I Took the Pregnancy Test Anyway

Last Friday, I was convinced my period was coming.

Not mildly convinced.

Fully convinced.

The kind of convinced where your body feels heavy, your mood feels weird, your mind starts preparing for disappointment before disappointment even officially arrives.

So I decided I was done waiting around like my body was some mysterious thing I had to tiptoe around.

I was done moving carefully.

Done treating every day like one wrong move could ruin everything.

Done trying to be so mindful, so delicate, so perfectly behaved in the name of fertility.

So I went out onto our balcony, grabbed some weights, and worked out.

A real workout.

Not a gentle little “let me just move my body so I can say I did something” workout.

A workout where I lifted heavier.

A workout where I felt my muscles turn on again.

A workout where, for the first time in a while, I felt like a version of myself I recognized.

And honestly?

It felt amazing.

It took me the entire summer to realize I could work out on our balcony. Somehow, this tiny little space outside our apartment became the place where I remembered I still had a body that belonged to me. Not just a body that had been poked, scanned, medicated, monitored, and judged by fertility clinics. Not just a body that had carried a baby. Not just a body that now spends most of its day carrying a toddler, walking dogs, cleaning, cooking, and surviving.

My body.

Mine.

For 45 minutes, I felt good.

I felt strong.

I felt relieved.

I felt like maybe, even if this cycle was another failure, I could still come back to myself.

Then, right before I got into the shower, I had the most intrusive thought.

Let’s ruin this.

Let’s destroy this nice little mood you just built.

Let’s take a pregnancy test.

I almost laughed at myself because I knew exactly what I was doing.

I was trying to get the bad news over with.

I was trying to rip off the Band-Aid.

I was trying to prove to myself that my period was coming so I could stop floating in that miserable space between hope and reality.

So I took the test.

A First Response.

The kind of test that has held way too much emotional power over my life.

And as I was peeing on the stick, I remember thinking, it would be really sad if I wasn’t pregnant.

Not because I expected to be.

Not because I had any real reason to believe it.

But because something felt different.

And I hate saying that, because every woman who has struggled with infertility knows how dangerous that sentence is.

Something feels different.

How many times have I said that?

How many times have I convinced myself that a twinge, a mood, a temperature, a cramp, a dream, a feeling meant something?

How many times have I been wrong?

So I placed the test down and prepared myself for the usual.

One line.

Silence.

The tiny devastation of a body that once again did not do what I begged it to do.

But that is not what happened.

There were two lines.

Two solid lines.

And I just stared.

I could not process it.

I was pregnant.

I am pregnant.

Even typing that feels surreal.

After all of this. After the clinic. After the waiting. After the missed IVF cycles. After being told there was no room for me even though they accepted me as a patient. After feeling like my care team was failing me on top of my body already being difficult.

Pregnant.

Naturally.

Again.

And the complicated part is that I immediately wondered if it had anything to do with the estradiol.

I have written about this before, and I want to be very clear that I am not proud of it.

I self-prescribed estradiol.

I took one 2 mg tablet a day for about two weeks after my period because I was desperate. Because my biggest fertility issue has always been my uterine lining. Because my clinic could not find room for me. Because I was sitting there feeling like time was slipping through my fingers and nobody was coming to help me.

So I tried to help myself.

And I do not recommend that.

I would not do it again without medical supervision.

It was not smart.

It was desperation dressed up as strategy.

And honestly, it completely confused my body.

My body tried to ovulate multiple times.

Three different times, from what I could tell.

Three rounds of ovulation tests.

Three waves of symptoms.

Three times where I thought, maybe this is it, only for my body to pull back like it had no idea what it was doing.

Then finally, on the third attempt, I think it happened.

My body ovulated.

And somehow, somehow, it worked.

I do not know if the estradiol helped.

I do not know if it gave my lining a boost.

I do not know if this was a coincidence.

I do not know if this was my body remembering something.

I do not know anything except that last Friday, I saw two lines on a test I had fully expected to break my heart.

And for one tiny moment, before the fear came in, I was just happy.

So happy.

Because IVF is not simple.

Even with insurance coverage now through my husband’s plan, even with three covered transfers, there are still costs. There is still stress. There is still embryo transport. There are still medications, appointments, logistics, uncertainty, childcare, and the emotional toll of stepping back into a process that has already taken so much from us.

So when I saw those two lines, one of my first thoughts was, oh my God, we might not have to do IVF.

We might save thousands of dollars.

We might have been given this impossible, unexpected mercy.

And then almost immediately, my brain did what my brain does.

It went dark.

I am 38.

That was the thought.

Not, you are pregnant.

Not, this is amazing.

Not, your daughter might have a sibling.

Just, you are 38.

And suddenly all the fear came flooding in.

The statistics.

The risks.

The chromosomal concerns.

The miscarriage fear.

The fact that early pregnancy feels like standing on a frozen lake, trying not to move too quickly because you do not know how thick the ice is.

I did this with my daughter too.

I was 36 when I was pregnant with her, and even then I worried constantly.

Now I am 38, and my mind knows too much.

My body knows too much.

My heart knows too much.

I want to be purely joyful, but infertility changes the way you receive good news.

You do not just celebrate.

You brace.

You calculate.

You negotiate with yourself.

You tell yourself not to get too attached, while already imagining another child at the table, another car seat, another little person who belongs to us.

According to my tracker, I am four weeks and five days today.

My first appointment is August 4th.

Until then, all I can do is wait.

Wait and hope.

Hope this pregnancy is healthy.

Hope this baby stays.

Hope my daughter gets to be a big sister.

Hope my body knows what to do.

Hope I can hold both gratitude and fear without letting fear swallow the entire thing.

Because I am grateful.

Deeply grateful.

I look at my daughter every day and still cannot believe she is here. She is this petite, funny, opinionated, perfect little person who has changed the entire shape of my life. She is small and mighty and becoming more herself every single day.

And now I look at her and think, maybe.

Maybe there will be another.

Maybe she will have someone.

Maybe our family is still growing.

At the same time, life is still life.

The debt is still here.

The bills are still here.

The financial pressure is still very real.

I recently decided to take out a loan through my husband’s resident loan option so I can start paying down credit cards that have been sitting at absolutely insane interest rates. Some of them were around 26 percent, which is the kind of number that makes you feel like you are drowning no matter how much you pay.

The loan does not make the debt disappear.

But it gives me a little more room to breathe.

A little more structure.

A little less panic.

And now, with this pregnancy, if it continues, I feel even more urgency to clean things up before the baby comes.

I want to pay things down.

I want to get us in a better place.

I want to enter this next chapter with less fear sitting on my chest.

I am working.

I am writing.

I am selling things.

I am doing whatever I can from home while raising my daughter full-time.

And I am still asking for help, because I have learned that doing everything you can does not always mean you can do everything alone.

If anyone feels moved to help through Venmo, I would be endlessly grateful.

If that is not your thing, our Baby Zola registry is still open, and honestly, our daughter always needs diapers. She is still tiny, so yes, her diaper size is still pretty little, which somehow makes me laugh every time.

Our little petite girl.

The child I fought so hard to have.

The child who may now, if everything goes well, become a big sister.

I do not know what happens next.

I do not know if this ends in joy or heartbreak.

I do not know if this is the beginning of a new baby or just another chapter I will someday have to write through tears.

But today, I am pregnant.

Today, there were two lines.

Today, my body did something I still cannot fully understand.

And today, I am letting myself feel it.

The joy.

The fear.

The gratitude.

The disbelief.

All of it.

Because for years, I begged my body to give me a miracle.

And somehow, it may have done it again.

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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.