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This morning, I found an old photo on my phone—last year’s second post-op IVF treatment.
I recall how, just as I was about to be discharged, I filled two emesis bags with vomit.
I was retching, sweating, and gasping for breath. I remember telling my nurse, “I, too, am a nurse. Please, give me one liter of oxygen for comfort.”
That moment was one of the most difficult of my life, not only because I had to be the patient this time, advocating for myself, but because I had to push through the aches, nausea, pain, and the unknowns. With no visitors allowed in the recovery area, my partner stayed outside, unaware of what had transpired. I was alone, isolated, and frightened of what was next.
I wondered, how many more bags will I fill before this ends?
I carry bruises on my thigh and stomach—deep purple, edged in yellow. I call them my souvenirs from the rounds of hormone injections. A permanent scar runs down my belly button from laparoscopic surgery to remove endometriosis, lesions excised from my reproductive organs. A diagnosis I never knew existed, yet laid silently inside my body for over 10 years. There was a promise from my doctor that within two to six months, I would fall pregnant.
But six-plus months later, I still wait for those two pink lines.
The endless blood draws, procedures, follow-ups in between—each step a reminder of the grit it takes. Most times, painful, exhausting, and often lonely.
It’s nights spent in tears, grief, fear, and doubt.
The weight gain, the body’s transformation, even before pregnancy begins.
The supplements lined up in the morning.
The acupuncture needles pricking my skin at night.
The strict diet inspired by the belief that poor egg quality is especially detrimental to women over 40.
Infertility has a way of stripping you bare, as if desire has an expiration date and wanting to be a mother after 40 is seen as indulgent, selfish, or statistically improbable.
Doctors rattle off statistics that seem stacked against you.
Yet, despite the slim odds, I’ve held on to the only life raft I know: hope. I stay steadfast in my pursuit, even as multiple clinics urged us to discard all of our embryos, declaring them nonviable. I knew the gender of each of them, and there’s a deep grief in mourning a future that might never come—with a son, or a daughter, wondering if or when you will finally get to bring them into the world.
There is a devastating moment as a healthcare professional when modern medicine begins to fail you, and you start questioning everything you thought you knew.
There are excuses made when declining invitations to baby showers and milestone birthdays due to another clinic appointment or because the pain just feels too unbearable to put on a brave face and celebrate.
There are repeated requests to my partner for blood and bodily fluid samples, over and over again, in hopes of catching missed details, or an affirming diagnosis and solution.
The financial burden piles up of medical bills and hidden costs, even with insurance. Expenses you never anticipated, yet you don’t falter to dip into your savings, all in pursuit of one day getting to hold your baby.
I see women who conceive easily, and wonder, “Will it ever happen for me?”
My body is tested.
My will is tested.
My bank account dwindles.
I wait anxiously for test results and updates from my clinic, praying for good news, only to brace myself for heartbreak once again.
I seek multiple opinions, willing to explore experimental treatments because the diagnosis remains “unknown” or “unexplained.” Sometimes, blind faith is all I have left.
But I keep going. I keep fighting.
Because the one thing that remains unchanged is the burning desire in my heart that this path is meant for me. Because I still envision tiny fingers curling around mine, a little voice calling me “Mom.”
Gradually, fear and doubt become certainty and faith. The conversation with my partner changes from, “Will it ever happen for us?” to “When it does happen, we’ll be ready.”
Eventually, I stop trying so hard and start believing more. I realize that the mind-body connection, coupled with unshakeable faith—in G~d, abundance, and receiving—are more powerful than any injection, diagnosis, or statistic that modern medicine has to offer you.
I begin seeing my partner in a new light, falling more deeply in love for the way he upholds my vision and my dreams when I have nothing left.
But what I know for certain is this: the journey toward my daughter will keep me moving forward. It will keep me believing. Hope isn’t passive—it’s work, it’s grit. It’s showing up again and again, even when the odds aren’t always kind.
And today, for the first time in a long while, I carry both peace and unwavering resilience in the same breath. And whatever motherhood asks of me—in time, in effort, or in heartbreak—I will never regret choosing to fight for it.
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“A new baby is like the beginning of all things wonder, hope, a dream of possibilities.” ~ Eda J. Le Shan
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