Our Story
My partner and I met in the summer of 2017. I was 28, he was 32. It was the kind of whirlwind romance that feels like it was scripted — we traveled together, laughed endlessly, and moved in together faster than I ever imagined possible. He quickly became my anchor, my best friend, and the person who helped me navigate the aftermath of a painful divorce.
Like most new relationships, our days were full of joy and lightness. We ate, drank, socialized, and simply reveled in being together. I was so swept up in the excitement that I began to forget my birth control pills occasionally. At first, nothing happened. Eventually, we jokingly agreed I should just ditch the pill altogether and see what happened. Looking back, I realize how reckless that was, especially given my careful nature and the fact that this was a new relationship.
A year later, I reluctantly made an appointment with my GP. I felt embarrassed, apologizing repeatedly, and found myself reassuring the doctor, “I’m not even really trying for a baby.” Deep down, I was trying to shield myself from disappointment. Surely, I thought, fertility struggles were a problem for older, married couples, not for someone like me.
The fear of infertility was not new to me. As a teenager, I had a pregnancy that ended in a late termination. After the procedure, I suffered a seizure and spent two weeks in the hospital, undergoing multiple surgeries to remove remaining tissue. I was 19, alone, and terrified — an experience that left a deep mark on me. I had always wondered if it had affected my ability to conceive, and now, in the midst of a new relationship, that fear resurfaced.
Months passed without a word from the doctor. When I finally followed up, the news was blunt and shocking: we did not qualify for further investigation or treatment because my partner already had children. My body trembled with anger and disbelief. I couldn’t understand how the system I had trusted could dismiss my physical concerns simply because of the man I loved. It felt profoundly unfair. That day, I cried and screamed at a stranger for the first and only time in my life, completely alone with my grief.
Slowly, I fell into depression. My life, once full of excitement and possibility, became overshadowed by the realization that children might never be a part of my future. I had no idea where to start, no knowledge of fertility treatments, and certainly no funds for the thousands of dollars I assumed it would cost. I felt adrift, lost in a world I didn’t belong to.
I spent countless hours on fertility forums, asking strangers for advice. Eventually, I found a clinic offering a “fertility MOT.” For $950, we had an hour-long consultation, blood tests, a scan, and a Hycosy to check my tubes and uterus. We also attended a free IVF seminar to understand what lay ahead.
All results came back normal. If we didn’t conceive naturally by Christmas, IVF was recommended. I felt frustrated — desperate for a problem to fix, a magic solution to return life to normal. I had no choice but to continue trying naturally. My days became consumed by fertility apps, temperature tracking, ovulation tests, and endless hope with every positive result. We tried everything, following old wives’ tales, lying down after intercourse, taking supplements, and embracing every bit of advice we could find.
Each month brought a cycle of hope, dread, and heartbreak. Socializing less, drinking more, arguments flared at home. Work became exhausting; every mention of pregnancy felt like a personal attack. Jealousy consumed me — of women pregnant, of women carefree, of women whose lives I could never have. Infertility had taken over every part of my life.
Finally, we decided IVF was the next step. We researched clinics and chose a low-cost London clinic with strong success rates. We committed fully: quitting alcohol, caffeine, and smoking, exercising daily, and transforming our lifestyle. The first IVF cycle began in June 2020. The process was overwhelming, but connecting with other fertility warriors on Instagram helped me feel less alone.
Our first cycle brought heartbreak. Only one three-day embryo, and ultimately, no pregnancy. Undeterred, we tried again in September, adding ICSI to improve our chances. Confidence quickly crumbled when a large ovarian cyst was discovered, leading to cycle cancellation. Months of waiting and scans followed, and by Christmas, the cyst was the size of a lime. Surgery became unavoidable.
Surgery in April was terrifying. The surgeon warned I could lose one or both ovaries. My panic subsided only when I pictured our future child. Post-op, relief turned to devastation: both fallopian tubes were blocked and needed removal. I left the hospital inconsolable, unprepared for the clinical infertility diagnosis, questioning my womanhood, my body, and my dreams.
Undeterred, we pressed forward. A “freeze all” cycle in June 2021 produced four viable embryos. Private surgery followed to remove the tubes and cyst, clearing the path for our baby. The first frozen embryo transfer in September ended in disappointment. We began another cycle in November, hoping this year would finally bring our miracle.
Infertility has been a journey of grief, frustration, and unimaginable highs and lows. IVF is not a guarantee — it can require repeated attempts, procedures, and emotional resilience. What has helped me most is connecting with others who understand, sharing fears and triumphs, and reminding myself that I am stronger and braver than I knew.
We have not given up. Every step, every challenge, every small victory brings us closer — not just to a baby, but to a deeper bond, resilience, and hope. Whatever the future holds, I carry these experiences as part of our story, shaping the family we will build, however it comes together.
