This may be one of those articles that falls squarely into the “too much information” category.
But if you’ve been reading my writing for any amount of time, you already know that’s kind of my thing.
I’ve spent the last year writing about things most people don’t talk about.
Debt.
Marriage.
Motherhood.
Miscarriage.
IVF.
Loneliness.
The strange grief of wanting something so badly that it begins to reshape the way you experience everyday life.
So here we go.
I’m currently in what I call my fertility week.
This is the last month my husband and I are trying naturally before we move forward with fertility treatment again.
And if I’m being honest, every month this week arrives, I become someone I don’t particularly like.
You would think after everything we’ve been through, I would have figured out how to manage it.
You would think after years of infertility, years of testing, years of appointments, years of medications, years of disappointment, years of hoping, I would somehow be stronger.
Instead, I become anxious.
I become irritable.
I become hyperaware of every symptom, every sensation, every possibility.
Most importantly, I become mean.
Not intentionally.
Not maliciously.
But I can feel it happening.
And unfortunately, the person who feels it most is my husband.
Because of his residency, he is currently living an hour away during the week while he finishes a rotation at another hospital.
Sometimes he drives all the way home just so we can maximize this tiny fertility window.
And when I actually stop and think about that, it sounds absurd.
Not romantic.
Not exciting.
Not spontaneous.
Absurd.
Something that should be intimate becomes scheduled.
Something that should be joyful becomes strategic.
Something that should bring two people together starts to feel like another appointment on a calendar.
Yesterday it finally caught up with me.
Right before we were supposed to “have fun,” my husband looked at me and asked a question that completely broke me.
“Are you even into this?”
I immediately started crying.
Not because he was wrong.
Because he was right.
I looked at him and said the thing I’ve probably been avoiding saying out loud.
“No.”
Not because I don’t love him.
Not because I don’t want another baby.
Not because I don’t want our future.
But because none of this feels fun anymore.
It hasn’t felt fun in years.
When you’ve spent years trying to get pregnant, intimacy stops being intimacy.
It becomes data.
Timing.
Calculations.
Ovulation tests.
Appointments.
Bloodwork.
Monitoring.
Expectations.
Disappointment.
Hope.
More disappointment.
And eventually your brain stops associating it with joy and starts associating it with stress.
My husband could see it written all over my face.
The frustration.
The sadness.
The anger.
The fear.
The exhaustion.
And he gently pushed back.
He asked me if I even noticed the things he does.
If I noticed him trying.
If I noticed him being patient.
If I noticed him showing up.
And honestly?
That question hurt because the answer was yes.
I notice every single thing.
I know how kind he is.
I know how hard he works.
I know how exhausted he is.
I know how much pressure he is under.
I know how much he loves me.
I know how much he loves our daughter.
I know all of it.
The problem is that infertility has a way of making your body feel like an enemy.
And every month when fertility week arrives, I am reminded of that.
I am reminded of the transfers that failed.
The pregnancies that ended.
The medications.
The side effects.
The tears.
The waiting.
The wondering.
The constant feeling that everyone else’s body seemed to understand something mine never did.
And unfortunately, all of that emotion spills out onto the people closest to me.
Especially him.
The truth is that our daughter changed everything.
She is the greatest gift I have ever received.
But she also somehow made infertility more confusing.
Because I still look at her and wonder how she happened.
I know the biological explanation.
Obviously.
But after years of trying and years of loss and years of disappointment, there is still a part of me that genuinely cannot comprehend how she got here.
We had given up.
Not temporarily.
Really given up.
We were emotionally exhausted.
Financially exhausted.
Physically exhausted.
And then somehow she arrived.
A miracle.
A fluke.
A gift.
Whatever word you want to use.
She is here.
And every single day I look at her and feel grateful.
Every single day.
Which is also why the thought of trying again feels so complicated.
Because if we are fortunate enough to have another child, they will also be our miracle.
Not because one child is more special than another.
But because every child we have will have been fought for.
Waited for.
Dreamed about.
Prayed for in our own way.
Yesterday my husband and I talked for a long time.
The kind of conversation that happens when two people finally stop pretending everything is fine.
And eventually we landed somewhere simple.
We’re going to try to be kinder.
Kinder to each other.
Kinder to ourselves.
Kinder to our situation.
Kinder to our imperfect bodies.
Kinder to the process.
Because somewhere along the way, I forgot that he is carrying this too.
Differently.
But still carrying it.
And somewhere along the way, I forgot that every time he drives an hour home after working ridiculous hours at the hospital, he isn’t doing it because it’s convenient.
He’s doing it because he wants this too.
Maybe that’s enough.
Maybe that’s where healing starts.
I don’t know what this month will bring.
I don’t know if we’ll get lucky.
I don’t know if we’ll be starting another IVF cycle soon.
I don’t know what the future looks like.
What I do know is that today, my daughter is healthy.
She is happy.
She is loved beyond measure.
And that is not something I take for granted for even a second.
Before I end this, I just want to say thank you.
Truly.
Thank you to everyone who continues to read these pieces.
Thank you to those who have sent kind messages.
Thank you to those who have purchased diapers, wipes, books, and little things for my daughter.
I cannot adequately explain what it feels like to receive support from people who have never met you.
Especially when there are days that support feels more tangible than what exists in your own life.
Life is complicated right now.
Everyone seems to be living inside their own story.
And I’m over here simply trying to be the best mother I can be.
Trying to raise a little girl.
Trying to protect my marriage.
Trying to protect my heart.
Trying to believe that good things can happen twice.
I recently added a few inexpensive summer items and books to our registry that I think my daughter would genuinely love. Things she’ll actually use. Things that encourage curiosity and getting outdoors. If anyone feels moved to help, please know that I never take that kindness for granted.
And if you’ve chosen to walk alongside me while I figure all of this out, thank you.
More than you know.
Sometimes that’s what keeps me writing.
And sometimes that’s what keeps me going.
Because infertility can make you feel incredibly alone.
But somehow, lately, I’ve felt a little less alone than I used to.
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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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This post was previously published on medium.com.
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Photo credit: Art Institute of Chicago On Unsplash
