Trigger Warning: This story contains mention of miscarriage that may be triggering to some.
“My husband and I met when we were just 14 years old. I wouldn’t say I fully knew him back then… but I knew we shared something extraordinary. It’s such a cliché, I know, but I felt it immediately. He has deep blue eyes that seem to see right through you, a warmth in his presence that makes everything feel safe, and a quick wit that matched mine perfectly. Just four months into dating, he told me one day we’d get married. I laughed, not quite believing him, but a small part of me held onto the thought.
A little over nine years later, on what felt like the most perfect day, we did.
We had always imagined having children “eventually,” but there was never a rush. Life was unfolding beautifully, and we wanted to savor it. We built our careers, explored the world together, and cherished our time as a couple. It had always been just the two of us against the world, and for so long, we couldn’t picture anyone else in that picture… until one day, we could.
By the summer of 2019, we were ready. There’s something magical about beginnings—hopeful and whimsical. I stopped my birth control the week before a trip to Italy and Greece, half in jest, imagining how special it would be to conceive there. But I had no expectations. I assumed it might take a few months, and that was okay. We approached this journey with light hearts, not wanting to overthink or stress, embracing it as part of life’s natural rhythm.
Months passed with nothing, and slowly, we had to start paying attention. I tracked my cycles, took my temperature at 6 a.m. each day, and experimented with ovulation tests that never gave clear answers. Yet, we continued to live fully. We wandered through Germany and Austria in December 2019, stumbling upon a small pharmacy amidst the Christmas markets. I couldn’t shake the feeling—I just knew this trip might bring news. I ‘felt pregnant’ the entire time. The test was negative.
Before we knew it, we hit the one-year mark, the threshold where seeking help became necessary. Amid the uncertainty of the COVID-19 pandemic, we had our first virtual appointment with a reproductive endocrinologist in July 2020. What could have been terrifying instead felt like relief—finally, we had answers. I likely wasn’t ovulating naturally, but there were solutions. We immediately dove into medicated cycles, pills, and injections, trying to coax my body to ovulate.
Hope surged. And then, to our utter shock, it happened. I got pregnant on the very first medicated cycle. We could hardly believe it. This was it. We had overcome infertility. Excitement bubbled over. We shared the news with our closest friends and even bought a tiny onesie, planning to tell our parents after seeing a heartbeat on the first ultrasound. After over a year of waiting, we wanted certainty before spreading the news further.
The morning of the ultrasound was surreal. Sitting together in the clinic, hearts pounding, we imagined seeing our baby’s heartbeat for the first time. Every second was precious. And then the words we never expect: “I’m so sorry, there is no heartbeat.”
Miscarriage is a reality no one prepares you for. The physical pain was relentless, sending me to the emergency room, and the emotional weight was crushing. I had thought an early loss might feel different—easier, somehow. I was wrong. In just a few weeks, we had envisioned a future filled with possibilities, only to have it vanish overnight.
Yet, even in grief, our bond deepened. The love we shared, the dreams we imagined, and the vulnerability of mourning together brought us closer than ever. We hated that this happened, but we cherished those brief weeks of hope. It was a bittersweet privilege to feel so deeply united.
We emerged from the miscarriage stronger, ready to try again. The medications worked, and we knew it was only a matter of time. The cycles became our routine: report, medicate, inject, ultrasound, timed intimacy, wait, test, mourn, repeat. The rhythm was monotonous, but life went on. What had started with whimsical hope now became our daily reality.
By the fifth medicated cycle, discouragement crept in. Three failed attempts made the first pregnancy feel like a fluke. Would we ever get back there? Then, unexpectedly, a positive test appeared again—right around my 30th birthday. We left on a trip, celebrating not just my birthday but a renewed sense of hope. It felt like redemption. For a brief, blissful weekend, we revisited conversations postponed after our miscarriage.
Then the bleeding began. I walked into the living room and matter-of-factly told my husband, “Well… it’s over.” Another rollercoaster of hormone shifts and confusion followed, culminating in another emergency room visit. Levels were dropping; our pregnancy wasn’t viable.
This time, it was suspected to be ectopic. The baby had implanted in my left fallopian tube, putting my health at risk. Less than 24 hours later, surgery removed the pregnancy and my tube. Heartbreak returned, heavier than before.
We grieved, retreated, and recalibrated. The next step wasn’t another medicated cycle; IVF became our path. IVF is both everyday and extraordinary. You’re told you’re strong, graceful, resilient—but all we wanted was a baby. Tests revealed diminished ovarian reserve, a frightening hurdle. Suddenly, our future felt uncertain, fragile.
We chose to try. I endured countless injections, ultrasounds, and appointments. Only one mature egg emerged. One. We proceeded to retrieval, and miraculously, that single egg grew, divided, and was transferred. Watching our embryo on the ultrasound screen—a tiny flash of life—was a moment of awe and wonder, a reminder of the incredible partnership we had built.
Hope returned. Then fear. A chemical pregnancy followed—the embryo implanted briefly, then stopped. Questions swirled. Why us? Why this struggle? IVF, miscarriage, ectopic pregnancy—each setback left us battered yet resilient.
We tell our story because not all journeys have tidy endings. In a world of announcements and celebrations, it’s easy to feel left behind. It’s okay to sit with the uncertainty, to grieve, and to acknowledge the weight of the journey. Amid heartbreak, we’ve discovered strength, appreciation, and a deeper love for each other.
Our path is uniquely ours. Time, setbacks, and struggles do not define our future—they shape it. We may not know what lies ahead, but we continue hand in hand, making the best choices we can, embracing hope where we find it.
One day, one way, we’ll reach the other side. And whatever that looks like, with each other, it will be beautiful.”
