Elizabeth’s Story

*transcript provided for accessibility, but we recommend listening to the voice memo

I just listened to the episode about sex and infertility, and I realized I do have some things to tell you guys. I really identified with the part of the podcast when we were talking about how purity culture really messed up your sex life.

When my husband and I met, we were in college, and I wasn’t necessarily following the teachings of Christianity anymore, not really subscribing to purity culture anymore, and so we actually had a really great healthy sex life for the first part of our relationship.

And then I came back to the church. I was involved with the youth ministry, and I was having some open conversations with my youth pastor, and he made it very clear that we were sinning and needed to stop having sex, or I wouldn’t be able to work with the youth group anymore. And so we said okay fine, you know, let’s not have sex anymore. So for the last two years of our engagement before we got married, we were trying to not have sex.

And so we went from having this really vibrant, healthy, awesome sex life to “can’t even look at you because it might lead to sin.” Now we got married, and imagine that: it didn’t magically solve itself when we got married. There’s nothing magical that happens between I’m committed to you today, or I’m committed to you tomorrow, and now we’re married. So we had a really hard time turning that back on.

And then my husband went through a really hard time the first couple of years of our marriage, and that made it even harder. And so I wouldn’t say our sex life was doing great before infertility, but oh my goodness, we had no shot once we started to deal with trying to get pregnant. All of the ovulation strips and all of the timing and all of the “we have to have sex this night and this night and this night,” it was exhausting. And it killed any vibe that we possibly had left.

We tried all kinds of things. We had one of those inside-out octopuses, where if it was on the happy side, my husband knew that I was in that ovulation window and I would welcome any advance at any point. And you know, then I would turn it to the frowny face the rest of the cycle.

So that took some of the, you know, I’m doing all the initiating out of it. But we definitely struggled with his pressure to perform. He was such a trooper and so positive about everything and always willing to drop everything and have sex. But definitely that pressure to perform started to cause some problems, and then that stressed him out and that stressed me out.

So by the time we were starting our first cycles of IUI, it’s been such a relief to not have to have sex at any particular time. We’ve really happily handed that part over to the clinic and said, “Okay, we are all in on them getting me pregnant, and we’re not gonna worry about my fertile window at all, and we’re just gonna take the meds and do what they tell me to do.” Which, imagine that, has not magically turned our sex life back on. But it has given us a fighting chance again, I think.

The other thing that’s been really helpful is therapy. Obviously you guys talk about therapy a lot, but my therapist has kind of an Eastern medicine mentality, and she thinks in all of this my second chakra is blocked. And I’m still a little, you know, from a conservative Christian household. I’m not really sure how much I... I don’t know. I don’t know what to think about the chakras. But anyway, she told me I needed to do something flowy to get into my body and to be more comfortable in that pelvic chakra.

So in trying a few different classes, I’ve ended up taking pole dancing for the past year and a half, which has been the most life-changing and healing thing I have ever done for myself. It has changed the way I feel about my body on the days where I feel like my body’s not even mine to be able to show up and fully be present in my body, be proud of what I can do, feel sexy even when it’s not about having a partner. It’s just about me getting to feel sexy.

It’s been the best and most healing and strengthening experience for me personally as far as our sex life goes. And some of that has translated back home, and sometimes I come home and I do some of the tricks and show him some of the stuff. And, you know, some weeks I don’t. And it just translates into how I feel about my body and myself and my pelvic chakra, whatever that means.

And so, yeah, I mean, I think both purity culture and infertility have been really, really hard in our sex life. But we are doing the best we can, and I’m really lucky that my partner is really, really supportive. And, you know, we’re just kind of rolling with it. We’re trying to figure out, you know, what to do next and open to all the creative solutions. But, yeah, I hope this helps.

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Let me start by saying I carry a balanced translocation—this is a unique and brutal factor that can lead to infertility that I don’t see much awareness for, so I’m hoping my story can shed some light and help others feel less alone. For those who don’t know, there are many types of balanced translocations, and each type has a different “success ratio.” Having a balanced translocation means I have a chromosomal rearrangement, but no missing or extra DNA, which is why I’ve fortunately been able to live a healthy life. However, it also means that every time an embryo is created with one of my eggs—whether through natural conception or IVF—there’s a ~70% it will miscarry due to having an unbalanced translocation, meaning there is missing or extra DNA. This 70/30 ratio is specific to my translocation; other translocations have different ratios, but the gist remains the same: Having a balanced translocation makes it uniquely hard to have a successful pregnancy, in that the odds are really stacked against us.

I was fortunate to already know this before Evan and I started trying to conceive, as my mom carried this balanced translocation as well and suffered 10 miscarriages (yes, she’s amazing). She also successfully gave birth to both my brother and me, proving this really is a numbers game, but it’s possible to make it to the other side. Many others in the balanced translocation community don’t learn they carry this until much later, making it a shocking and heart-wrenching diagnosis.

All that said, there’s no way you can really know how difficult this experience is until you go through it. When Evan and I started trying, we knew we’d likely have some losses before successes, but again, we figured it was a numbers game and would just ride the storm because these were the cards we’d been dealt, and we couldn’t change them.

We began trying naturally and were lucky enough to get pregnant a few months in; sadly, it ended in miscarriage at 6 weeks. Several months later, I got pregnant again—only to again, end in early miscarriage. Another several months later, I got pregnant for the third time, which ended in early miscarriage too. Needless to say, this was soul-crushing, but I thought, “At least we’re getting pregnant. We’ll beat the odds eventually. Keep going.”

Then the pregnancies just stopped. Negative test after negative test. It was wild—why was this happening? What had changed? I did have a few chemical pregnancies, but nothing that ever implanted or made it past a super faint line for a day or two. My doctor had me do a saline ultrasound and an endometrial biopsy, and she had Evan do a semen analysis. All came back normal. She had us both start taking some supplements that could only help, but no significant issues were spotted. I was told there’s no reason I shouldn’t be able to get pregnant again.

Once a full year passed with no success, we decided it was time to try fertility treatments. We started with IUI: the first one ended in a chemical pregnancy, the second and third failed. The next logical step was to try IVF. As scary as this was, I felt an immense sense of relief knowing we’d be able to use PGT testing to spot whether an embryo was unbalanced. I truly thought, “This is it. We’ll be able to pinpoint a balanced embryo to transfer and won’t have to worry as much about miscarrying. Let’s go!” That was not how things went.

While we are very blessed to have been able to create embryos from every cycle (I know many people struggle to make it that far), we haven’t been able to make more than two embryos at a time. And with the balanced translocation being such a hard numbers game, it was quickly apparent that IVF wouldn’t be as easy a solution as we thought. Across three cycles, we created five embryos, all of which came back unbalanced.

Our fourth cycle gave us two embryos that were graded as high quality, and that made us quite optimistic. We waited a grueling two weeks for the PGT results (that wait is more painful than any injection, if you ask me), which finally arrived yesterday, as I mentioned at the top of my story—those embryos came back balanced (!!), but with other chromosomal issues that made them unusable. I literally couldn’t believe what I was hearing. We finally created not one, but two balanced embryos, only for them to both have other abnormalities? I couldn’t hold myself back from crying as I responded to the genetics counselor. I was in shock and disbelief. Would this ever work for us? Is there yet another issue on top of the translocation that hasn’t been spotted, or is this just seriously terrible luck?

Sadly, these results were a reminder that just because we have this awful challenge with the translocation doesn’t mean we’re immune to other, more “random” chromosomal issues that can happen to anybody. And that is a cruel, tough pill to swallow. I sobbed in pure agony for about an hour right after that, while Evan, the incredible gem he is, held me the entire time as he processed and grieved the news himself.

So here I am today, still processing this insane news and grieving. I can’t believe how much we’ve been through. I can’t believe we haven’t caught a break yet. I can’t believe how many other women have gotten pregnant and had babies (some more than once) in the time we’ve been trying for one.

