The Sun Keeps Rising

Chemical pregnancies. Asherman syndrome. Low ovarian reserve. IVF.

When my husband Matt and I started trying for a baby, we assumed pregnancy would come easy. We were young and healthy - why wouldn’t it, right? We bought a 3-bedroom house. I knit tiny baby sweaters.

At each stage, we saw the data: 20% of pregnancies miscarry, 18% of couples will experience infertility, 2-10% of IVF cycles fail to fertilize any eggs, yielding zero embryos.

I just assumed the numbers would be on our side.

But at each stage of our infertility journey, the goal posts have been thrown miles farther than at the last. With each new development in this process, we found ourselves in the increasingly miniscule, improbable minority.

I never thought I’d say that I’m still not pregnant - that is, haven’t stayed pregnant - several years after my first positive pregnancy test. But here we are. And while I would never wish for infertility, I am realizing I am all the better for it.

Infertility has forever changed me.

Resilience

This process has shown me that I am stronger than I ever thought I could be. IVF and infertility test your physical, mental, and emotional capacity. Sometimes it can feel impossible to show up in the other areas of your life as a spouse, a manager or employee, and a family member. My ability to keep going - and importantly, to know when to pause and grieve so that I can keep going - makes me feel like I can tackle any challenge that comes my way. I have never been more proud of myself.

Perspective

I have always been a glass half full person. I’ve always been the one to encourage others to see the good, the one to cheer people on. But infertility has dampened my optimism. It’s hard to see the silver lining when your dreams are continually shoved further and further out of reach. When we do see a positive pregnancy test, I know that the joy I feel will be laced with fear of further loss. Infertility has torn the whimsy away from this journey. Even so, I am clearer than ever before on my goals.

When we do have children, I will never take them for granted. Of course the anxiety, irritation, and sleeplessness will come. But my appreciation for them will be so much deeper, knowing how hard and long we had to work to hold them in our arms.

Releasing control

If nothing else, IVF is an exercise in surrender. As a mildly (or maybe not so mild) type-A high-achiever, my life has been a product of effort leading to outcome - with support from some privilege along the way. Anyone going through IVF understands that effort does not lead to outcome: you can’t outmaneuver infertility. You can do everything perfect - eat the healthiest diet, stop drinking, relinquish your precious caffeine - and a cycle can still fail. While I can focus on the factors within my control, I have accepted that there are so many more factors that I can’t influence.

For me, releasing control also looks like leaning on others. When Matt and I experienced our two miscarriages, we initially told no one. We had planned to follow the (antiquated) guidance of waiting until 8-12 weeks to share our news with anyone outside of the two of us. And when the miscarriages happened, Matt was an incredible support - but we found ourselves unable to lean on friends and family around us while we navigated the grief.

Now as I have navigated IVF, I have shared our struggles and our joys with close friends and family. I’ve cried to them about unsuccessful cycles and cheered about successful egg retrievals, knowing that they’ll be there to catch me if we experience additional loss, and importantly, that they’ll join us in the delight of finally having a successful pregnancy.

That’s what brought me here.

I have never been one for sharing such vulnerable parts of my life online. But after the itch to share this experience didn’t go away, I created this Substack with several things in mind.

• Seeking community: While it’s been meaningful to share our infertility experience with friends and family, it has been rare for me to find folks that have walked a similar path. I have felt alone at many parts of this journey, and I hope to find others here with shared experiences.

• Processing my feelings: Like so many others experiencing infertility, I’ve been smacked in the face by surprise pregnancy announcements or perfect family photos on Instagram over the years. I’ve taken too many social media hiatuses to count, only to come crawling back - but the negative feelings remain. I feel a drive to create, not consume, to work through these emotions. Writing is helping me do that.

• Sharing knowledge: I have spent thousands of hours researching protocols, listening to podcasts, navigating expenses, and planning my own treatment together with my doctors. The information I’ve gathered feels like it needs to burst out of my brain! While I won’t cover medical advice here, I crave a space to document the many things I’ve learned along the way - sometimes the hard way - in hopes that others can use it.

• Helping others: Most importantly, I hope this publication finds its way to others - maybe you - that are seeking others with similar experiences like I am. My hope is that reading this feels like a deep sigh; like finally finding someone else who just gets it.

The sun keeps rising.

That is what I keep reminding myself. Infertility is an absolute rollercoaster of grief and hope, and sometimes it can feel impossible to keep going. But when the uncertainty feels overwhelming, all I have to do is get through one day at a time. And each day brings a new chance for me to try again, to learn more, and for things to go right.

I hope The Two Week Wait can be this reminder for you. I hope it assures you in the moments you feel alone that you have a friend during this challenging time. I’m so glad you’re here to join me on this journey.