I grew up in what many people would call a “broken home.” I didn’t meet my biological father until I was a young teenager, and both my mother and stepfather struggled with long-term substance use disorders. Much of my childhood was spent visiting jails, prisons and halfway houses, never really having a place that felt like home. Stability was not something I knew, and because of that, I decided early on that I never wanted children. Looking back now, after years of infertility and recurrent miscarriage after IVF, that belief feels almost impossible to reconcile with the life I’ve fought so hard to build.
That belief stayed with me until I met my husband ten years ago. From the beginning, he and his family welcomed me fully—trauma and all—and showed me what genuine, healthy love looks like. For the first time in my life, I felt unconditional acceptance, safety and stability. I learned what it meant to exhale and soften into the moment instead of constantly bracing for impact. As I began to feel secure, something unexpected happened: I realized I had more love in me than I had ever allowed myself to acknowledge.
I came to understand that I no longer needed to guard myself the way I had my entire life. I wanted to share that love, to build something bigger than survival. My husband had always wanted children but had been completely willing to remain child-free out of respect for my past and my fears. When I finally told him that I had changed my mind and was open to taking the next steps, it felt like both an ending and a beginning. Within the same month, I had my IUD removed, full of hope and the belief that this was part of reclaiming my life after years of instability.
It’s almost ironic now, thinking back to how carefully we talked through the possibility of getting pregnant right away. That conversation happened seven years ago.
Months passed, and my cycle never returned. My doctor reassured me that it could take time after IUD removal, so we waited. Then my husband received a job offer a few hours away, and we packed up our lives and moved to a small town of 7,000 people. Six months after my IUD removal, still without a cycle, I returned to the doctor. Tests came back “normal” except for polycystic ovaries, and I was told to come back in a year, but I had a gut feeling this wouldn’t be easy.
Before that year was up, I received a once-in-a-lifetime job offer across the country. We moved again—over 2,000 miles—only to have the COVID-19 pandemic shut everything down shortly after. The next two years became pure survival mode. I was working on the frontlines, and any progress toward starting a family was paused indefinitely. It wasn’t until 2023, when things felt safer and more accessible, that we were finally able to begin again.
I met with my OBGYN and started tracking my cycle as best I could, despite it being highly irregular. It was during this time that I learned—far too late—how little information I had ever been given about my own reproductive health. No one had told me that regular menstruation was necessary. I ultimately required a D&C (dilation and curettage) to remove excess endometrial tissue and polyps.
We began ovulation induction with Letrozole, gradually increasing to the maximum dose. Ovulation never came. We tried Clomid next, again increasing to the highest dose, with the same result. Eventually, we were referred to a fertility clinic two hours away. Their first available appointment for new patients was nine months out, and once again, we waited.
When IVF finally began, things moved relatively smoothly. I nearly developed OHSS after retrieval, but we managed to come out with eight embryos. I remember thinking—surely this was enough. After years of infertility, we felt incredibly fortunate.
Our first frozen embryo transfer felt like a trial run. We were realistic, cautious, and emotionally guarded. I required another polyp removal but avoided major delays. To our shock, the transfer worked. After six years of infertility, I was pregnant, with strong betas. We told our parents and siblings, and those weeks were filled with a kind of joy and relief I don’t think I’ll ever fully be able to put into words.
At 6 weeks and 5 days, we drove the two hours to our clinic. As the doctor prepared for the ultrasound, she mentioned that we should hear the heartbeat. Moments later, she said she couldn’t see any signs of pregnancy. Everything inside me went quiet. I alternated between being numb and breaking down into uncontrollable sobs, and remained that way for weeks.
Our clinic schedules IVF cycles every other month, so our next transfer didn’t happen for four more months. By then, I was emotionally detached, convinced it wouldn’t work—and if it did, that it wouldn’t last. Our betas were low but acceptable, then doubled, but barely. I requested additional labs, but it didn’t matter. We lost that pregnancy too. I felt guilty for not letting myself love it the way I had the first.
By the third transfer, hope returned in full force. Less than 1 percent of people experience three consecutive miscarriages, and I believed there was no way that would be us. Our betas were incredibly high—nearly in the range expected with multiples. We hiked and walked daily, making plans, talking about the future, imagining a baby by the holidays. Then one afternoon, after a short walk, I felt blood. This time, the grief came with rage—rage at the unfairness, at the statistics, at how easy it seems for some and how impossibly hard it has been for us.
Now, as we prepare for a fourth transfer and a new round of testing, I feel both numb and deeply anxious. No one expects expanding their family to be this long, complicated, or lonely. I am endlessly grateful to have a partner who has walked every step beside me.
IVF brings its own kind of mourning—the loss of spontaneity, surprise, joy. But recurrent loss brings trauma that is harder to name. Infertility and loss don’t fade with time; they reshape you. They change how you see the world and how you move through it.
Even so, I am thankful for how this season has shaped me. I know that if and when we finally meet our child earthside, I will be more compassionate, more resilient, and more grounded than I ever thought possible. If I can survive seven years of infertility and repeated loss, I know I will never take parenthood—or anything else—lightly again.
