March 4, 2025

I’m posting this because I grieve and process through words. Through writing. And I’m honestly tired of doing it silently.

No one talks about it. About how trying to conceive isn’t always two pink lines and happy surprises. About how it’s waking up every morning and taking your temperature before you even move. About how it’s checking your body for signs, obsessing over dates, peeing on ovulation sticks, and hoping—praying—that maybe this month will be different. About how your heart shatters again and again because hope wasn’t enough.

No one talks about the cruel irony of it all—how some people get pregnant on accident, on the exact right day, while you’re over here tracking, timing, waiting, wishing. How you have to muster up the strength to celebrate someone else’s good news when you’re drowning in your own grief.

No one talks about how terrifying the next steps are. The tests, the procedures, the invasive questions, the fear that something is wrong—something unfixable. How you feel like your body is betraying you.

It’s only been a year and a half, but it feels like eons. Like my life is stuck on an endless loop of waiting and disappointment, hope and heartbreak. How many more times can I do this?

And yet, people still say “just relax, it’ll happen when the time is right” or “it’s all in God’s hands” or “stop stressing and it’ll work out.”

Please, don’t. Unless you’ve been here, unless you know this heartbreak firsthand, I beg you—don’t tell me to be patient, don’t tell me to stop worrying, don’t tell me it’ll happen eventually. Just sit with me in this pain. Just acknowledge that it sucks. Because it does. And no one talks about it. But I can’t stay quiet anymore.

April 10, 2025

I find myself again, putting my heart into words, because today was another one of those appointments that left me with more questions than answers.

We had our follow-up with the doctor about our next steps on the fertility journey. And, once again, we heard the same line that feels like a gut punch every single time:

"Everything looks normal."

I just want to put it out there that it doesn’t feel very comforting when you’ve spent over a year doing everything right, hoping and praying, and still not seeing two lines on a test. When your labs are perfect, his analysis is fine and you're told you're the "1 in 10" couples with unexplained infertility. It doesn't feel like a relief. It feels like screaming into a void.

And, here’s the thing, especially for the men (or anyone who hasn’t had to carry this…weight)—it isn’t just a medical diagnosis. It’s a cruel kind of limbo. Because there's no problem to fix. No cause to treat. Just…waiting. Hoping. Blaming yourself even when you’re told not to.

Unexplained infertility affects roughly 10% of infertile couples (per the American Society for Reproductive Medicine) and, despite all the medical advancements, it often means enduring invasive tests, medications, emotional highs and lows—all without a clear path forward.

It’s the kind of invisible pain that chips away at you. Every month feels like another door slamming shut. And…to be honest? It feels a little lonely, even when you’re surrounded by love, because the grief is silent and cyclical.

Today, we were officially referred to a reproductive endocrinologist. And, while that step is full of unknowns and, frankly, kind of terrifying…it also gives us a tiny spark of hope that maybe they’ll be able to help us uncover what’s been hiding in the dark.

If you’ve been through this, are in it, or are supporting someone who is: I see you. I feel you. Through this journey, I have learned BIG lessons from people I never expected. I’ve learned that my emotions ARE valid. I’m NOT overreacting. I’m not broken. And I’m definitely not alone. I have to keep reminding myself of that.

This post isn’t just for me—it’s for awareness. For education. For empathy. And for anyone who’s been told they’re “normal” when nothing feels normal at all.

April 24, 2025

So, we had our consultation with the reproductive endocrinologist today. I honestly wish I could say we left with clarity. But, instead, the most maddening non-answer of all was the conclusion: “unexplained infertility.” We’re close to answers but not close enough. It’s like standing right next to the finish line and being told no one knows how to cross it.

We have one more test on the calendar—a hysterosalpingogram (HSG) to check for blockages. If that’s clear, we start medicated IUI cycles. The kicker? Even with insurance, each cycle is nearly $1,000 out of pocket. And, even worse, there’s no guarantee it’ll work. We could be shelling out thousands for shots in the dark, both literally and figuratively.