And yet, I still have hope. It’s getting harder and harder to see the light, but somehow I haven’t lost my hope. Maybe it’s because of my brother’s and my very existences. Maybe it’s because my balanced translocation has a ~30% success rate. Maybe it’s because we finally did create balanced embryos this past cycle. Maybe it’s because my doctor has told me multiple times she believes this is possible for us, but just doesn’t know how long it’ll take. Or maybe it’s because I feel deep in my gut that I’m meant to be a mom. I believe this is meant for us. I know we deserve and can do this.

Every time I’ve started miscarrying or gotten that dreaded “Unfortunately, I don’t have good news…” phone call, I’ve sunken into a deep sadness where I feel utterly hopeless and ready to give up. But not less than 24 hours later, I always find myself ready to try again, knowing it’s possible for it to work. I’m sure many women in the infertility community can relate to that, and I think that’s pretty incredible. We’re a special breed. While I know none of us would wish this upon anyone or ourselves, I believe we are all so much stronger because of it. Our patience, resilience, and courage get tested in ways we never could have imagined, and that many other people will never know. This has made my marriage unbelievably stronger as well—our love and support for each other have grown exponentially, and we’ve learned that we can truly go through the trenches together. For that, I am eternally grateful.

So while I don’t currently have a successful pregnancy or live birth to end this story with, I’m sharing other successes that I hope others can see in their journeys as well: learning that I can give myself hundreds of injections; discovering how brave I really am; a genuine recognition of all I have in my life to be grateful for; and most importantly, my ability to keep fighting and never lose hope.

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After experiencing two chemical pregnancies in our first year of trying to get pregnant, I had a feeling that something wasn’t quite right. Even though my periods were regular, they had been very light for a few years. Combined with the losses, it was enough for me to decide to investigate further.

I asked my OB for a referral to a reproductive endocrinologist, AKA a fertility doctor.

We agreed to move forward with a basic fertility workup, which includes fertility hormone testing, a semen analysis, and a uterine cavity evaluation — or a physical assessment of the uterus to test for any mechanical barriers to fertility. Think fallopian tube blockage, polyps, scar tissue, and structural abnormalities.

Together with fertility hormone blood tests (more on that later), one of our first steps was a hysterosalpingogram, or HSG, an X-ray dye test that allows a clear view of the uterus.

The test is quick, but more intense than I was anticipating. The provider inserts dye into your uterine cavity, which shows an outline of your uterus and fallopian tubes that stands out clearly on an X-ray. And it hurt. In some cases, including mine, the cervix needs to be dilated with a catheter to allow for the insertion of the dye. Deep breaths and pain meds are your best friends here!

However, it was illuminating — literally and figuratively. I immediately saw on the screen the solid outline of scar tissue around my cervix, along the walls of my uterus, and partially blocking my right fallopian tube. My doctor told me that I likely had Asherman Syndrome.

Asherman's Syndrome is characterized by the presence of scar tissue (you might hear it referred to as adhesions) in the uterus. These adhesions can be a physical cause of infertility: they can prevent uterine lining from growing, block the fallopian tubes or cervix, and stop an embryo from implanting or growing. It is considered rare, and the causes of the development of the tissue aren’t really known. It can lead to menstrual issues, pain, and infertility.

Asherman Syndrome is usually preempted by something that caused physical trauma to the uterus, such as D&C following a miscarriage, a surgery, or childbirth. But none of these applied to me.

My doctor believed it could have been caused by the insertion of my IUD. I say this not to freak out anyone with an IUD — even after this experience, I am still generally a proponent — but in case it validates anyone with a similar experience. You won’t find IUD insertion listed as a cause on any websites about Asherman; it’s incredibly rare, but it can happen.

As a next step, my doctor recommended a hysteroscopy, a minimally-invasive surgery that involves inserting a hysteroscope (tube with a light and a camera) through the cervix to examine and diagnose uterine issues, and in many cases like mine, using other tools to physically remove abnormalities like polyps, fibroids, and, of course, scar tissue.

I felt frustrated but hopeful. On one hand, I struggled to believe that we were facing such a difficult (literal) barrier to getting pregnant. On the other, the optimistic side of me believed that this would be our fix: after the hysteroscopy, our issues would be solved and I would get pregnant easily.

The procedure was frankly a piece of cake compared with the HSG. I was placed under deep IV sedation for less than an hour, not unlike an IVF egg retrieval, I would come to understand later. When I woke up, my doctor confirmed they removed the adhesions and that the procedure was successful.

Recovery was quick, with one day on the couch and some mild cramping.

The most unpleasant surprise of the experience was the post-procedure protocol. I was told after the hysteroscopy — not before — that I was to begin a month-long daily dose of oral estrogen. The goal was clear and understandable: estrogen supports the growth of the uterine lining and aims to prevent the recurrence of any scarring.

It wasn’t the protocol itself that I was so taken aback by, but the side effects of the estrogen. For the month I was taking it, I had severe mood swings, cried at the drop of a hat, and was emotionally knocked sideways by things at which I wouldn’t normally bat an eye. My experience, I came to learn later, is quite a common one.

If I had known beforehand that this was coming, I would have been able to better prepare myself for it emotionally.

On to the fertility hormone blood tests -- likely what you think of when “testing your fertility” comes to mind. My doctors conducted these hormone tests at two different points in my journey. The first time, the lab report I received showed nothing outside the “normal” range for my age. I saw a lot of green on the charts and took that as a good sign (green means go, right?).

Importantly, I would come to find later, my doctor didn’t sit down with me to review them.

The second time was when I established care with a new doctor after we moved to Los Angeles the following year. Given my first results, I approached the testing as a simple formality, assuming we would go through the motions then go on our merry way.

I will always remember it: Matt and I got the results through my clinic’s portal one evening when we arrived home from a dinner. The message showed our results: “AMH = 0.7. FSH = 20.1. Consistent with diagnosis of low ovarian reserve.” That’s it.

We hadn’t heard that term before, so naturally we began to Google. At first glance, the results appeared devastating. We panic-scrolled past phrases like “older biological age”, “poor response to treatment”, “premature ovarian failure”, even “early menopause”. Various resources showed that expected numbers for my age were around 1.5-2.5 AMH and <10 FSH.

We sobbed. We questioned our future.

But we quickly found that the information online about ovarian reserve is confusing: one article is strewn with shocking phrases like the ones we saw, and the next the reader is assured that AMH is not a measure of one’s natural, immediate fertility. We were terrified but also stumped.

When we were finally able to talk with my doctor about the results, she was surprised that we were so surprised by the results. Her assessment of my previous results from my other doctor (lots of green!) was that I was on the very low end of normal ovarian reserve levels: I was on the precipice of a low ovarian reserve diagnosis even then. No one had told me.

She explained that my low ovarian reserve might not impact our fertility in the next couple of years (again, that AMH alone isn’t a measure of your natural fertility), but it would make the feasibility of childbearing beyond that uncertain. In other words, I had fewer eggs remaining, and my timeline was likely shorter than others my age.

She shared that if Matt and I had a goal of having multiple children — which we do — that she strongly recommended IVF to bank embryos. I recall her saying we “didn’t have a lot of time”. However, she also said that my low reserve might make treatment more difficult. The fewer eggs you have, the fewer you tend to retrieve in IVF. It could be a difficult journey, but it could also provide us with more time.

We decided on the spot to move forward with IVF.

We were stunned at first — we never expected we would end up here. At the same time, we were eager to get started and optimistic about our chances.

My doctor walked me through what would happen next: we discussed the necessary medications, the cadence of appointments, the potential timeline of my retrieval. I have a hazy memory of her mentioning that there is, on average, a 5% chance of an IVF cycle yielding no fertilized eggs. But what we didn’t discuss, and I didn’t think to ask, was what my expected outcome was given my diagnoses.

In fact, I remember sheepishly confiding that we were really hoping to only have to undergo one cycle — we don’t have IVF insurance coverage and the budget was going to be a stretch. She said, “OK”.

My antral follicle count (AFC) at the start of the cycle was 8 — low for my age at the time, but not devastatingly so. But as the cycle went on, my ultrasounds showed disappointing results. Only 3 follicles were growing as expected; the others trailed far behind. My retrieval date was incrementally, painstakingly pushed out a day at a time in hopes of coaxing more follicles to grow (which is to say, daily appointments and a nightmare of a work schedule).

