My name is Lauren, and I’m from Greenville, South Carolina, USA. For most of my life, I thought agonizing period pain was just something women dealt with. It wasn’t until I read Padma Lakshmi’s memoir that I realized — that’s not normal. That moment of recognition sent me to my OB, and what they found changed everything. A dermoid cyst had taken over most of my right ovary. At 27, just a year into my marriage, with a whole future family already living in my heart, I was told my right ovary and fallopian tube had to be removed.
The surgery went well, but the loss was real. My doctor assured me I’d be just fine — that freezing eggs wasn’t necessary, that my body would handle it. And for a while, life seemed to agree.
I threw myself into my career — work trips, late nights, meetings that always seemed to take priority over the family we kept saying we’d start “soon.” There was always a reason to wait just a little longer. And then COVID hit, the world went quiet, and suddenly there were no more excuses. It was time. We started trying, and on the very first try, we were pregnant. A textbook pregnancy, a perfect healthy boy. I felt blessed beyond words, though I’ll be honest — it happened so easily that I almost didn’t let myself fully receive the miracle of it. I would come to understand just how miraculous it truly was.
When my son turned three, that feeling came back. It was time to give him a sibling. We moved into a bigger house, settled in, and started trying for baby number two. This time, the journey had other plans.
After five months of trying naturally, and with my 35th birthday behind me, testing revealed my AMH was just 0.6 — critically low. I was referred to a Reproductive Endocrinologist almost immediately. Five months of Letrozole and trigger shots passed without a pregnancy, and then came the three letters that reshape your entire world: IVF.
Nobody tells you how much you don’t know going in. If you don’t know the right questions to ask, you are completely flying blind. My first retrieval brought five eggs, two mature, and zero embryos. Zero. I was devastated, and the medications had taken a sledgehammer to my body and my mind — panic attacks, nausea, sleepless nights, headaches. But I was not done.
I spent two and a half months recovering, researching, adjusting everything I could about my lifestyle, my mindset, my routine. I went into retrieval number two determined. This time, three embryos made it to testing. And the call came on my 36th birthday. I ugly cried the happiest tears of my life.
We moved forward with a frozen embryo transfer. I had every symptom in the book. I was so convinced it had worked that I taped the photo of our embryo to my mirror and talked to it every single morning and every single night. I told that tiny embryo I couldn’t wait to hold them, to be their mom, to give them everything. The pregnancy test was negative. I took a week off work just to grieve, because that loss deserved to be grieved.
Then came the endometrial biopsy, which revealed endometriosis. Another blow. The recommendation was to do more retrievals, bank as many embryos as possible, then go through two months of Lupron to treat the endometriosis before transferring again. Retrieval number three happened during a rare Southern snowstorm — we drove through a winter wonderland to get there, which felt almost magical. Nine eggs retrieved. The most ever. I was so hopeful. Only one fertilized, and on my son’s fifth birthday, the clinic called to tell me it hadn’t made it. I will never forget that day.
So here I am now — preparing for my fourth retrieval, trying new medications, and taking a leave from work to give my body and mind every possible chance. I am giving this everything I have.
This IVF journey has given me something I didn’t expect — a deep, bone-deep appreciation for my son and for the miracle of how easily he came to us. What once felt like an ordinary everyday thing now takes my breath away. Getting pregnant with him the very first time was never ordinary. It was a miracle, and I will never take it for granted again.
Through all of it, one thing has kept me anchored: my son. He is the light of my life, my purpose, my greatest proof that miracles are real. And my husband has been my rock through every blow, every bad phone call, every night I’ve fallen apart. He holds me tight and looks for ways to make me smile, even when he’s carrying his own grief too.
And then there is my mom. I am beyond blessed to have her as my best friend, the absolute definition of a role model and my first phone call every single time — whether the news is good or bad, and there has been a lot of both. She has helped carry not just me but my husband and my son through this too. She has held me while I’ve cried so hard I couldn’t control it. She has fed me, made me laugh, and helped me find inner peace when I needed it most. If I am even half the mom she is, I would consider it the biggest success of my life.
My parents swoop in at every hard moment, scooping up my son so he can have fun while I fall to pieces — and then put myself back together. My friends show up with care packages and bagels and flowers, and when I say “I don’t want to talk about it, let’s just talk about anything else,” they say okay. That matters more than I can say.
And then there’s the part nobody talks about openly enough — the mental weight of it all. Postpartum hit me really hard after my son was born. It took six to eight months, therapy, a gratitude journal, and consciously choosing myself every single day to find my way back. But I’ll tell you — trying to conceive is an even more intense mental journey. I once described it to a friend as feeling like postpartum depression mixed with raging teenage hormones — with no maternity leave to recover, no finish line in sight, and no one handing you permission to fall apart. I’m not out of the weeds yet, but therapy, acupuncture, and my support system hold me together. And I’ve learned something important: it’s okay to feel your feelings. Feel them fully, honor them — but don’t get trapped in them. Feel them, and then keep going.
Something I cannot stress enough is how much it matters to find your people. I am the only person in my circle who has been through IVF, which means there’s no friend to call who truly gets it, no one to text at 2am who understands the specific heartbreak of a failed transfer. So I turn to podcasts, books, and blogs — other women’s stories — just to feel less alone in it. Because sometimes you don’t need advice. You just need to know that someone else has sat exactly where you’re sitting and survived it.
One of my proudest moments takes me back to after that first failed retrieval. My body had produced nothing. Zero embryos. And my mind went to the darkest place it knew. But instead of staying there, I made a choice. I researched, asked every question, booked the acupuncture, cleaned up my lifestyle, and decided to believe it was going to work. Through every blow, every setback, every phone call that broke my heart, I continued to show up — for my son, for my family, for my job, and most importantly for myself and for the family we are still fighting to complete. I didn’t give up. I still haven’t given up. And I will give this journey everything I have.
I see a therapist who specializes in infertility, and I cannot recommend that enough. Acupuncture has been a lifeline too. And on the hardest days, I remind myself of something simple but true: this is a season. IVF is a season. Postpartum is a season. The terrible twos, the sleepless nights, the waiting rooms and the phone calls and the pregnancy tests — all seasons. None of them last forever. The sun will always come out tomorrow, and it will be a new day.
If you’re somewhere in the middle of this journey right now, here is what I want you to know. Advocate fiercely for yourself at every single appointment — you are not there to be convenient, you are there for your health. Ask every question. Follow up. Don’t assume anyone will go the extra mile to explain things unless you ask them to. And check every bill against your insurance statements, because overbilling happens more than you’d think and it could save you thousands. Most importantly — know that somewhere inside you is a strength you haven’t fully met yet. It won’t feel like strength in the moment. It’ll feel like barely surviving. But you are doing it. You are still here. And that counts for everything.
With love and so much hope for every woman still in her season, Lauren
@Lauren thank you for sharing something so deeply personal — and for showing us what it truly looks like to refuse to give up.
