IVF didn’t work for me
I never thought IVF would be part of my story. Honestly, it’s not something we often anticipate—especially when there’s no medical reason to think it might be needed. IVF feels like a last resort, doesn’t it? A step reserved for those with no other options to grow their family. Even though the crib in my room remains painfully empty today, I once had every reason to believe I wouldn’t need extra help. My first two pregnancies happened naturally. Back then, I assumed that being pregnant automatically meant I’d bring a baby home. But life has a way of rewriting our stories.
The Start of My Infertility Journey
There were no red flags, no long years of trying without success. My path to infertility began quietly, unexpectedly. After my C-section, a whole year passed without any sign of another pregnancy. Unable to conceive naturally again, I found myself stepping into a world I never imagined—one defined by secondary infertility.
That C-section was supposed to mark the beginning of our family’s next chapter. Instead, it left me navigating pain, grief, and uncertainty.
The Silent Grief of Secondary Infertility
If you’ve been pregnant before, it’s easy to assume it will happen again, isn’t it? Naturally, easily, just as it did the first time. But for me, things didn’t unfold that way after my first pregnancy ended in surgery. My body didn’t recover the way I’d expected. Month after month, I waited with growing hope—met each time with disappointment. The pain became deeper as months turned into more than a year.
Secondary infertility comes with a strange kind of grief. People often expect you to feel lucky, even grateful, because you’ve experienced pregnancy before. And while I genuinely count myself fortunate, the loss of the child I never got to hold and the dream of expanding my family is its own profound devastation. Grief doesn’t follow a rulebook.
Turning to IVF
When we decided to pursue IVF, it felt like a lifeline—a glimmer of hope when all other doors seemed closed. Medical science had come so far; surely, it could help me too. I threw myself into the process with everything I had—my time, my energy, and every ounce of fragile hope. But carrying hope comes with its own weight, especially when the outcome doesn’t go the way you’d dreamed.
My first transfer gave me that dream temporarily—a positive result, the start of what I thought was the answer. At 20 weeks, tragedy hit us in a way I wasn’t prepared for. We lost our son for reasons still unclear. I had done everything possible—even a cerclage to prevent complications—but it wasn’t enough. That loss was heart-shattering in ways that words can't fully express.
IVF took more than just injections and procedures—it took a toll on my heart, my body, and my mind. The waiting, the anticipation, and the heartbreak of each result drained me in ways no one had warned me about.
Gratitude Amid Grief
I’ll admit that guilt finds its way into my thoughts sometimes. For me, IVF may not have worked as I hoped it would, but I have ten embryos—ten little chances for the family I’ve dreamed of. I also know there are those still waiting for their first flicker of hope, the kind that I’ve experienced before. That thought grounds me. It reminds me to hold onto gratitude, no matter how heavy the weight of grief feels.
We’re now exploring the possibility of surrogacy, keeping our hearts open to paths we hadn’t considered in the past. I’ll share more on this chapter of our story as it unfolds, but for now, we remain hopeful about where this road may lead.
Watching Others Find Their Joy
Social media is filled with IVF success stories—joyful endings shared by friends, family, or even strangers. I celebrate their happiness, truly. But there’s a bittersweet ache in seeing what I haven’t yet been able to achieve.
It’s complex, isn’t it? Feeling genuinely happy for someone else while quietly grieving your own loss. That duality can leave you feeling guilty or alone. But these emotions are valid. It’s okay to feel joy and sorrow at the same time.
Learning to Heal
Though IVF didn’t give us the family we’d envisioned, it taught me lessons about resilience that I didn’t know I needed. It forced me to grieve, to rebuild, and to look at hope through a different lens.
To anyone reading this who’s walking the same path, I want to say this: Your pain is valid. It’s okay to feel lost, to be angry, or to grieve for a dream that didn’t come true. And it’s okay to stop if you need a break. Whatever your next step, know that you aren’t walking this road alone.
A Note to the Ones Without the Happy Ending
If IVF didn’t work for you, please remember that your bravery in walking this path is worth honoring. Success stories often dominate the conversation, making it easy to feel invisible. But your story matters just as much.
This isn’t the end of my story, and it doesn’t have to be the end of yours. While fitting all the pieces together can feel impossible at times, I’m slowly learning to cherish the life I have while holding space for what could still be.
IVF didn’t work for me—but it’s a chapter, not the final page. Whatever your story looks like, know that it’s valid, beautiful, and worth telling.
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