I didn’t even make it to the result.
I took the test, set it down, and in that quiet, suspended moment where everything feels possible and fragile at the same time… my body answered for me.
My period came.
And just like that, the question was gone.
There’s something almost cruel about how quickly hope can collapse into reality. One second you’re holding your breath, imagining timelines, quietly calculating what this could mean… and the next, it’s over in the most physical, undeniable way.
No ambiguity. No waiting. Just… no.
And the thing is, I wasn’t naive about it. I know my body. I know my history. I know that nothing about this has ever come easily for me. But there’s still that part of you, the irrational, hopeful part, that thinks maybe this time will be different.
Maybe this time it will just happen.
It didn’t.
So here I am. My daughter just turned one. I’m standing in this strange, emotional in-between where I am so deeply fulfilled and so deeply unsettled at the same time.
Because I know, with a certainty that sits in my bones, that I want her to have a sibling.
And I also know that if I don’t try, I will regret it.
That kind of knowing doesn’t feel empowering. It feels heavy. It feels like a responsibility to your future self. Like you’re making a decision not just for today, but for a version of you years from now who will look back and ask why you didn’t at least try.
So I’ve started moving things forward.
I reached out to my old clinic. They’ve been coordinating with a new clinic closer to where we live now. We’re working on transporting our embryos, which is its own process, its own cost, its own emotional weight. Over $1,200 just to move them. Another $500 deductible just to begin testing again.
It feels like stepping back into a world I fought so hard to survive the first time.
And then something unexpected happened.
I reviewed my old reports.
Really reviewed them.
And I saw numbers I had completely forgotten about.
Twenty-five embryos.
Fourteen that are considered viable.
Even writing that feels clinical. Detached. Almost harsh. But that’s the language of this world. You start to speak in terms that don’t sound like you, because that’s how the system categorizes your hope.
Fourteen chances.
Fourteen possibilities.
Fourteen reminders of everything we’ve already been through.
I had created those embryos when I was 35. Which, in this world, matters. It means something. It gives us a different starting point than where I am now at 38. It gives us a version of me that existed before more time passed, before more pressure set in.
And still, I find myself wanting both.
I want to try naturally.
I want to use what we have.
I want control, and I want surrender.
I want certainty in a process that has never given me any.
And layered on top of all of it is this quiet, constant anxiety.
Because I remember what it took.
I remember the medications. The waiting. The cycles that never made it to transfer because my uterine lining wouldn’t cooperate. The feeling of your body not doing the one thing you’re asking it to do. The frustration of getting so close, over and over again, and then having to stop.
That was my biggest barrier before.
Not the embryos. Not the hope. My body.
And so now, even as I step back into this, I’m carrying that memory with me. That awareness that getting to a transfer is not guaranteed, no matter how many embryos you have waiting.
So I’m trying to do what I can.
I’m taking care of my body in a way that feels almost hyper-aware. I’ve always been mindful, through pregnancy, through postpartum, through everything. But now it feels amplified. Intentional in a different way.
I’m taking my vitamins. All of them. The kind of routine that feels like a full-time job on its own. I recently added low-dose aspirin because I remember that being part of my protocol before. Small things that feel like control, even if they’re not.
Because sometimes, you just need to feel like you’re doing something.
And all of this is happening while life continues, unapologetically, around me.
My daughter is no longer a baby in the way she was even a week ago.
Within 24 hours of turning one, I swear something shifted.
She’s kicking when she’s frustrated now. Tiny, dramatic little kicks that make me laugh and pause at the same time. She’s more expressive. More aware. More… herself.
It’s disorienting in the most beautiful way.
She’s not just growing. She’s becoming.
And watching that makes everything louder inside me.
It makes the desire for another child feel less like a thought and more like a pull. Like something instinctual. Like something I can’t quite ignore, even when I try to rationalize it.
Because I think about her future.
I think about holidays. About shared memories. About someone who knows her in a way no one else will. Someone who grows up alongside her, who understands where she came from because they came from the same place.
And I want that for her.
Desperately.
Even knowing what it might cost me to try.
And in the middle of all of this, there are still the quieter, practical things that anchor me back to reality.
Like the mattress I still haven’t been able to get her.
The one I want for her floor bed. The one that represents this next stage of independence, of growth, of creating a space that evolves with her. I see so many mothers transitioning their babies earlier, encouraging that autonomy, and I want to give her that too.
We’ll keep the crib, of course. A safety net. A backup for the nights that don’t go as planned.
But I want to build something intentional for her.
Something that says I see where you’re going, not just where you are.
I’m working toward it.
Quietly. Slowly. In the same way I’m working toward everything else right now.
And maybe that’s what this season of my life is.
Not dramatic breakthroughs. Not clean resolutions.
Just movement.
Forward, even when it’s uncertain.
Trying again, even when you know exactly how hard it can be.
Holding what you already have while reaching, carefully, for what might come next.
Yesterday, my body said no.
But today, I’m still here.
Still trying.
Still hoping.
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UPDATED BIO:
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.
🍼 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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Read also: Two Days After Bringing Our Baby Home, I Asked for a Divorce
Read also: Our Marriage Ended Before It Began: The Pregnancy That Shattered Everything
Read also: I’m Pregnant And Broke — My Cry For Help
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This post was previously published on medium.com.
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Photo credit: Laura Ohlman On Unsplash
