remarkable emotional strength My dark humor that keeps me grounded A loving and supportive partner who shares this journey with me My psychologist who has guided me through everything, helped me understand it all, and taught me a lot about myself. *side note: She also specializes in infertility, which has made a significant difference. To all the women facing similar challenges, I recommend finding a specialist too... She has been invaluable to me. IVF gratitude is messy, complicated, and sometimes a little sarcastic. If gratitude comes easy for you this season, that is beautiful. If it feels distant or impossible, that is real and valid too. Wherever you are in your journey, you are not alone. You are allowed to feel everything at once. And you deserve tenderness during this season, no matter what your story looks like.

When People Think of IVF, They Don’t Think of Trauma When people talk about “the IVF journey,” they usually picture hope, science, and miracles. But sometimes, IVF trauma begins long before the first injection—before the hormones, the ultrasounds, or the embryos. For me, it started two years earlier—with timed sex, vitamins, ovulation apps, and the quiet panic that comes when nothing’s working. Back then, nobody my age was talking about freezing eggs. My doctors never brought it up. There was no checklist, no warning, no “Hey, maybe test your fertility before thirty-five.” Just silence—until I made an appointment myself. The Day “Trying” Turned Into “You’re Running Out of Time” I was 34. The OB-GYN walked in, glanced at my chart, saw my birthdate, and her eyes went wide.“Oh,” she said. “We need to get this show on the road.” That sentence detonated something inside me. Until that moment, I’d never considered that my body might fail me. Then came Adam’s (my hubby) semen analysis—textbook perfect, of course—and months of waiting for a fertility clinic consult. At the same time, the clock I didn’t know existed suddenly started ticking in surround sound. When the plan finally arrived, I was excited. Naively so. I didn’t even realize they’d skipped IUI altogether because I was already considered geriatric. What a word to assign to a woman barely midway through her thirties. The Test That Changed Everything The first test was the saline-infusion sonogram—“just some cramping,” they said. It felt like a grenade went off inside me. Sweat poured down my legs. I couldn’t stand. They handed me water and a cookie, like that could touch the pain. My pain tolerance is high; this wasn’t pain, it was shock. The next day, I collapsed at work. Ambulance. Hospital. Morphine that didn’t touch it. Wand-ultrasound after wand-ultrasound, five or six in total. I was terrified of that wand by then—the same one that had already betrayed me. No one could explain what had happened. “Something may have ruptured,” they guessed. Two days in the hospital. Then, a Sunday call from the clinic for an urgent follow-up with more wands, more pain, still no answers. The doctor said I’d need a tubal ligation on the left side and mentioned it could “improve my chances for IVF success.” Waking Up to a New Reality I went into the procedure knowing I'd have one of my tubes removed. While uneasy, I found comfort in knowing there was still a chance that we could get pregnant if IVF didn't work. I woke up without either. They cleaned house. That’s how I learned I’d never conceive naturally. No warning. No time to process. Just gone. Two months later, I was holding my first IVF treatment plan—still excited, somehow, because hope is a stubborn bastard. If only I’d known what was coming. The Note That Erased My Pain Years later, when we switched clinics, I finally got my medical records in the mail. I flipped through the pages expecting clarity. Instead, I found one line that nearly made me throw the whole folder across the room: “Patient responded well to procedure.” The same procedure that landed me in the hospital. The one that had me sweating, shaking, and my body in shock... and later, without both fallopian tubes. Reading that felt like being erased. That’s what IVF trauma inside the medical system often looks like... pain rewritten in polite language. If you’ve ever walked out of a clinic knowing something was not okay , but the paperwork says otherwise, I see you. Tell me: what part of your fertility journey still sits in your body, even when everyone else has moved on? Join the Conversation Leave your story in the comments below. Your experience might be the one that helps someone else finally feel seen.