In the end, we retrieved 4 eggs.

I felt a confusing mix of disappointment and hope. I was crushed we didn’t retrieve more and knew this likely meant a longer road ahead. But I was glad we had something.

Then came (what I now know as) the gauntlet of the fertilization process. Initially, 3 of the 4 eggs showed signs of fertilization. A couple of days later, we got word that all 3 had stopped growing.

None of them developed into blastocysts.

We had pushed through the retrieval cycle, shelled out more money than we ever expected to spend, and had zero embryos to show for it. I hung up the call with the clinic and sobbed on the bathroom floor, the weight of it absolutely flattening me. We questioned our future, questioned if we truly would be able to have biological children. But we kept going.

Our journey is far from over. A new clinic, three more (thankfully successful!) egg retrievals, two canceled embryo transfer cycles, and a second hysteroscopy (yep, the scarring came back) later, we’re not out of the woods. But we’re hopeful -- we don’t know when, or how, we will hold our baby in our arms, but I know we will.

Learn more about ’s story on her Substack, The Two Week Wait.

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My husband and I met very young in college, and married young at 25 and 26, so starting a family wasn’t on my radar until years into our marriage. I found myself at 29 working a job that completely exhausted me, while also finding the spark in myself to start a family. So, I thought “f**k it, I’m going to quit, and I’ll just get pregnant”. Until we got hit with the rude awakening that it wasn’t going to be that easy for us.

Six months into trying to conceive with only negatives to show for it, my OB/GYN ran all the tests she could but found nothing wrong. Another six months passed, and we moved on to a fertility clinic. Since all the tests so far were normal, we decided to try IUI first. We tried twice, and both failed. The reality that I would have to do IVF hit me hard, and I felt like I wasted so much time trying with IUIs. I was mad at myself and the world that this was now my reality.

My retrieval went great, and we got great numbers and grades of embryos. Now onto the FET. I decided, since we hadn’t uncovered anything yet and hadn’t had any success with TTC, that we might as well do a full medicated cycle. Our first FET ended with no implantation, full negative. I tested early and was heart broken everyday up until beta day. I probably didn’t get out of bed for a week. But I mustered up the strength to go straight into another FET.

That’s when we finally saw two lines after two years of TTC. I made my husband look first, and I could tell immediately because he laughed. I looked, and we both cried. Finally, it felt like the weight of the world was off my shoulders. We did it. I was pregnant and going to be a mom.

My favorite influencer posted a shoot with her bump in a gorgeous dress, and I knew I wanted to do the exact same. I made a Pinterest board with a western theme for the nursery. It was finally our time, and I finally felt complete happiness after two years of hell.

Until our first ultrasound came up, and my world was shattered. We saw everything we needed to, but it was measuring about 3 days behind (no big deal), but we couldn’t see a flicker. My heart sank in the room, and I shut off. I knew it was going to be over. We were told to be “cautiously optimistic,” but deep down I knew. Just like when I saw the picture of the embryo for our second transfer, deep down I saw it and knew this one was going to work. It did just not give the outcome we wanted. I audibly sobbed the whole way home.

The next four days of waiting felt longer than all the two-week wait periods combined. We came up to the next ultrasound, and for some reason that day, I felt like it was all going to be okay, that it was going to work out. That my baby would grow and everything would be fine. I was so, so wrong. The embryo hadn’t grown at all. And the next thing I knew, we were talking about how to miscarry. The embryo was too small to test, and I was exhausted from doing shots, especially if it was for nothing. I miscarried naturally a week after that.

I think the thing that hurts the most is that this was supposed to be our time, our turn. We were finally going to be able to grow our family. Everyone’s Christmas presents were going to be different ways of telling them we were pregnant, and that all is gone now. The Pinterest boards have been archived, and the bump dresses have been deleted. The “magic” of this holiday season truly is missing for me this year after losing my pregnancy. And all I wish for Christmas is to spend the day with my husband and cat, crying over what should have been.

So now I find myself trying to gather the courage to go further. More advanced testing, more waiting, when will our next transfer be, will I have to do a Lupron depot, will I ever see my baby earth side? I hate the unknown, but also know that I have to completely surrender to it for this to work.

To those who have had their pregnancies and babies ripped away from them in this process, I see you, I’m with you, and I am so sorry. None of us going through any part of IVF deserves this.

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Today’s story comes from Francesca, whose path has included rare genetic conditions, the loss of a sister, serious infections following an IUD removal, and a dilated fallopian tube. It’s a story marked by uncommon complications and difficult diagnoses, but even more so by resilience and perseverance. We’re deeply grateful to her for trusting us with her story.

There’s no new episode today - we’re taking a break for the holiday - but we’ll be back in your inbox one more time before the new year. Until then, take good care of yourselves. 💛

x Amy and Kayti

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Francesca’s Story

I was diagnosed with Diamond-Blackfan Anemia as an infant. My sister Daniella was too. Until a year and a half ago, I had no reason to question this diagnosis. As anyone reading this will know all too well, the winding journey of TTC can change many things; in my case, a lifelong diagnosis.

If you haven’t heard of this disease, you’re not alone. According to the NIH, fewer than 5,000 people in the United States are diagnosed with DBA. DBA is a rare bone marrow disorder in which the body does not make enough red blood cells, leading to a plethora of long-term consequences: steroid dependency, blood transfusions, physical abnormalities, and cancer predispositions.

DBA is also a genetic condition. Two years ago, I knew that much. And so, my first to-do list task before even considering children was to address genetics. I had reason to feel strongly that finger crossing was not a strategy I’d consider to prevent inheritance. My sister Daniella was born three years after me. She presented with similar symptoms to mine, but at an earlier age. Due to treatment complications, she passed away seven months later when I was four years old. I don’t have any memories of this time in my life, aside from a hazy vignette of having a temper tantrum at a hospital.

Luckily, I was also thought to be in remission from DBA for most of my childhood and all of my adult life. Remission doesn’t mean cured; it means you’re healthy, but the diagnosis lurks in the background. Things like viruses or pregnancy can bring the symptoms back.

In November of 2023, on a call with my hematologist, I learned that DBA has a dominant inheritance pattern. This means that only one parent needs to carry the genetic mutation for there to be a 50/50 chance that a child will have the same condition. I also came to learn that the genetic mutation that caused my family’s diagnosis was unknown. We were clinically diagnosed, but not genetically diagnosed. This was news to me. The bottom line was that there was a 50/50 chance that a child of mine would have DBA, and PGT-M through IVF was not an option for us since there was no known genetic mutation to identify and therefore avoid.

The short version of my emotional processing is this: fine, confused, angry, very angry, panicked, lonely, and sad.

Thoughts I had: Why didn’t I know about this before age 31? Why did I only decide to look into this now? Angstily - does anyone else understand what I’m going through?

There was a lot of anger, most of it misplaced. Grief can be a fickle thing. Given how young I was when Daniella died, I used to think the loss didn’t impact me in the same way as someone who loses a family member when they’re older. And I was right, it’s not the same. But it’s not less.

After speaking to my hematologist, there were phone calls to researchers, follow-up visits to check on the cancer predisposition, bloodwork, and finally, my family was led to Boston Children’s Hospital, where a process of diagnosing (again) began.

The wonderful doctor at Boston Children’s Hospital reviewed my old medical records (a story in itself - hunting down thirty-year-old medical records from multiple hospitals) and said that my presentation was atypical for DBA. So began the journey of confirming a diagnosis with extensive bloodwork, meetings with a genetic counselor, and scheduling a bone marrow aspiration and biopsy for April 2024. The bone marrow tap, the third in my life, was essential in confirming the DBA diagnosis or identifying a new one. I was going through the same tests I had back as an infant, now as an adult, trying to have a child.

One month before the scheduled bone marrow tap, I had my copper IUD removed under anesthesia due to its misplacement and lack of strings. The procedure was quick and complication-free. The recovery was not.

