John and I first met when I was just 16 at the Big Valley Jamboree, a lively music festival full of energy and possibility. But it wasn’t until my 18th birthday that we decided to take the next step and start dating. Little did we know then that our journey together would come with challenges we never could have imagined. On our wedding day, we already knew we were facing infertility. John was born with Cystic Fibrosis, and there was a 98% chance he didn’t have a vas deferens, the tube that allows sperm to leave the body. In 2013, a urologist confirmed this. My blood had been tested to see if I was a carrier of the CF gene. If I had been, we would have needed a sperm donor to conceive.
By the time I was 23, we were already making monumental life choices. Despite knowing about the possibility of needing a donor, I couldn’t let go of the dream of seeing my husband’s striking blue eyes reflected in our children. Miraculously, after testing for all known mutations, I was not a carrier. Yet even with this hopeful news, doctors continued to push sperm donors, questioning why we would want to use John’s sperm. “Look where John’s DNA has gotten you guys, wouldn’t you want to try something else?” they asked. I remember John recalling this vividly—his frustration and determination clear in his eyes. It certainly sounded easier than IVF, but with encouragement from loved ones and time on our side, we made the leap. We gathered the funds—about $10,000, plus $1,000 for medications—and dove into the process.
Since I wasn’t a carrier, the chances of our child having CF were virtually zero, though every child would still be a carrier. We switched clinics, choosing the Regional Fertility Clinic in Calgary. Before any IVF could happen, they had to extract sperm from John. I sat in the room, heart pounding, as they attempted the procedure. The first attempt yielded nothing, but the second produced viable sperm. A small victory, but an essential one.
By November 2015, our IVF journey began in earnest. I started suprefact, a drug administered via nasal spray four times a day, putting me into a menopausal state. Soon after, I began injections to stimulate my ovaries, alongside estrogen, progesterone, and antibiotics to ensure my body was ready. I traveled to Calgary for daily monitoring and blood draws. The night before my egg retrieval, I scoured the internet for guidance, creating a secret Instagram handle to connect with others going through IVF. That small, supportive community helped me feel less alone. Perhaps naivety helped too—I didn’t fully understand the hurdles ahead, which allowed me to hope, simply hope, that it would work.
The retrieval brought 19 eggs, 17 mature, and 8 viable embryos. On my 25th birthday, December 11, 2015, we transferred our first embryo. Naively, I thought this would be our take-home baby. Nine days later, I took an at-home test while talking to my best friend—it was negative. My blood work on December 23 confirmed it: no Christmas miracle for us. Anger and heartbreak followed; I ripped down decorations, masked my pain at a friend’s wedding, and carried on. Society teaches us to “keep going,” and so I did, preparing for our next attempt with knowledge and renewed determination.
Our second transfer on April 25, 2016, came with ritual and hope—warm socks, pomegranate juice, pineapple core, bed rest. This time, it worked. The first two pink lines appeared at 7 days post-transfer, just in time for Mother’s Day. Despite crippling anxiety through the pregnancy, our daughter, Briar-Rose Jacqueline Van Happen, was born on December 28, 2016, completing our family. From the start, we had thought one child would be enough, that we couldn’t ask for more. But time and self-growth taught me that we deserved more than luck; we deserved choice.
Years later, as Briar grew, we began contemplating a sibling. Fear of the process, anxiety over failure, and the emotional toll loomed large. But after honest conversations, John and I decided to try again. We went through another IVF cycle in early 2019, juggling medications and injections while caring for a busy toddler and working full-time. I kept this pregnancy attempt secret, hoping for a joyful surprise announcement, but our transfer failed. I blamed everything—stress, my body, the clinic—but mostly myself. Grief and pressure built until I experienced a mental and emotional collapse, feeling as though all the plates I had been juggling came crashing down.
We paused. John booked a last-minute family vacation, and I sought grounding through yoga and self-care. When the signs indicated it was time, we prepared for the next—and final—transfer with the remaining five frozen embryos. These were day-six embryos of “lesser” quality, and decisions had to be made: transfer one with a 35–40% chance, or two with a 50–55% chance—but the risk of twins at 35%. After much discussion, we went all in, ready for our last attempt.
The final cycle began October 3, 2019, with obstacles from the start—missing medication, unexpected bills, and a suspected polyp that turned out to be scar tissue. I cried, I worried, but I didn’t quit. We went to Calgary on December 6, 2019, for the transfer, anxious but resolute. On my 29th birthday, December 11, I saw the faint but beautiful two lines appear. A heartbeat followed on ultrasound, and we knew this baby was coming to us. On August 10, 2020, Beckett-Lee John Van Happen was born, healthy and perfect, completing our family.
Sharing our journey has been vital—for me, for John, and for others. I will never forget that night before my first egg retrieval, feeling lost and alone, and the women who reached out to guide and encourage me. We continue to keep our remaining embryos in storage, but our hearts feel complete. I embrace this chapter, and I speak about it openly, hoping to support and uplift others who dream of motherhood against incredible odds. Through determination, love, and a little faith, John and I were able to bring two beautiful children into this world—and I will forever honor the guidance and generosity of those who helped us along the way.