Hope, Weirdness, and a Little Bit of S t (Literally) Humans have been trying to “hack” fertility for thousands of years—and spoiler alert—it hasn’t always been pretty. Long before ultrasounds and embryo grading, desperate couples turned to charms, tonics, dances, and, yes, crocodile dung (Ancient Egypt really said, “Put that where??” ). It’s easy to laugh now, but the truth is: whether it’s ancient rituals or modern IVF lucky socks, we’re all reaching for the same thing— a little control in a process that feels completely out of our hands. History’s WTF Fertility Rituals & Remedies Ancient Egypt: Crocodile dung pessaries (yep, inserted vaginally). Believed to “block” pregnancy loss. Spoiler: it blocked nothing but dignity. Ancient Greece & Rome: Amulets made of animal parts, especially testicles, worn for “fertility power.” (Talk about ballsy .) Medieval Europe: Women drank bizarre herbal brews or tied frog bones around their waists for conception. Because… science? 1700s Folk Remedies: Weird diets, poultices, and animal fat rubs claimed to “balance the womb.” (Spoiler: it just made you greasy.) Cultural Rituals Around the World Not all fertility rituals were gross—some were beautiful: Fertility dances in Africa and South America celebrated abundance and renewal. Sacred springs and shrines in Europe where women prayed and bathed for blessings. Foods as symbols —from pomegranates (fertility + abundance) to sticky rice cakes (for “sticking” pregnancies). Offerings and prayers in temples across Asia, asking gods and ancestors to bless conception. Every culture had its rituals. Different methods, same hope. IVF’s Modern Rituals And let’s be real—we’re not so different today. IVF has its own rituals, and if you’ve been through it, you know: Lucky socks on transfer day. Bonus points if they say “Everything’s Crossed Except My Legs.” Pineapple core for implantation. Science is… fuzzy. Hope is strong. No hot tubs or wine. (Okay, this one actually is science. Still feels ritualistic.) Embryo pics taped to the fridge. Like a school photo, but for a cell cluster. Superstitious timing. Some of us wear the same shirt to every appointment. Some eat the same snack before retrieval. We may roll our eyes, but these rituals carry weight. They give us something to hold when everything else feels wildly out of control. Science, Mystery, and the IVF Unknown For all the science behind IVF—time-lapse embryo imaging, PGT testing, cryopreservation—there’s still so much we don’t fully understand. A perfectly graded embryo can test abnormal. A “lower quality” one can still turn into a healthy pregnancy. Sometimes everything looks ideal on paper and still… doesn’t work. That gap between what we know and what we can’t explain yet is both frustrating and oddly comforting. Because it reminds us: it’s not just you, it’s not just your body—it’s the limits of science itself. Why Rituals Still Matter Whether it’s frog bones, fertility dances, or pineapple core, rituals have always been humanity’s way of finding hope in the chaos. They aren’t about logic—they’re about comfort, connection, and creating meaning when the stakes feel impossibly high. So if you’re doing IVF and holding tight to your lucky socks or weird traditions—don’t feel silly. You’re part of a long, global history of people who’ve clung to hope by any means possible. The Future of Fertility Rituals As we move forward, what will the future hold for fertility rituals? Will new practices emerge? Will science and tradition blend in unexpected ways? The possibilities are endless. Imagine a world where virtual reality plays a role in fertility rituals. Couples could participate in guided meditations or rituals from different cultures, all from the comfort of their homes. This could create a sense of community and connection, even in isolation. Conclusion: Embracing the Journey And maybe one day, future generations will laugh at us for believing in pineapple smoothies the way we laugh at frog bones. But until then—pass the fruit, grab your charms, and let’s keep going. Any weird, WTF rituals you've tried or want to share??? Please comment below!!!