After three and a half weeks of intermittent and intense pelvic pain, I began to have fevers and feel very unwell. I had difficulty going up stairs and was having *ehhhem* strange GI symptoms. Days before I was scheduled to have my bone marrow tap, I drove myself to the emergency room to find out I had a tubo-ovarian abscess in my left fallopian tube. I was hospitalized for two days on IV antibiotics.

What angered me the most was that I thought I had done everything right: I had gone to a follow-up with the doctor who removed the IUD, and nothing of concern was noticed. I had called the clinic nurses to explain my symptoms. I called a GI doctor. However, through obsessively reviewing my entire life’s worth of OBGYN medical records, I learned that I had accidentally left my IUD in too long. I changed practices at the wrong time. Information slipped through the cracks. I blamed myself for the infection, which perhaps was easier to do than just admit you can try to do everything right. Shit will still hit the fan.

Two unrelated medical journeys were happening simultaneously in my life: one hematologic and one gynecologic. There were threads connecting them, though: uncertainty, anger, distrust in medicine, and the hope of having a healthy child.

Two months post-infection, an ultrasound still showed a dilated fallopian tube. At four months, I received the all-clear. We rescheduled the bone marrow tap, which I now approached with much more anxiety. An IUD removal was a very simple procedure, and look what happened after that! Would this procedure be simple too? Will I let a stranger drill into my bone?

The answer is, yes, I would. I was given a new diagnosis of a very rare and very mild case of Congenital Sideroblastic Anemia, an entirely different bone marrow failure. This was objectively good news. Congenital Sideroblastic Anemia follows a recessively inherited condition. This diagnosis did not just apply to me; it applied to my sister, too—a new diagnosis for us both.

This month marks about a year since the bone marrow tap, and we are now in the midst of IVF. Given the pelvic infection, I had an HSG earlier in the TTC process than most. It revealed a dilated left fallopian tube, aka hydrosalpinx, that will need to be surgically removed if we want to get pregnant. We have just finished two back-to-back egg retrievals, and we are fortunate in many ways: we have excellent insurance coverage, and so far, the IVF process has progressed smoothly.

As difficult as this journey has been, I wouldn’t change it if I could. It revealed a resilience I didn’t know I had. I’ve seen the strength of people on their own fertility journeys, looking around waiting rooms in awe at what so many women go through. Grief comes in so many forms on the path to parenthood, whether you are struggling with infertility or not. This journey led me to process loss in ways I don’t know if I would have otherwise. I read over my and my sister’s hematologic medical records, stories that paralleled and continue to do so in new ways. When I needed an extra boost for the spicy shots of Menopur, I imagined Daniella cheering me through the stims.

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12 Days of Infertility Giveaway

No new episode today, but there are still a few days left to enter the 12 days of infertility giveaway! We have so many amazing gifts from brands to help get you through infertility and IVF this next year - make sure to enter by December 25 for a chance to win something.

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Weekend mood:

As we head into the holidays, we know this season can feel big in every direction. Infertility shifts everything — joy feels different, grief sits closer to the surface, and even the simple moments can feel heavier than usual.

Our 12 Days of Infertility Giveaway is happening on Instagram, and it’s our small way of giving back to a community that keeps us going. We hope it brings a little light to your December.

Today’s story is filled with strength and honesty and the kind of perseverance that comes from wanting something with your whole heart. It’s a powerful reminder of why this space matters.

We’re here with you and rooting for you as we move through this season together.

xo Amy & Kayti

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Stefi’s Story

I left LA after more than a decade in television for a myriad of reasons—burnout, shifting priorities, the slow erosion of creative joy in an industry I once loved. I’d spent years chasing deadlines, building campaigns, telling other people’s stories. But somewhere along the way, I realized I’d stopped telling my own.

What caught me off guard, though, was the quiet pull in a new direction. For the first time, I was thinking about starting a family.

I’d always been ambivalent about kids. “Music Man” had wanted them but was happily settling into our DINK rhythm. Parenthood wasn’t on my radar—until him. Then suddenly, it was: if I have kids, I want your kids. So we said, why not try? How hard could it be? I was 38 at the time.

Fast forward to moving back to my hometown and trying to redefine my identity after 14 years in showbiz and many late-night PMS-fueled crying sessions into my Taco Bell. Now, at the ripe (old) age of 41, ‘Unexplained infertility diagnosis’ gets tossed around. IVF enters the picture. And changes our world forever.

Who knew I could willingly give myself injections and subject myself to additional hormones to tempt the anxiety gods? Who knew the process wouldn’t give me the mood swings I was expecting, but would instead test my relationship limits? Who knew I wanted a kid this bad?

The waiting between things—the retrieval and then the week after to see if the embryos were strong enough to send to genetic testing—were the worst. The hopefulness ensued. The slight enthusiasm and talking about The Future slipped in. I should have known then but I was being optimistic, positive, and completely opposite of how I usually handle things. I realized, for the first time, I really wanted this. I was finally ready for this thing called motherhood. I could see the joy in “Music Man’s” eyes when we talked about it. This was our chance, our time.

But of course, the universe had other plans.

Our first round—the one where we told everyone and their mothers that we were embarking on this journey and wish us luck!, the one where we said “that wasn’t so bad” even after my stomach looked like a pin cushion, the one where we celebrated ourselves for a ‘job well done’ and waited weeks for an answer—that first round yielded no viable embryos.

A future path that I had started to imagine with a smile on my face was now a shattered dream. Cue the negativity and dark cloud of despair.

Somehow, we found the courage to try again…and again…and again. The long and short of it came down to this: 5 retrievals over 2.5 years, an undiagnosed thyroid condition revealed, 5 viable embryos, and 1 failed transfer. To quantify that into one sentence does not do it justice, does not contain the utter emotional turmoil and trauma that comes with 2 retrievals that yielded nothing, the months and years of hormonal Russian roulette, the drained bank account(s), the constant bickering that came with ‘should we keep going’ and ‘I can’t do this anymore’. The unbearable weight of desire vs. defeat vs. surrendering to the universe gods. You don’t know how strong you are until you let out a guttural scream into the abyss while repeatedly stabbing yourself with hormone shots the length of your pinky finger. By yourself. In the ass cheek. As the faucet that is your unrecognizable eyes leak uncontrollably.

I bought myself a necklace when I started this journey that reads Faith Over Fear. I am not a religious person, but I wore that necklace every damn day, during the IVF journey and into my first failed transfer, and then, into my second successful one.

Ironically, it was that 5^th retrieval round, the one we said we didn’t really want to do but “what the hell” since we had reached our $20k(!) deductible on our secondary insurance (because I didn’t have fertility coverage on my primary)…it was that 5^th retrieval where I had to do the trigger shot in a dirty bathroom stall at a Peter Gabriel concert…it was that 5^th retrieval that blossomed into our daughter.

A miracle baby that would test my physical limits and gag reflex, bring on a gestational diabetes and preeclampsia diagnosis, who would teach me patience and ultimate surrender from the womb, who would kick me when I was feeling sorry for myself, and would try to make her way out of me through my back(!). The daughter that was ripped out of me and who ripped my heart wide open to a place I never thought I’d be able to reach after losing hope so many times before. A daughter who is just about to turn one. A child I feel so grateful to call my own. A tiny human I never knew I wanted but now can’t imagine my life without. Who truthfully erases all the past suffering with one of her smiles, just one giggle makes me forget about the 500+ needles I stuck into me.

And as I stare at her through a monitor and watch my perfect, miracle of science baby sleep peacefully, I can’t help but reflect on my IVF journey. The journey no one asks to be on, but you plow through on a hope and a prayer (and hopefully fertility insurance). The journey that feels so isolating until you open up to random strangers online and find community. The journey I will be forever grateful for but do not wish on my worst enemy.

You emerge from IVF cracked open—reshaped by hope, heartbreak, and a quiet strength you didn’t know you had. And somehow, through it all, more alive than ever.

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New episode drop 💃

In today’s episode, we spill the truth about how infertility and IVF mess with our body image, from surprise weight shifts to feeling like we don’t recognize our own bodies. Plus, we share our favorite self-care hacks (everything shower, anyone?). Watch below or listen on Apple/Spotify.

