I Thought I Was Helping

There’s a strange thing about life that I don’t think we talk about enough.

Sometimes two completely opposite things can be true at the exact same time.

Today is one of those days.

On one hand, I am unbelievably happy.

On the other, I am carrying around an incredible amount of shame.

After six long months, my husband is finally moving home.

If you’ve followed my writing for a while, you know exactly what that sentence means.

It means no more temporary apartment an hour away.

No more one car split between two homes.

No more calculating whether I can walk to the grocery store before it gets too hot because I don’t have transportation.

No more wondering if an emergency happens while he’s gone.

No more trying to explain to our daughter why Daddy is only here for a few hours before he has to leave again.

Today, he starts his fourth year of neurosurgery residency.

Ironically, it’s called his research year, but for our family, it feels more like our breathing year.

He’ll still be working. In fact, he’ll be affiliated with a hospital about two and a half hours away, but for now he’ll only need to be there twice a week while he gets settled. The rest of his work can largely be done remotely from home.

For the first eight weeks he’ll also be helping cover maternity leave alongside two other residents after one of their co-residents welcomed a baby yesterday.

Medicine never really slows down.

It just shifts.

But compared to what we’ve been living, this feels almost luxurious.

Our daughter gets her dad.

Not for a weekend.

Not for a rushed dinner before another overnight call.

For an entire year.

I honestly don’t know if she understands yet how much her world is about to change.

Or maybe she does.

Maybe children always know.

She’ll get to wake up and see him more often.

He’ll get to watch her discover new words.

He’ll probably witness milestones that, until now, have happened while he was operating on someone else’s loved one.

And selfishly…

I get my husband back.

I don’t think people realize how lonely residency can be for the spouse who stays home.

You’re technically married.

But there are long stretches where you’re functioning like a single parent.

You make every decision.

You carry every routine.

You celebrate every milestone with photos sent over text.

You become so independent that asking for help almost feels foreign.

So today feels like a new chapter.

But here’s where the other truth exists.

I’m embarrassed.

Really embarrassed.

A few weeks ago, I convinced myself I could outsmart my body.

Or maybe more accurately…

I convinced myself I could outsmart my circumstances.

If you’ve read my previous articles, you know how devastated I’ve been by my new fertility clinic.

My previous clinic was extraordinary.

If a cycle failed, it hurt, but I knew everyone had shown up.

The failure wasn’t because someone forgot about me.

It was simply because fertility is cruel sometimes.

This clinic has been different.

They continue accepting patients they simply don’t have the capacity to treat.

Twice now I’ve prepared myself emotionally for treatment only to be told there wasn’t room for me.

Not because of my body.

Because of scheduling.

Because there is only one physician trying to carry an impossible patient load.

As a 38-year-old woman who already spent years fighting for the privilege of becoming a mother, every missed month feels enormous.

Time isn’t theoretical anymore.

It’s measurable.

It’s another cycle.

Another calendar page.

Another reminder that biology doesn’t pause because administration is overwhelmed.

Somewhere in all of that frustration, I started believing I could help myself.

Without my doctor telling me to, I started taking estradiol.

One tiny pill every day.

Two milligrams.

In my mind, I wasn’t trying to play doctor.

I was trying to prepare.

My biggest obstacle has always been building a uterine lining thick enough for an embryo transfer.

I thought maybe I could get ahead of things.

Maybe I could give my body a head start before the clinic finally had room for me.

Instead…

I confused my cycle.

I’ve been tracking everything obsessively.

My Oura Ring.

Ovulation strips.

Symptoms.

Temperatures.

Every little sign.

Nothing makes sense anymore.

My body feels completely confused.

Eventually I stopped because I realized I wasn’t helping anything.

If anything, I probably complicated my next cycle.

When I told my husband, he wasn’t thrilled.

And honestly…

Neither was I.

I wasn’t reckless because I didn’t care.

I was reckless because I cared too much.

There’s a difference.

Desperation has a way of disguising itself as productivity.

You convince yourself that doing something has to be better than doing nothing.

Sometimes it isn’t.

Sometimes the bravest thing is waiting.

I’ve never been particularly good at waiting.

Lately I’ve been trying to redirect all of that anxious energy somewhere healthier.

Long walks with our daughter and our dogs.

Working out after she finally puts herself to bed.

Last night was the first night she settled herself without needing me.

Instead of immediately cleaning something or answering emails, I spent twenty minutes exercising.

Twenty minutes.

That probably sounds insignificant.

It wasn’t.

For twenty minutes I wasn’t thinking about fertility.

Or debt.

Or credit card bills.

Or whether this clinic will have room for me next month.

I was simply existing inside my own body.

I think I needed that more than I realized.

Financially, things remain incredibly tight.

We’re behind on a couple of credit card payments.

I’m waiting on invoices to be paid.

I’m still writing.

Still selling things.

Still working every part-time opportunity I can find while raising our daughter full time.

And even though my husband is finally coming home, we’re actually about to incur another expense.

Those trips to his new hospital aren’t realistic to drive in one day.

Five hours on the road after a full workday simply isn’t safe.

So for a while we’ll probably have to pay for hotels a couple nights each week.

It’s one of those expenses that isn’t optional.

It’s simply what residency demands.

People often assume physicians are wealthy.

Residents aren’t.

They’re building a career while living in one of the longest training programs in medicine.

Sometimes it feels like medicine quietly assumes families will somehow absorb every financial sacrifice along the way.

I don’t know how families do it without help.

I really don’t.

If anyone ever chooses to support us through Venmo, thank you.

Truly.

Even a dollar genuinely matters.

It’s never expected.

But it is always appreciated because it’s one less dollar we have to find somewhere else.

Mostly, though, I just wanted to tell the truth today.

That joy and embarrassment can exist together.

That hope and regret can sit at the same kitchen table.

That I can be incredibly excited to have my husband home while also admitting I made a decision I wish I hadn’t.

Maybe that’s adulthood.

Maybe that’s motherhood.

Maybe that’s just life.

Two opposite truths existing at the exact same time.

And somehow…

Both being completely real.

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ABOUT ME:

Hi, I’m Fiona — a writer in the midst of an unexpected chapter.

In April 2024, I lost my job. Since then, my husband and I have been getting by on his modest income as a medical resident. After stepping away from IVF, we were shocked — and overjoyed — to find out we were pregnant naturally. While it was the happiest surprise, it also brought new financial stress as we prepared for our growing family.

Then, our baby arrived early — on April 29th, 2025, instead of the expected due date in late May. With no paid maternity leave and no room in our budget for childcare, I’ve returned to part-time jobs and writing just a week after giving birth to help cover essentials like groceries, bills, and a few things for our 🌈 miracle baby.

If you’d like to support my writing — and by extension, our little family — your kindness would mean the world. Every bit helps: $1, $2, whatever you can give.

💸 Donate here — Venmo

🍼 Baby Registry — Or if you’d prefer to help more directly, we’re also gratefully accepting support through our baby registry — every burp cloth, diaper and/or bottle goes a long way.

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This post was previously published on medium.com.