Some people say IVF is just a season of life. But for me, it’s been years. Years filled with shots, bruises, waiting, blood draws, anesthesia, genetic testing, and crushing results. I’ve spent countless hours trying to figure out where my hope belongs. Somewhere along the way, IVF stopped being a treatment plan and became my identity. The Transformation of Self When IVF became my identity, I began to lose myself. I used to carry optimism so naturally. Hope would bubble up on its own. Now, I have to dig through desperation just to find it. IVF has stripped away my joy, my freedom, and even my health. When I look at pictures of myself from the beginning of this journey to now, I see the toll it’s taken. Aging happens to everyone, but I can see the exhaustion etched on my face. I’ve mastered the art of putting on a front for others—a survival skill from childhood. But the truth is that IVF has worn me down in ways I can’t hide from myself. The Fear of Stopping IVF What scares me most about stopping is that I don’t know what “done” looks like. If I stop, that means no more fight. No chance of seeing my grandmother’s nose or my eyes reflected back in a child running through my living room. It feels like the end of a lifelong dream and the end of everything I’ve sacrificed to try to get here. I’m terrified that stopping will trigger a spiral into depression—maybe worse than I’ve already endured. In fact, I can admit now that the only thing that kept me going after my miscarriage was the decision to keep trying. IVF didn’t save my life in a joyful way, but it gave me just enough of a reason to keep trudging forward. Stopping also means facing guilt. Guilt that I didn’t try harder, guilt that maybe I missed something—a vitamin, a lifestyle change, one more thing I could’ve done differently. And layered on top of that is the shame of not being able to give my husband what he dreamed of, what he deserves. The Partner Piece: Shared Dreams and Decisions This isn’t just my fight. Every decision carries weight for both of us. My husband has dreams tied to his genetics, his heritage, and his last name. Walking away feels like ending not only my fight but his dream too. And that’s what makes this decision so heavy: it’s not just my body on the line—it’s our life, our marriage, and our future. The burden of this choice is shared, and it complicates everything. No Funeral for This Grief: The Silent Struggle Infertility grief is unlike anything else I’ve known. When I lost my dad to suicide, as traumatic as it was, there was a funeral. There was closure. There was a way to mark the loss. With infertility, there’s nothing. No ritual, no funeral, no space where people gather and say, “This was real, this mattered, and we grieve it with you.” Instead, it’s silent. It’s invisible. And it leaves me isolated in my pain because everyone around me either has children or at least has had the choice. This is a loss without a grave to visit, and it makes moving forward feel impossible. Opening This Conversation: Seeking Connection I know I’m not the only one here—standing at this crossroads between continuing and stopping, torn between fear and relief. So I want to hear from you: How did you and your partner decide whether to keep going or stop IVF? Did your partner’s hopes shape your decision about donor eggs, adoption, or walking away? If you stopped, what helped you find peace in that decision? Your words could help me (and others reading this) feel less alone in making the hardest decision IVF ever hands us. Finding Hope Amidst the Struggle In the midst of this journey, it’s crucial to remember that hope can still exist. It may feel buried under layers of despair, but it’s there. Finding it requires patience and self-compassion. Consider seeking support from others who understand this path. Whether through support groups, online forums, or therapy, connecting with those who share similar experiences can provide comfort. The Importance of Self-Care Amidst the chaos of IVF, self-care becomes essential. It’s easy to neglect your own needs while focusing on the process. However, nurturing yourself can help restore some balance. Engage in activities that bring you joy. Whether it’s reading, painting, or spending time in nature, these moments can recharge your spirit. Remember, taking care of yourself is not selfish; it’s necessary. The Role of Communication Open communication with your partner is vital. Share your fears, hopes, and feelings. This journey affects both of you, and discussing your emotions can strengthen your bond. Consider setting aside time each week to check in with each other. This dedicated space allows both partners to express their thoughts and feelings without distractions. Exploring Alternatives If you find yourself considering stopping IVF, it’s worth exploring alternatives. Adoption, donor eggs, or surrogacy are options that may align with your dreams. Researching these possibilities can open new doors and provide a sense of hope. Embracing the Unknown Ultimately, the journey of IVF is filled with uncertainty. Embracing the unknown can be daunting, but it can also lead to unexpected paths. Life may not unfold as planned, but that doesn’t mean it won’t be beautiful. In this journey, remember that you are not alone. Many share your struggles, and together, we can navigate this complex landscape. In conclusion, the journey of IVF is deeply personal and often challenging. It shapes identities, relationships, and dreams. While the path may be fraught with difficulties, it’s essential to hold onto hope and seek connection. Your story matters, and sharing it can help others feel less alone. Together, we can navigate the complexities of this journey and find strength in our shared experiences.