And if you’re not already subscribed on Apple + Spotify, hit that follow button so you don’t miss new episodes!

Small ‘j’ joys 💜:

• another plug for the 12 days on infertility giveaway because FREE THINGS

• pinterest predicts this color for 2026, and it makes us feel so zen (also, if IVF had a color it would be this, yes?)

• a song we have stuck in our heads

• weekend mood:

  

It’s been a cozy, rainy, gloomy week here in LA — and honestly, the weather kind of matches the vibe lately. Not just in infertility circles, but in the world and the news cycles, too. For me, the holidays feel extra complicated and somehow still magical this year. It’s my first season as a mom, and if I’m honest, it’s a strange thing to finally have the thing I spent so long dreaming about. I don’t take any of it lightly, but I’m also still trying to process it all. It’s hard to fully settle into the moment when part of me still feels connected to who I was before — and deeply connected to everyone who’s still in the thick of infertility.

Thanksgiving and Christmas were always the hardest in my infertility and IVF journey, followed closely by New Year’s. Most of my treatments seemed to land in the second half of the year, so I was always walking into the holidays with fresh grief or another round of bad news. Then last year, I was finally pregnant after our transfer, but I spent the entire season holding my breath. I was in the first trimester and terrified of losing the pregnancy every day. I was confident the other shoe would eventually drop. Christmas looked like wearing a mask to avoid my entire family (shoutout to norovirus on Christmas Day) and googling every single symptom on Reddit. It felt impossible to relax. And now that our daughter is here, it somehow still feels a little like that — joy mixed with old fear, gratitude tangled up with memories of how hard it was to get here. Also: pressure to lean in hard and be over the moon with joy at all times.

Amy and I had a few long conversations this week because, friends, she is going through it. She’ll share more in future episodes— it involves surrogacy, and a lot of it has to stay private for now —but wow. This journey is brutal in ways people outside this space don’t fully see.

Your stories continue to touch us and move us. We’d be lying if we said this project was easy. It often means staying up late to edit podcast episodes or brainstorm social posts or figure out how to talk about things that are emotional for us, too. But hearing how this space has created room for those of you who’ve felt alone or isolated keeps us going. Truly. And today’s story is one of those reminders of why this community is so meaningful and so needed.

Sending you all so much love as we head into Thanksgiving week. No matter where you are on this journey, we hope you find even one small moment of pause, rest, or joy. You deserve that and more.

xo Kayti

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Rachael’s Story

When my husband and I sat with our therapist for the first time, while waiting for our first fertility appointment, we answered the basic get-to-know-you questions. I distinctly remember describing ourselves as logical and pragmatic. We have science backgrounds, and I’m in healthcare, so I naturally viewed our issues through a Western medicine lens. Give me the statistics, the data, and I’ll be OK, I thought.

Three years later, I find fertility statistics to be incredibly unfair and a nightmare to hold onto. Their false sense of security wears you down when you repeatedly fall outside the bell curve and find yourself in the small percent, as an outlier, where it seems the algorithms don’t apply.

After a laparoscopy for painful periods showed a “negligible” amount of endometriosis, I was told I had “beautiful fertility” by my doctor. Almost fifteen years later, that moment feels like the beginning of a Greek tragedy. Why rush to start a family? I’m beautifully fertile! I need to be extra careful, better to use two types of protection! So we waited until we were settled in our careers—how I miss those blissfully unaware months with no pressure or worry on our minds. After over a year of trying, we were diagnosed with unexplained infertility and had several unsuccessful IUIs. Our first FET was successful, only to end in a miscarriage at the first ultrasound. It took over a week to miscarry, with several rounds of meds to help, and as the first anniversary of that appointment closes in, it feels like a new wound after itching a scab off.

The second transfer failed, and we pivoted to Lupron depot for presumed endometriosis. I really pivoted mentally and embraced anything that former me would have considered “woo woo.” I went gluten-free, did daily breathing exercises, listened to binaural beats, and whatever else was supposed to help regulate my parasympathetic system and change my mindset. I unlearned facing every decision like a test, with one correct answer and the rest wrong in a list of multiple choices. Studying won’t do shit for infertility, and I finally accepted this fact. My inner monologue became more generous, more loving. Maybe woo-woo isn’t the right term, more like “I eye rolled at self-affirmation before, but here I am mantra-ing my way out of a panic attack in the car.” With these changes, after all we went through, I felt hopeful.

I was so confident these changes with Lupron would work. It didn’t. We were gutted, and I mentally took a step back. My mind went to default mode, asking questions over and over in what I recall was a frantic haze to regain control, real or not.

But as the saying goes, there is only one way forward, and that is through. We regrouped and returned to the algorithm for next steps. The Receptiva screams endometriosis. Of course it does, I thought. Repeating Lupron was recommended, with medication tweaks. We asked our doctor, “Is this a common situation? Do we need to change course?” Hearing “not common, but it happens, I don’t think we need to consider alternative options” via Zoom provides plenty of doubt- was there a moment of hesitation? Did she sound convincing? Do we need to go to another clinic? Have we fallen outside of the flowchart, into uncharted and possibly hopeless water?

As we wait for the next transfer, I still follow fertility specialists online, hoping to find some new brilliant answer hidden in the depths of Instagram reels. I still wonder Why The Hell Can’t I Find My Exact Story On Reddit?? But surprisingly, even more so, I find myself leaning into the mantras and surrendering without the kicking and screaming I initially experienced.

Maybe this is the peaceful, hopeful lull before bad news like before. But maybe it isn’t. What if this outcome is not dictated by what happened before? Finally, a question that holds science and woo-woo together.

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New episode: Our favorite acupuncturist — and Kayti’s personal fertility fairy godmother — is on the pod today! Dr. Bento (Dr. Sarah Bentolila), DAIM, L.Ac, who treated Kayti for two years and played a huge role in helping her get pregnant, joins us for a deep and grounded conversation about acupuncture for fertility.

And if you’re not already subscribed on Apple + Spotify, hit that follow button so you don’t miss new episodes!

Small ‘j’ joys 💜:

• we treated 10 followers to coffee this weekend - make sure you’re following us on social for more giveaways this winter!

• speaking of social: the kind of video we’d share in a group chat

• for those of you on the other side of IVF (or if you want to make a faith purchase): the best black friday deals for bb things

• we’ve upgraded our slipper game for winter and these. are. the. ones. 👏

• weekend mood:

  

As we move into November and the start of the holiday season, we know how heavy this time can feel for anyone navigating infertility or IVF. The questions at family gatherings, the pregnancy announcements tucked into holiday cards, the small talk that hits harder than people realize — it all feels different when you’re still waiting, still hoping.

Today’s story comes from Emily, who has been through multiple rounds of IVF, full of numbers, hope, heartbreak, and trying again. Her story reminds us that IVF doesn’t always go as planned, and that sometimes resilience means simply continuing, even when the outcome is uncertain.

After reading/listening to her story, scroll to today’s episode where we also sit down with our favorite senior embryologist to talk about what to look for in an IVF clinic, so you can feel informed and empowered as you navigate this journey.

x Amy & Kayti

share your infertility story with us

Emily’s Story

I’ve gone back and forth a couple of different times on whether or not I really wanted to open up again and share about our journey, but I hear so many brave people come onto the podcast and talk about this, and if I can help somebody else, then why not?

Our first IVF cycle I opened up to family and friends because we were being constantly bombarded with questions. “When are y’all having kids?” Or, “Have you thought about having kids soon?” Or, “You’re getting older — do you think that you’re ready to settle down and have some kids?” No one understood what we were going through.

At that point, I decided to go ahead and rip off the bandaid and share with everyone about our journey after talking with my husband. We thought, should we just go ahead and share this with close friends and families? And so we did.

The first IVF round we got 24 eggs but only one embryo. We thought, or I thought, this is gonna work. Everyone who I had seen go through IVF, it was always successful.

And so I thought, oh my goodness, I’m coming out on the other side with a baby, but wow, was I wrong. This was three years ago and we still don’t have a baby.