I WILL say this doctor was a breath of fresh air. He was kind, incredibly thorough and didn’t rush through a single answer. He explained every possibility, every process, every piece of the plan. He drew diagrams—yes, literal drawings—so I could better visualize what’s happening in side my body and what each step is meant to do. For the first time in a long time, I felt heard and seen. And in a journey that can feel so clinical and isolating, that meant everything.

Still. It’s impossible to ignore how brutal this process is on women. It’s invasive, it’s constant, it’s deeply emotional. It’s lab work, ultrasounds, procedures, hormones… poking, prodding, and pressing into the most vulnerable parts of your body and soul. Meanwhile, your partner gets a pamphlet and a cup. The inequity is as real as the emotional toll it takes.

I’ve been surrounded by incredible mothers all my life—my mom, my grandmothers, my aunts. Even friends and coworkers. They’ve all been amazing role models and I’ve always wanted to be given the chance to add myself to their ranks. But every test that comes back “normal” or negative without bringing us closer to our goal feels like another question with no answer.

But I’m not giving up. We’re not giving up.

We’re stepping forward—nervous but also supported. Frustrated but informed. Hopeful, even when the odds aren’t exactly feeling like they’re in our favor. Who knows? Maybe the road ahead is longer than we planned but we’re still on it. And, one way or another, we’re gonna keep trucking along.

May 8, 2025

HSG is done. We’re cleared. And I am completely wrecked.

I went into this afternoon’s appointment terrified—heart pounding, overwhelmed, bracing myself for pain and for whatever news was waiting. The procedure itself? It was uncomfortable but thankfully went fine. Both tubes are open and I’m definitely a little crampy but we’re officially cleared to move forward with IUI.

And yet…I didn’t walk out of the clinic feeling relieved. I’m actually feeling far more disheartened than ever.

We’ve done everything right. Every test. Every supplement. Every appointment. Every perfectly timed cycle. We’ve tracked, we’ve tried, we’ve hoped. And still—month after month—we have nothing to show for it but heartbreak and yet another bill.

Now, we finally have a “next step.” Medicated IUI. But it’s going to cost us. Literally and figuratively. And that money…? It might buy us absolutely nothing. There’s no guarantee. Just a chance. And hope starts to feel like a luxury when you’re doing mental math with your future. It’s so hard to keep moving forward when the only options available feel financially impossible.

I’m tired. I’m frustrated. I’m grieving something that feels invisible but so deeply personal. And, while I still have hope, today that hope feels heavy. Really, really heavy.

I do want to take the time to say thank you though. To everyone who has reached out over the past few weeks to check in, offer support or information, share your story, or just say “thinking of you”. I see it. I feel it. And I’m so incredibly grateful. Your words have helped hold me up on the harder days.

But, now I’m asking—if you’ve walked this road before, how did you do it? How did you afford it? Are there grants, organizations, programs, or hidden resources out there that helped?

Because we are trying our best but the financial strain is real and it’s terrifying. Is the future of my family really tied to a number? Is my happiness truly dependent upon an income?

One last thing I want to gently share: I know people mean well when they suggest things like adoption or surrogacy or “other options.” I truly appreciate that those suggestions are meant with kindness and care.

But right now, I’m grieving the potential loss of this specific dream—carrying my own baby. Seeing two pink lines. Feeling them kick. Being pregnant. That doesn’t mean we aren’t open to other paths down the road. It just means I’m still in the thick of mourning the one I always pictured.

So, if I seem a little sensitive or quiet when those options come up, please know it’s not out of rudeness or ingratitude—it’s just that this ache is still very fresh.

I want to thank you all from the bottom of my heart for letting me be honest here. For letting me share the hard parts of this journey. And for walking alongside us, even if from afar.

We’re not giving up. But today, I’m taking a moment to try to heal from the hurt.