Because apparently, medical professionals think emotional sensitivity is optional... “Diminished Ovarian Reserve? Cool, Cool, Cool…” When I first saw diminished ovarian reserve , I thought—wow, way to kick a girl when she’s already down. Like yes, Susan, my ovaries are diminishing —right along with my patience, my savings, and my faith in humanity. And geriatric pregnancy ? GERIATRIC?? I’m in my 30s, still getting my period, still paying for streaming services, and somehow my uterus is now eligible for a senior discount. Cool. Love that for me. So, in the spirit of reclaiming the medical jargon that feels like a personal insult, here’s the IVF’d Glossary —where we translate confusing, condescending fertility terms into plain English and sarcasm. 🧠 The IVF’d Glossary (Alphabetical Edition) of Fertility Terms AMH (Anti-Müllerian Hormone) Definition: A blood test that estimates how many eggs you have left. AKA: The psychic hotline for your ovaries—vague, moody, and sometimes wrong. ART (Assisted Reproductive Technology) Definition: Any fertility treatment involving eggs and sperm outside the body. AKA: The Bob Ross of baby-making. “Let’s put a happy little embryo right here…” 🎨 Beta (hCG Test) Definition: The blood test confirming pregnancy after a transfer or IUI. AKA: The season finale of IVF—equal parts hope and nausea. Chemical Pregnancy Definition: A very early miscarriage shortly after implantation. AKA: Hope that flickered and still mattered. 💔 Cervical Mucus Definition: The not-so-glamorous fluid that helps or hinders sperm travel. AKA: Nature’s slip-n-slide. If you know, you know. Cervix Definition: The lower part of the uterus that acts as a doorway between the uterus and vagina. AKA: The unpredictable bouncer of the fertility club—sometimes welcoming, sometimes “not tonight.” Cryopreservation Definition: Freezing eggs or embryos for future use. AKA: The spa day your embryos get before their big debut. Diminished Ovarian Reserve (DOR) Definition: Fewer eggs than average for your age. AKA: When your ovaries start Marie Kondo-ing and decide nothing sparks joy. Egg Quality Definition: The health and genetic potential of your eggs. AKA: When even your cells are being judged now. Egg Retrieval Definition: The procedure that collects mature eggs from your ovaries. AKA: The adult version of an Easter egg hunt—with anesthesia and trauma bonding. Embryo Grading Definition: A system for evaluating embryos based on appearance and development. AKA: America’s Next Top Blastocyst. Endometriosis Definition: Tissue similar to the uterine lining grows outside the uterus, causing pain and inflammation. AKA: End the pain. End the guessing. End my period already. FET (Frozen Embryo Transfer) Definition: A thawed embryo is transferred into the uterus. AKA: Microwaving hope (gently). Alt Acronym: Fingers Eternally Twisted. Follicle Definition: A fluid-filled sac that might contain an egg. AKA: IVF mystery boxes—hope inside? Chaos inside? Who knows. FSH (Follicle-Stimulating Hormone) Definition: The hormone that encourages follicles to grow. AKA: The drill sergeant screaming, “GROW, YOU LITTLE OVERACHIEVERS!” Geriatric Pregnancy Definition: Pregnancy at 35 or older. AKA: When your uterus is labeled “advanced” but your playlist still bangs. Hormone Hell Definition: The side effects of fertility meds and injections. AKA: Rage, tears, snacks, repeat. HSG (Hysterosalpingogram) Definition: An X-ray using dye to check if your fallopian tubes are open. AKA: The plumbing inspection from hell. Hydrosalpinx Definition: A fallopian tube filled with fluid that blocks implantation. AKA: The ultimate bad roommate