I think it’s really hard for those of us that have to go through multiple rounds of IVF because a lot of the time all we’re seeing is that first IVF cycle and first transfer work for so many people. And oh my goodness, what a blessing. But for those of us that have to continue this fight, it’s hard. It’s difficult to see that and just know, gosh, here we go again on our next round.

For our second round, we ended up getting 26 eggs and ended up with five embryos. We transferred and it worked. We got pregnant. We were so excited. I don’t think that I could believe my eyes but then I found out on February 14th that not only was I losing my baby, but I was also getting a job promotion. So talk about a wild range of feelings. It was so difficult. I am so grateful that I got that job promotion on the same exact day because I was able to throw myself into that.

And now here we are going into our third round, going in for more embryos. So we’ll see what happens. I am crossing my fingers and toes that the third time is a charm.

*audio transcript edited slightly for print

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New episode: Allison Anderson is here to kick off a new real-time IVF series as Amy begins another cycle. We’re starting at square one: how to choose the right clinic, doctor, and embryology lab, and how to communicate with the team who will be caring for your embryos.

And if you’re not already subscribed on Apple + Spotify, hit that follow button so you don’t miss new episodes!

Small ‘j’ joys 💜:

• we’re feeling very tempted to decorate our tree with disco balls this year

• a laugh to kick off the weekend

• the ivf book we’re preordering for 2026

• our favorite kind of reddit thread 🥹

• weekend mood:

  

There’s a line in today’s essay that lingers long after you read it: “IVF is war, and the victors are few.”

Kylie’s story isn’t a tidy one. There’s no bow, no happy ending, no pregnancy announcement at the end of the tunnel. It’s an unflinching look at what IVF really feels like once you strip away the hope-filled reels and glossy success stories. It’s about the counting, the waiting, and the quiet question of what it means to live in a body that keeps falling short of what it’s “supposed” to do.

She writes from the middle — that uncertain space between loss and the next try — and somehow finds peace in the smallest things: a run, a coffee, a kiss, a dog in the yard. Survival itself becomes the victory.

If you’ve ever found yourself measuring time in cycles, in betas, in retrievals, or if you’ve ever wondered what resilience really looks like, this one’s for you

x Amy & Kayti

share your infertility story with us

Kylie’s Story

“Your body is perfect,” an old fling told me once, shortly before the moment of climax.

Four retrievals and two failed transfers later at the female ”geriatric” age of thirty-five, his opinion feels entirely voided by the facts of biology.

If my body couldn’t execute its’ primary function, was it?

I replay those words sometimes when the IVF failures start to blur together. They’ve become a strange kind of solace, a reminder that someone else had considered my body perfect, as something to be worshiped, and not analyzed. Because in IVF, there are so many measurements, so many numbers, and so many ways to be told you’ve fallen short.

“I’m on my third egg retrieval,” Andrea, a woman I (perhaps foolishly) sold leftover meds to on Facebook Marketplace told me. “No embryos on the previous one.”

I didn’t tell her how my second or third egg retrieval went. That I know too well the misery of spending weeks injecting your belly with synthetic drugs, living by the clock, hours spent at the fertility clinic lying on your back, women reaching inside of you, watching on a fuzzy screen, counting specks of your body you pray to be a life some day, all of that to be wasted. I don’t tell her that I know the pain of the blood draws, the needle buried in your skin, to be told later the numbers aren’t where they should be. I don’t tell her about the 1% chance of early ovulation during an egg retrieval, that they can miss retrieving the eggs you dreamed could be your baby one day, by hours. I don’t tell her how I fell into this 1%.

There’s a lot of counting in IVF. You will know such obscure numbers as your AMH, your initial follicle count, your progesterone levels, a whole lexicon of terms that most people never have to understand. You’ll measure time in untraditional ways - hours until the next dose, days until the next appointment, weeks until the next step. You’ll look at the probability of eggs retrieved to fertilized to blast. I won’t even mention the financial costs. IVF math is possibly the worst type of math to endure, far worse than taxes, I’ll attest.

The counting of losses are what really mark you though. They come in many forms - a failed retrieval, a cancelled cycle, a 4pm phone call that collapses your world with the words “your HCG dropped”. These losses you will not want to count ever but they’ll count you.

The first time I picked up my medications, wrapped in a paper brown bag like a bad consolation prize from the fertility gods, I joked to the physician “It’s like I’m going into battle.”

“You are,” he said.

IVF is war and the victors are few and the losses will stack in an invisible battleground known only to your flesh, mind and heart.

“Your body is perfect,” that man had told me. Is it? If I were to count all the evidence from the data to the losses, the statement seems laughable.

And there’s no tutorial for loss, no directions included on the printouts they give you. You can watch videos on how to mix Menopur, how to inject yourself in the belly (it’s the only time you’ll feel kind of cool, like Mark Renton from Trainspotting or a hot doctor on Gray’s Anatomy) but there are none on how to get through another failure.

After my first transfer failed, I told my therapist, “I don’t know how I can bear another one.”

“When people say they can’t bear it,” she said, “they’re already doing just that.”

That was all very nice and stoic in theory but in application, pretty Goddamn useless.

So how do you heal? You don’t, at least not right away. Instead, you crash out, hard. You stop pretending. You binge an entire Netflix series from bed. I recommend Too Much. You delete Instagram. You eat something, anything, it doesn’t matter what it is. You lean on your partner a lot. All of this won’t necessarily make you feel better but it keeps you alive. And that’s the victory. You survive long enough to get to the next appointment, the next day, the next chance.

As I handed over the drugs to Andrea for her to use for her third egg retrieval, I offered her hope instead. Maybe the next one would be different for her. Maybe the next transfer will be different for me. “Hope is the thing with feathers”, Emily Dickinson wrote after all.

And hope is a tenuous, frightening emotion in IVF. The reality of it all, to know intimately the limits of your body, is anything but perfect. But this morning, nearly six weeks after a chemical pregnancy, I went for a long four mile run. Back at home, I warmed my hands with a mug of coffee with pumpkin creamer and kissed my husband good morning, his familiar stubble scratching my face. I watched our dog run through the backyard, smiling. Because I am still here, alive, and awake to a new season, a new cycle, most certainly an imperfect one. The old one is already fading like a bad dream.

I breathe in the start of a new day.

For now, maybe that’s enough.

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New episode: No new episode this week! Revisit one of our favorites (or a more recent episode) and get ready for something really fun dropping on Halloween’s 🧙‍♀️

And if you’re not already subscribed on Apple + Spotify, hit that follow button so you don’t miss new episodes!

Small ‘j’ joys 💜:

• the best plants for mental health

• the funniest ivf family costume idea for halloween

• wide lounge leg pants for the petite girlies! (high price tag but so worth it)

• the group 7 girlies have shown up 🫡

• weekend mood:

  

October is Pregnancy and Infant Loss Awareness Month. For so many in the infertility community, loss isn’t just one moment in time; it’s woven through the entire experience of trying, hoping, and starting over. It shows up in failed cycles, in empty ultrasounds, in anniversaries that only we remember.

This month, we hold space for all of it — the grief, the love, the small moments of resilience that get us through. We see you if you’re in the middle of another round, if you’re waiting to try again, or if you’ve decided you can’t. The stories we share this month come from that same tender place: where heartbreak and strength live side by side.

Today’s essay is one of them. It captures the ache of recurrent loss and the quiet courage it takes to keep moving forward, even when there are no guarantees. For anyone who’s ever felt like their grief was invisible, we hope this story helps you feel seen.

Sending love to you this weekend, wherever you find yourself on the path. And if you have a story you’d like to share about infertility or IVF, we’d love to read and share it. Just use the button below to email us.

share your infertility story with us

Ali’s Story

There are moments in life that split everything into before and after. In March 2023, my world shifted in a way I never expected — with a fading heartbeat on an ultrasound screen. I didn’t know then that it would be the beginning of a multi-year journey of loss. Not only loss of pregnancies, but loss of time, trust, and the naïveté I once carried about growing my family.

