Trying for a baby used to be so much fun. We’d plan romantic nights at home and away, pour ourselves a wine or two and just generally enjoy a lot of sex. It was a happy time for us until one day it wasn’t.

We were so lucky to fall pregnant naturally in December 2019 but when it ended in a miscarriage in the March, we felt completely wounded. At the time, I told my husband that I needed to fall pregnant quickly to fill the void in my heart and in my womb. And so, we began trying again the first month after our loss. That first time I cried heavy tears as my heart ached for the baby we had lost and for the both of us, for what our loss had taken from us and our relationship.

You may have read somewhere that a woman is more likely to have a successful pregnancy if they conceive soon after their miscarriage rather than waiting and because I needed to believe that we gave it our best shot. But with each month that passed, my period relentlessly returned. Sometimes it would show up late and I’d allow myself to think that maybe this was our month. But then it wasn’t. It didn’t happen despite how hard we were trying to make it work.

Even before our tests revealed an issue that led to our IVF ICSI journey, we threw everything we had at trying to conceive again after our loss. I bought books about understanding my body’s fertility signs, I peed on expensive ovulation sticks that showed a less than appropriate smiley face if my LH surge was detected, we drank no alcohol, ate only a Mediterranean diet, took every supplement possible, cut back on high intensity exercise. We removed all plastic from our home, my makeup and wash bag and we swapped our household products for more expensive naturally sourced based products.

We stopped living the carefree life that we once lived, a life where we didn’t worry too much about the odd glass of wine or greasy burger. Instead, I became obsessed with trying to control everything and anything relating to my fertility even after we were given the news that assisted conception was likely our best next step.   

Whilst our referral for IVF ICSI gave us both the hope back that we had lost along the way, it was another step in our fertility journey that I wasn’t mentally prepared for. My IVF journey so far has been filled with countless hospital visits, more blood tests than I can count, a silly number of needles, prodding and poking, an overload of hormones and a shed tonne of tears. I’ve heard the words ‘spread your legs’ one too many times as the cold wet wand is inserted into my cervix to see what the hell is going on. We’ve put ourselves through three transfers and lost four of our precious embabys. We’ve hugged, we’ve cried, and we’ve laughed at just how much bad luck we’re having with all of this. Of course, us laughing isn’t because we’re happy, it’s because we can hardly believe this is our life.

There are some days that I genuinely feel like I can’t survive all of this. Whilst I can fake a smile and show up for work, inside I’m drowning. I’m drowning in the heartbreak that is our infertility journey. I’m drowning in the despair of losing yet another embryo. I’m drowning in the anxiety that physically aches my chest and that can sometimes leave me gasping for air. The other night I lay in bed next to my husband as tears spilled from my eyes, and I quietly told him that I hate feeling like this. I hate feeling defeated, scared, tired, bruised, broken and like a failure. I hate feeling hopeless, I hate that I can’t fix this. I hate feeling like a bad friend, a bad sister, a bad daughter to my loved ones because I struggle to show up and fear I’ll burden them with my sorrow.

But this is my life, this is my husband’s life. This is infertility, and it’s what our infertility journey looks like. It’s raw, it’s authentic and it isn’t for the faint hearted. This is our fight that we have to show up for, that we have to put all of our energy into and even though it’s really, really hard, we will get up with every knock and wipe away the tears and keep going. We will keep fighting until we’re cradling our Baby P in our arms.

So, in honour of National Infertility Awareness Week, this is our story. If this is you too, know that you’re not alone. Wishing you so much love, baby dust and strength as you continue your fight to your longed-for baby.

Love, Sophie xx