for embryos. ICSI (Intracytoplasmic Sperm Injection) Definition: A single sperm is injected directly into an egg. AKA: VIP access for sperm—“Don’t worry, I’m on the list.” Implantation Definition: When an embryo attaches to the uterine lining. AKA: When your embryo knocks on your womb like, “Hey, mind if I crash here?” Infertility Definition: The inability to conceive after 12 months of trying (6 months if you’re over 35). AKA: When your uterus decides teamwork is optional. Fun Fact: Affects 1 in 6 people of reproductive age worldwide. IUI (Intrauterine Insemination) Definition: Sperm is placed directly into the uterus during ovulation. AKA: Science’s version of “just the tip.” IVF (In Vitro Fertilization) Definition: Eggs are retrieved, fertilized in a lab, and transferred into the uterus. AKA: The Olympic triathlon of reproduction—shots, surgery, and tears. Alt Acronym: I’m Very Fragile. LH (Luteinizing Hormone) Definition: The hormone that triggers ovulation. AKA: The overly enthusiastic event planner for your eggs. Luteal Phase Definition: The second half of your cycle, after ovulation. AKA: Two weeks of overanalyzing every twinge and boob tingle. Menstruation / Menstrual Cycle Definition: The monthly shedding of the uterine lining. AKA: If MEN only knew… it’s literally in the word. The only subscription you can’t cancel. Ovary / Ovaries Definition: The hormone-producing, egg-releasing organs of pure chaos. AKA: “We might. We might not. Depends on our mood.” Ovulation Definition: The monthly release of an egg from the ovary. AKA: The Hunger Games of reproduction. May the odds be ever in your favor. PCOS (Polycystic Ovary Syndrome) Definition: A hormonal disorder that messes with ovulation, insulin, and mood. AKA: P ersonally C oping O n Snacks. PUPO (Pregnant Until Proven Otherwise) Definition: The post-transfer mindset before your pregnancy test. AKA: The delusional optimism era we all deserve. Recurrent Pregnancy Loss (RPL) Definition: Two or more consecutive miscarriages. AKA: The cruelest rerun. Love that keeps trying anyway. Salpingectomy Definition: Surgical removal of one or both fallopian tubes. AKA: When your tubes get fired for underperformance. Secondary Infertility Definition: Difficulty conceiving after having one or more children. AKA: “I thought it’d be easier the second time.” Plot twist: it’s not. Trigger Shot Definition: The hormone injection that helps eggs mature before retrieval. AKA: The one time you actually want to be triggered. Tubal Factor Infertility Definition: Infertility caused by blocked or damaged fallopian tubes. AKA: A traffic jam on the baby highway. Two-Week Wait (2WW) Definition: The time between transfer/ovulation and testing for pregnancy. AKA: The longest 14 days known to humankind. Unexplained Infertility Definition: When all tests are normal, but pregnancy still doesn’t happen. AKA: The medical version of “It’s not you, it’s me.” Uterus Definition: The womb — the central stage for pregnancy. AKA: The diva of your reproductive system: high-maintenance, dramatic, and easily offended. So yeah, fertility has its own language—a mash-up of Latin, lab coats, and emotional trauma.But if we can’t control the vocabulary, at least we can own it—with humor, sarcasm, and a healthy dose of rebellion. Because maybe my ovaries are diminished , my uterus is geriatric , and my cervix is temperamental , but my humor? Still 5AA quality, baby. 💬 Let’s Talk About It Which fertility term makes you cringe, laugh, or want to throw a speculum across the room?Drop your pick in the comments — I might feature your definition in the next “IVF’d Glossary” update.