Mine is a story about recurrent pregnancy loss, yes. But it’s also about resilience. About what it means to show up — for your young child, your job, your life — with a broken heart. About what it means to hold space for grief and hope at the same time.

It started with a missed miscarriage. No signs, no symptoms — just a routine appointment that unraveled everything. A baby measuring too small. A heartbeat a week behind. I was told it was common, that it happens to women all the time. That I should try again once my cycle returned.

So, we did. The second miscarriage happened during my first week at a new job. I was in unbearable pain that came on suddenly, rushed to the ER, waited for hours, and left without answers. A week later, we learned there was no heartbeat.

The third was perhaps the most terrifying because I was out of the country, on what was supposed to be a relaxing vacation with my husband, when I started miscarrying in the middle of the night. I flew home the next day — numb, scared, and utterly heartbroken.

Three pregnancies. Three babies we never got to meet. Each loss marked me. Each one deepened the ache.

Finally, we turned to a fertility specialist. He recommended IVF but first a hysteroscopy to remove a uterine septum. This septum had been the cause of my daughter being breech and now the potential reason for my subsequent losses. For the first time in a long time, I felt something that resembled hope. A problem with a possible solution.

After the surgery, two chemical pregnancies followed. I got the news in my car on the way to work — then had to pull myself together and run a meeting like nothing had happened. Breathe. Focus. Repeat. Grieve later.

All the while, life around me kept moving. While I was grieving, others were announcing gender reveals, hosting baby showers, posting sibling photos. Each joyful milestone a quiet reminder of where I wasn’t. I smiled, I celebrated, I showed up — but often, I did so while privately mourning what I couldn’t have. It’s a strange kind of loneliness, to be genuinely happy for someone else and deeply heartbroken for yourself in the same breath.

In December 2024, we moved to IVF. It was emotionally and physically exhausting. Our first egg retrieval was canceled at the last minute — all those early mornings, blood draws, injections, and cautious optimism felt wasted. But we tried again, tweaking the protocol. This time, it worked. We froze embryos, made new plans, and scheduled another hysteroscopy to prepare for transfer.

That procedure didn’t go quite as expected. There was still some remaining septum, and the doctor removed it then and there. I began to wake up mid-procedure, disoriented and in pain. I left shaken and unsettled, but I pushed forward. What choice did I have?

Six weeks later, our first frozen embryo transfer failed. Another blow. Another layer of grief.

This past August, we tried another transfer. This time, it stuck. A second line that kept getting darker. A glimmer of hope. Pregnancy after loss is hard to explain — a constant balancing act between joy and terror. You want to celebrate, but you’re scared to let your guard down. You live appointment to appointment, breath to breath.

After the second ultrasound for my current pregnancy, I had a video call with my fertility clinic. At the end, I asked, “What now?”

The nurse smiled and said, “You’re done with us! Please send us a picture of your baby when they arrive.”

And that’s when I broke.

The tears that had been building for two and a half years — through loss after loss, procedure after procedure, shot after shot — finally came. I could barely speak. All I managed was a quiet, “Thank you so much.”

Because sometimes, that’s all you can say when you’ve held so much for so long. When grief and gratitude are tangled up inside you. When you’ve spent years learning how to carry both.

This journey has changed the way I see the world, the way I move through it, and the way I hold space for others in pain. There’s a quiet kind of strength that comes from surviving something like this — not the kind that shouts, but the kind that endures. If you’re still in it — waiting, hoping, grieving — I see you. Your pain is real. Your story matters. And even if it doesn’t feel like it right now, you are not alone.

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So, we went forward with a transfer in November of 2024. It was fully medicated, and when it failed, we were completely caught off guard and devastated. We had thought that transfer was it—that we were finally pregnant after almost two years of trying—and we just expected that positive beta.

Because I am not a tester (I will not test at home before a beta), we waited for the call. When it came back negative, I was completely floored and just knocked off my feet.

After that, I had to wait until January to do my next transfer, which was also a fully medicated transfer. Around the same time, my husband had actually had his right Achilles rupture and repaired on New Year’s Eve, and my transfer was scheduled for January 6th. So, it was kind of a crazy time for us.

We did our next transfer, but we were a lot more hesitant to be hopeful. That one failed again, which was still pretty devastating. After that, I went on to pursue testing, because I had been pushing for testing for endometriosis this whole time—I was pretty certain I had it.

I did the Receptiva biopsy and found out I do have endometriosis. I had that removed in May of 2025. Once it was removed, we were able to move forward with another fully medicated transfer in June of 2025—and our baby boy stuck.

We named him Harvey, and we were really excited. It was the first positive pregnancy test we had ever gotten.

Then, on my 30th birthday (June 30th), I started bleeding. I knew then that this could be a really tough pregnancy. It turned out I had an SCH—a subchorionic hematoma.

When we went for our ultrasound on July 8th, he was measuring six weeks, zero days, and I was supposed to be six weeks, three days. Their biggest concern, though, was that they didn’t hear a heartbeat.

When we went back on July 11th, he had only grown to six weeks, one day, and there was still no heartbeat. So, I ended up having a D&C on July 17th.

I am currently in the second week of eight weeks of Lupron suppression and hoping the next modified natural transfer works.

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Last week’s episode 🎧: One of our favorite things to do on the pod is share listener stories. Last week’s episode featured a powerful mix of IVF journeys—from donor eggs and miscarriages to successful transfers and everything in between. Listen now on Spotify and Apple.

Small ‘j’ joys 💜:

• We love birthstone jewelry as a way to honor the babies we’ve lost. These necklaces make a beautiful gift for yourself or someone navigating miscarriage.

• This post on self compassion 🫶

• A movie that has us in all our feels.

• This TikTok video about s*x while trying to conceive.

• And finally, our weekend mood:

  

Today’s essay is one I (Kayti) wrote back in the summer of 2023, before we began IVF. It was originally published on my personal substack, but as we continue to grow this newsletter and welcome essays from contributors, I wanted to reshare it here with this community.

Sending love to you this weekend, wherever you find yourself on the path. And if you have a story you’d like to share about infertility or IVF, we’d love to read and share it. Just use the button below to email us.

share your infertility story with us

White Flag

The end of summer brings with it many things, and this year it has brought heat, big feelings, and an expanded vocabulary of medical terms. Which is to say, I’ve officially started medication for IVF.

I have many feelings about this, and my thoughts often feel like fireflies: electric, flittering about, going bright and dark at random. I mostly feel energized to finally be doing something after three years (three years!) of trying and failing to conceive. Of course, there is the fear too. What if it doesn’t work? What if we go through all of this to only end up in the same place we are now? I never imagined we would end up at this point, I never envisioned a notepad on my desk scribbled with big financial numbers and clinical terms: embryo, blastocyst, PGT testing. Hovering is the best word I can muster. I am hovering over my body and a box of syringes, feeling defeated and elated, exhausted yet awake. I just want whatever comes next. I am ready to move forward.

If I’ve discovered anything in the past few weeks it’s that life is funny in how it changes us drastically. We think we know who we are until we don’t. Circumstances force us into shapes we never imagined. Everything is an illusion, then clarity. Colors turn grey then vibrant again. I swim in the lake and my body feels shocked by the cold, then wrapped in it. The droplets that moments earlier felt sharp and piercing are suddenly soft on my skin. I realize everything is only perception. We become stronger, more calloused and scarred. Yet joy finds us through the cracks. Joy finds us in the prospect of getting to keep living.

Infertility has changed me. It’s changed my writing, my marriage, my body and my face. It’s changed the way I will someday be a mother. God how I wish for that statement to be true. I took it for granted for so long, believing I could have whatever I wanted when I wanted it if I just put my efforts in the right place. If this journey leaves me with one lesson, it’s to never take anything for granted again.

*

A recent dream: A white flag waves in the storm with a wooden pole buried deep in rock and sand, immobile and steady. I’m not ready for this fight, and yet every step has led me to this space, prepared me—prepared us—to surrender control and also to regain it within this surrender. Perhaps my body has always known it would venture through this door. Perhaps we are all just walking towards whichever door swings open, to whichever direction the white flags blow.

