You’re reading this because infertility has touched your life—either you’ve faced it, are facing it now, or know someone who has. If that’s not the case, then this may feel foreign to you—and that’s a luxury millions of us don’t get.
For those of us living with infertility, we often hide in silence. We tuck our pain away and present other dreams, other ambitions, as shields. But beneath the surface, the ache remains.
I had always feared I might be infertile. It was a strange kind of irony: a fear I carried for years that eventually became reality. Perhaps I should have been worrying about being too skinny instead—life does have a sense of humor. After a year of “trying,” calling an infertility clinic felt like calling to report a crime I hadn’t committed. Sitting across from a stranger, recounting the most intimate details of my life—‘Hi, nice to meet you. My last period was XYZ. Our intimacy happened XYZ times.’—was surreal and uncomfortable.
I held onto the hope that someone would say, “Ah, here’s your problem.” But no such relief came. After months of scans, blood work, and the dreaded HSG test, the verdict was in: we were perfectly imperfect. Unexplained infertility. The medical way of shrugging and saying, “We don’t know why.”
We moved on to medicated, monitored cycles. I took a small dose of Clomid—because my body was already a prolific egg-producer. Then came the fateful doctor’s announcement: “Today is the day.” Cue the “baby dance”—not literally, though maybe we should have. A little celebration might have made things more fun.
When monitoring didn’t work, we began IUI—Intrauterine Insemination. The doctors did the “work” for us via a catheter. Not exactly fun, but at least it wasn’t the HSG test. After three rounds, and what felt like an ocean of Kleenex, we were no closer to starting our family. I was done—physically, mentally, emotionally. My incredibly supportive husband agreed: we needed a break. After all, the world says, “It happens when you least expect it.”
But expecting it or not, it didn’t happen. I threw myself into work with a local dog rescue, Barks of Love. Caring for sick puppies, staying up all night to feed them, gave me a taste of motherhood I thought I’d never experience.
Years later, during a business trip, I had a moment of clarity. I called a new doctor and booked a consultation. On the drive there, my husband and I had a serious conversation: what did we want? What were our non-negotiables? He said it perfectly:
“At the end of the day, Megan, when we’re 80, sitting on our porch in rocking chairs, if our life doesn’t include children and grandchildren, I want to know we did everything we could.”
I couldn’t have said it better. That became our motto—no regrets. The consultation felt right, and two months later, we began IVF.
Before IVF, I had no idea it wasn’t a one-and-done process. The first step—egg retrieval—was intense but surprisingly positive for me. We retrieved 26 follicles, and after fertilization and testing, 11 perfect embryos remained.
Next was the frozen embryo transfer. Preparation included medications, patches, and injections, but it was easier than the retrieval. Then came the nerve-wracking two-week wait. Finally, the moment I’d prayed for in churches across the world, on my knees, in every town we’d visited: I was pregnant.
The joy was immense, but the journey didn’t end there. Pregnancy proved its own challenge, and heartbreak followed. At seven weeks, we miscarried our perfect embryo. No heartbeat, no sight of life, just a crushing emptiness. I remember sobbing on the bathroom floor, hope clutched in my hands. That moment redefined our wedding vows—the to have and to hold part took on new, unimaginable weight. My husband was there, picking me up, carrying me when I couldn’t stand, holding me when I had nothing left.
Depression enveloped me. I couldn’t smile for weeks. Tears spilled over during work, and sometimes I cried openly, unable to hold it in. But two months later, we tried again. IVF round two, this time with two embryos. After six agonizing days, my husband tested for me—I couldn’t bear the suspense. The result: pregnant.
God’s hand was unmistakable. Everything went textbook, and our miracle arrived: Bennett. After 40 weeks and three days, our blonde-haired baby boy was born, bringing joy we never imagined possible. Motherhood was beyond anything I had dreamed—better than I could have hoped.
When Bennett was seven months old, we attempted a third transfer. My confidence was high, thinking my body knew what to do. But it didn’t work. Two months later, a fourth transfer, slight medication adjustments, and two embryos again. This time, my husband’s test revealed what we longed to see: pregnant.
Our HCG numbers were higher than before, hinting something extraordinary was coming. At our seven-week scan, we saw not one, but two heartbeats. Our twin girls arrived healthy at 36 weeks via c-section, and at 14 months, they are thriving—strong, healthy, full of energy. Three babies under two, and life has never felt fuller.
Before infertility, I dreamed of four children. That vision has changed many times. I prepared my heart for no children, then one, then two, and now three. The path hasn’t been easy, and it may never be. If we want a fourth, it’s another IVF journey. Some days that seems doable, others, I’m content exactly as we are. Our life is beautiful, busy, chaotic, and full of love.
Infertility stole a lot from me, but it also gave me perspective. I understand motherhood in a way only someone who fought so hard to achieve it could. I’ve lived life both pretending I didn’t want this and fully immersed in the miracle of it.
Looking back, the pain feels distant yet vivid. Remembering the struggle only amplifies the gratitude I feel today. Infertility took much from me—but it gave even more. And now, surrounded by three little miracles and a life we built with persistence, love, and unwavering hope, I know it was worth every tear.