One of the hardest things about infertility is how isolating it feels. As women, we often find comfort in hearing each other’s stories—we realize we’re not alone, and that reminder can be life-changing. But there’s another part of the story I don’t see talked about as often: how this process impacts our marriages and partnerships. Infertility doesn’t just affect me. It affects us. Not because Adam and I have “problems” with each other, but because IVF itself is like an atomic bomb—it hits every part of life at once. Mental health. Physical health. Emotional stability. Social life. Finances. All of it. And when the blast is this big, it doesn’t just leave me reeling—it leaves him hurting, too. The Silent Layer of Strain For me, IVF has been a never-ending cycle of hormones, grief, and feeling like my body is betraying me. For Adam, it’s been watching me suffer, losing the dreams we’ve held, and carrying his own silent grief. Sometimes the weight of it all makes even talking about how we feel exhausting. We’ve had stretches where we both kept our pain to ourselves—not because we didn’t care, but because we were just too tired to say the words out loud. But here’s the problem: when we keep it all bottled up, the distance between us grows. That’s when isolation doubles—not only am I alone in my infertility, but suddenly I feel alone in my marriage, too. Common IVF Relationship Struggles in Infertility If you’re going through this, you may have felt some of these, too: Communication breakdowns. Both partners avoid talking about it because everything feels too heavy. Emotional imbalance. One partner feels hopeful while the other feels guarded or fearful. Intimacy struggles. Sex starts to feel clinical, or hormones/stress lower desire. Resentment of coping styles. One person pulls away, the other wants to talk it out—and both feel misunderstood. 👉 If any of this feels familiar: you are not broken. This is what infertility does. How We’ve Found Our Way Back Over time, we’ve discovered a few things that help us stay connected through the chaos: Small Check-Ins. We don’t always have the energy for big emotional talks. Sometimes it’s just a quick “How was your day?” or a text at lunch that says, “I love you.” Those little reminders add up. The Code Word. Ours is “xylophone.” If one of us feels overwhelmed in a conversation, we say it. That’s our pause button. It doesn’t mean “never talk about this again”—it means, “Let’s circle back when we can handle it better.” Scheduled Talks + Light Follow-Ups. We set aside time to check in emotionally, and when it’s heavy, we follow it with something grounding (like ice cream or a comedy) so we don’t get stuck in the heaviness. IVF-Free Time. At least once a month, we plan something that has nothing to do with infertility—like a lunch date, a walk, or a silly outing. It reminds us of who we are outside of IVF. Permission for Space. There are days when I want to talk about everything, and days when I absolutely can’t. Naming that out loud has been just as important as showing up when we can. Quick Questions Couples Can Ask Each Other If you don’t know where to start, here are three simple prompts: “What’s one thing you need from me this week?” “What feels hardest for you right now?” “What’s one thing we can do this week that has nothing to do with IVF?” When Extra Help Makes Sense Sometimes the weight is too much for two people to carry alone. That doesn’t mean your relationship is failing—it means you’re human. Options that can help: Fertility-focused couples counseling. Many clinics have referrals to therapists who specialize in infertility. Online therapy apps like BetterHelp or Talkspace that offer couples plans. Peer support groups (like RESOLVE or AllPaths Family Building) where partners are welcome and you can connect with others who understand. Helpful Online Resources RESOLVE: National Infertility Association – Free virtual, peer-led support groups for individuals and couples. AllPaths Family Building – Over 20 free virtual peer support groups each month, covering IVF, surrogacy, donor conception, pregnancy after loss, and more. Reddit r/infertility – Large, candid online community for sharing experiences. Naming What’s Real Here’s the truth: IVF can strain even the strongest relationships. Not because the love isn’t there, but because the weight is relentless. And the shame attached to saying, “Our marriage feels heavy right now” only makes it worse. But silence doesn’t protect us—it just isolates us further. That’s why I believe talking about this matters. Infertility already piles on enough grief and guilt; the last thing we need is to feel like our marriages have to look untouched by the storm. A Gentle Reminder If you and your partner are walking through infertility, you are not alone. Whether you’re checking in daily, barely talking about it at all, or somewhere in between—you’re human. This process affects every aspect of life, including relationships, and it’s okay to acknowledge that out loud. For us, it’s the little things—small check-ins, a silly code word, moments of light after heavy talks—that keep us tethered. Not perfect, not always pretty, but tethered. Because at the end of the day, the reason we started this journey together—the love we share—is the same reason we keep going, no matter how messy it gets. ✨ What about you? How has infertility affected your relationship, and what helps you stay connected? Your voice matters—and sharing it could help someone else feel less alone. 💙