*

If I can be honest, I don’t like writing about this. I find myself cringing at my own words, yet they crawl their way out without permission, force-feed themselves with empty pages. Writing about infertility is like swallowing air after minutes of holding one’s breath. I guess writing about anything painful and meaningful feels that way. It’s how we sort through the mess, the senselessness of it all.

Maybe that’s what writing is. Rather than polished and linear, it’s simply words that spiral inward and lead us home. Back to our hearts. Back to the rhythm we can hear and feel to remind us that we are still alive and breathing. We are still here despite the world feeling so complicated, so beautiful, so heavy.

My therapist says I’ve lost myself to this diagnosis, in this quest to have a baby. Who was I before moving to Los Angeles, before the supplements and acupuncture and pee stains from dried tests on the bathroom counter? These are the questions I attempt to answer on the fifth floor of an old office building. She’s not wrong.

Here is what I know: Life is bigger than this. I want to know how to zoom out and see that there is so much more happening in and around me, outside of me, outside of the four-block radius I wander in the heat. Yet this process begs for surrender, as so many moments in our lives do. IVF is not unique in this way. Sometimes these things become your everything. They have to. You become it.

*

I recently had dinner with a friend who is also going through IVF. This is the thing about painful journeys—you have to find the other people walking the same path as you. They are beacons and hands to hold while wandering in the dark. They are also the ones you get drunk with in dimly lit bars, crying and laughing over your shared circumstances, silently screaming in the void together.

This is my life, and I don’t want to miss any of it, she said.

I’ve been mulling over her words every day since, in the quiet moments when the sun hits my hardwood floors, when my dog curls up at my feet.

With infertility—with anything really—we want to skip to the end. For me, I want the positive test. The noticeable bump. To see my husband hold our baby. I want to miss this moment because it’s painful and scary. I want to fast forward to some arbitrary life I may or may not have in the coming months or years.

And yet this is the life I ended up with. How perfect and beautiful and painful it can be, and all at once. Every night I walk my neighborhood streets and hear dishes clattering, birds singing a farewell song, cars in the distance driving home to friends and lovers and safe spaces with sweats and netflix.

It’s the small moments, the ones that happen in between, that make up the majority of our lives. We can miss them, or we can notice them. We can avoid them, or we can embrace them. Whether we like them or not. Whether we want this hand we were dealt or not. We get to choose how we feel. We get to choose to feel anything at all.

And so. We started IVF this week. I don’t know if it will end in a baby or how long it will take us to become parents. I do know that I want to be present for all of it, for the waiting rooms and daily injections and held breaths between appointments. For the shots and the supplements and the online portals with results that lead to hope and heartbreak. I don’t want to miss it.

Because this is my life. I don’t want to miss it.

Send us your story to share 💜

An oldie but goodie: How long does IVF actually take? What are “stims”? And is it true that sex after an embryo transfer can help it stick? 👀 This episode’s one of our most popular to date! Listen on your hot girl walk this weekend. 🎧✨

And if you’re not already subscribed on Apple + Spotify, hit that follow button so you don’t miss new episodes!

Small ‘j’ joys 💜:

• the salad recipe we are living for this fall

• how do we get these friends? 😆

• the wall sconce we get so many compliments on

• this post from breaking down what we actually need in our prenatals 🔥

• a weekend reminder:

  

Hi friends - Kayti here.

We’re trying something new with the newsletter name and format, hoping to make this space feel more personal and community-rooted. From the beginning, when Amy and I launched the podcast, our mission was simple but important: to create a space where others feel seen and held through the messiness of infertility and IVF. While we’ve shared our own stories, our hope has always been that this would feel less like “our thing” and more like our collective thing, a space where everyone belongs, even if the membership fee is one none of us ever wanted to pay.

With that in mind, we’re evolving this little corner of the FriedEggs universe into a place for stories and micro-essays — snapshots of what it means to live through infertility, IVF, and everything that comes after. Every Friday, you can expect to receive a short essay from someone else in the infertility community, whether they are in the beginning, middle, or on the other side of the journey. Because there is an after. Sometimes it looks like pregnancy or parenting, sometimes it looks like grief or pivoting to a different path altogether. But in all its forms, the after is just as complex, layered, and worthy of being named.

This week, as I return from maternity leave after the birth of our daughter, I’m sharing the first of these essays. Motherhood on the other side of infertility has been radiant and disorienting, tender and exhausting. It has brought both joy and a surprising undertow of grief. My daughter turns three months old this week, and as her “transfer birthday” approaches (I really think this should be a thing. It feels like the truest anniversary), I’ve been reflecting on the long, twisting road that led us here. One piece of that reflection: how we chose her name.

share your infertility story with us

Choosing a Name for Our IVF Daughter

For years, I dreamed of what I might name our baby, if I ever got the chance. After our transfer — our perfect 5AA embryo — my husband and I were convinced it was male (thanks to too many Reddit threads and one small study that said 5AA embryos tend to be male). When we learned we were having a girl, we were stunned. So stunned, in fact, that I needed to wait for the NIPT test to believe it. We tried on names for months, never landing on the right one. Then one day, we thought: What if her name tied us back to the Nordic countries we love, and to the family we have there?

That’s how our daughter became Lumi, meaning snow in Finnish.

Choosing her name also brought me back to a moment from the trenches of infertility. It was an ordinary morning at the gym, but I remember feeling anything but ordinary. I was raw, gutted with envy, probably fresh off another negative test or the cruel arrival of yet another period. A pregnant woman moved beside me, and though I knew nothing of her story, I convinced myself it had been easy for her, that familiar lie we whisper when our own hope is thin.

At the end of class, the lights dimmed for stretches, and the trainer played Taylor Swift’s Snow on the Beach. I folded into child’s pose and wept quietly on my mat, the music breaking me open and holding me all at once. Later, I sat in my car with the song on repeat, letting it soundtrack both my grief and my longing.

@kaytichristianhappy birth month baby girl. we’re so ready for you ❄️ #ivf #ivfpregnancy #ivfbaby #griefjourney #healing

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The week she was born, I played that song again, this time from a different perspective. I sobbed, remembering the weekend before her transfer, when my husband and I waded into the October ocean, tipsy on too much wine and raw with fear. The waves were sharp and loud; I was certain our transfer would fail, certain this would end in more heartbreak. I just wanted to get it over with so we could move on to more tests, more retrievals, more next steps.

But then it worked.

On October 7, with sand still in the floor mats of our car, we transferred our girl. And she stayed. She became Lumi. Our girl. Our miracle. Like snow on the beach.

When I think about her name, I also think about timing. Because this time last year, I was on the verge of giving up. After six months of stubborn ovarian cysts, thousands of extra dollars on meds and monitoring, and what felt like endless ultrasounds, I was convinced we’d never make it to transfer. Then one morning, my RE finally said the words I had longed for but never thought I’d hear: the cyst is gone; it’s time to transfer. Within a week, everything shifted. I hoped it would work, but I didn’t dare believe that one year later I’d be tucking our IVF baby into her bassinet, which is part of why I share this story now. To remind myself—and maybe others—that things can change in a moment, even when it feels impossible.

And also because our community isn’t just for those still waiting. Infertility reshapes us forever. Parenting after IVF is both a miracle and a challenge, and it can feel lonely at times, especially when meeting parents who haven’t carried the same emotional, physical, or financial weight it took to get here. It’s not about comparison; it’s about being understood. So whether you’re in the trenches, on the other side, or navigating something in between, please know this: you belong here. Always.

Send us your story to share 💜

This week’s episode 🎧: We’re excited to return to the pod after a long summer break! In this week’s episode, we catch up on our summers, chat about maternity leave, and Amy gives an update on her surrogacy journey.

Small ‘j’ joys 💜:

• for the sour-loving queens, we’ve been snacking on these treats all summer (so addicting + avail at Target)

• air purifiers for our ivf arsenal—but make them cute

• our new favorite album 🕺

• this barn jacket that’s on sale (psa: if you live near a Gap, we found them in stock in-store)

• One of our prouder social media moments: