My time with IVF and Peter Gabriel (Stefi's story)

"You emerge from IVF cracked open—reshaped by hope, heartbreak, and a quiet strength you didn’t know you had."

Dec 12, 2025

Happy Friday —

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.

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?

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.

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.

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.

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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