The Emotional Rollercoaster of IVF Before the call, I had prepared myself for a “no.” I wasn’t feeling emotional — just shut down, detached. I had mentally rehearsed disappointing news enough times that I thought I could handle whatever came next. Then the embryologist said: “You do have one beautiful little embryo… it’s a day six, 5AA.” Suddenly, everything shifted. My heart skipped a beat. My body responded before my brain could catch up. I felt something unfamiliar move through me: not exactly joy, but energy. It was hope. Her words drowned out everything I’d been bracing for — even the grief of another embryo that didn’t survive. Because there were two. One made it. One didn’t. I felt that loss, but I needed something to go right. So, I clung to her words like a lifeline: “One beautiful little embryo.” The Unexpected Reaction to Good News I didn’t anticipate my reaction to the 5AA news. I assumed hearing good news would feel like a win. Instead of elation, I froze. My body lit up… then tensed. I’ve had transfers. I’ve received positive tests. I’ve also faced heartbreak. When I heard “5AA,” my brain didn’t translate that into hope. It saw it as a threat. “Don’t get excited.” “Don’t trust it.” “Don’t make space for grief again.” It’s strange how even joy can trigger a survival response. IVF Embryo Grading: What Does 5AA Mean? When the embryologist mentioned “5AA,” I nodded, trying to appear knowledgeable. But I didn’t understand. My instinct was to Google it immediately, then re-Google it, searching through Reddit threads for reassurance. It helped to know I wasn’t alone in my confusion. Here’s what I pieced together: | Part | What It Is | IVF Translation | |------|------------|-----------------| | 5 | Expansion stage | The embryo is fully expanded and ready for implantation — developmentally where it should be | | A (Inner Cell Mass) | Becomes the fetus | “A” means excellent quality — baby-building material | | A (Trophectoderm) | Becomes the placenta | Also excellent — top-tier support system | So yes, a 5AA embryo is as high-quality as you can get. But even with that knowledge, I couldn’t celebrate. IVF embryo grading doesn’t guarantee a baby. My embryo still needed to pass one more crucial test. Embryo Grading Chart Waiting for Genetic Testing: The Hardest “Maybe” The 5AA embryo is now frozen and being sent for PGT-A (genetic testing). I find myself in the place I dislike most: the in-between. I don’t know if it’s chromosomally normal. I don’t know if this could become the baby I’ve always dreamed of. I struggle with how to prepare myself and how to protect my heart while I wait. Every time my phone buzzes, I flinch. I spiral into thoughts of what could happen next. I check the calendar, trying not to hope. I constantly fail. I keep trying to hope responsibly, but I fail at that too. The Role of Therapy in My IVF Journey Throughout this journey, I’ve been working with a therapist who specializes in fertility and IVF. This decision has been one of the best choices I’ve made. My therapist has helped me navigate the contradictions I experience: Joy and fear coexist within me. Gratitude is intertwined with grief. Panic rises, even after receiving “good news.” She reminds me that I don’t have to force myself to feel one way or another. I can acknowledge the loss of one embryo while simultaneously holding hope for the other. My brain and body are just trying to protect me, even when it feels like I might break down. Learning to Cope with My IVF Reality Right now, I have a 5AA embryo . One didn’t make it, but one did. I am still processing both experiences. I don’t know how this journey will end. Every day, I try not to jump ahead, focusing instead on today. I’m holding on to that one sentence: “You do have one beautiful little embryo.” 💬 Your Turn (If You Feel Like Sharing) If you’ve ever received “good” results that left you feeling more confused or emotional than expected, I see you. You are not alone. You don’t owe anyone constant optimism. You can just be in the moment, even if that moment is complicated. Embarking on this journey with hope and uncertainty is challenging, but together, we can share our experiences and support one another.