Let’s talk about trying to conceive. Our journey—trying to conceive, trying to maintain a safe pregnancy, trying to carry a healthy baby, and trying to reach full term—has been far from easy. It has been filled with hope, heartbreak, and lessons I never expected to learn.
I’m about to get real and vulnerable about what it’s like to grow a family and continue our legacy. My husband and I got married four years ago, full of excitement and dreams of starting a family. Even though I knew I had Polycystic Ovary Syndrome (PCOS) and had a hydrosalpinx (a blocked fallopian tube that was surgically removed), we never imagined that conceiving would be this difficult.
The first year of trying brought nothing but disappointment. We turned to a fertility specialist and began our journey toward fertility treatments. We shared our struggles with only a few close family members and friends—people we trusted to support us. They encouraged us and held space for our grief, but most hadn’t experienced infertility themselves, and some simply weren’t in a place to want children at that time.
As the years went on, unsolicited questions, opinions, and judgments started coming from strangers, colleagues, and even some distant loved ones who didn’t know our story. It’s striking how often people who don’t understand your circumstances feel entitled to comment on them. I learned painfully quickly how much society ties a woman’s worth to her ability to bear children, and how isolating that pressure can feel. I also realized that people often don’t understand infertility, which can make their comments insensitive—even when they don’t mean to hurt.
The emotional weight of this journey made me retreat. When asked when I would have children, I often became evasive, sad, or upset. There were moments when I avoided situations entirely, like the Mother’s Day church service, where all the mothers were asked to stand and be acknowledged. Remaining silent about my struggles only made them feel like a heavy secret, one that drained my mental health. Secrets can hold you captive, filling you with unnecessary shame and guilt.
Eventually, my husband and I decided to share our journey publicly on social media. Infertility is a long, lonely path, and we wanted to connect with others walking the same road—a safe space where people could speak openly, share experiences, and support one another.
Over these four years of trying to conceive, we have been through: medicated cycles, timed intercourse, two surgeries, three unsuccessful IUIs, and now IVF. I recently completed an egg retrieval, and we were able to freeze seven embryos. We are currently in the middle of our transfer protocol, holding onto hope while trying to protect our hearts from disappointment.
This journey has taught me that nothing is guaranteed. Fertility treatments offer hope, not certainty. But the silver lining has been the incredible support we’ve received over the years from sharing our truth publicly. This journey has transformed me. I am more resilient, braver, and stronger than I ever imagined. Every night spent hoping and praying for our miracle has reinforced that our story is not over and that God’s promises remain. We continue to look up and pray, trusting in the path ahead.
Infertility affects 1 in 8 couples in the U.S., impacting both men and women equally, according to the National Institutes of Health (NIH). I want people to know that while infertility is deeply personal, no one has to face it alone. You can find a community, build a support system, and walk this path with others who understand. Sharing our journey publicly allowed us to take control of our narrative, normalize infertility, empower others, and give permission for others to do the same. Every journey to conceive is different, but the emotional, mental, physical, and financial challenges often resonate universally.
