Bear with me…this post might be a little bit all over the place, as is my head right now. It also might come across as a little dark – but I just need to release it all before I go crazy.
This past February I had my third surgery for Stage 4 Deep Infiltrating Endometriosis – the surgery was 9 hours long. I have talked quite a bit about endo over the years – what it is, what it does, and how it continues to affect my life. For a large part of my life it mainly affected only me, but now one month past my 36th birthday, it is becoming more and more evident how much it also affects the people I love the most – and that is heartbreaking. The people around you want to support you, but trust me, it gets old. It gets annoying. It becomes a burden. It becomes draining. I can feel it.
I cannot remember a time in my life where I haven’t felt like there is something wrong with me. Coming from a very traumatic childhood (mom died of cancer when I was 7, dad struggled with alcoholism and was in and out of my life, tossed around between family members) I have dealt with ongoing mental health struggles for the bulk of my life. I was the kid that always had a stomach ache or a headache, always needed to go to the nurse’s office or go home sick. While that “sickness” did present itself in a physical way as a child, it was a much, much deeper rooted issue. It was the beginning of the chronic inflammation and illness that I have gone on to struggle with for my entire adult life. My body has been in a constant state of high alert and stress since I was very young. When you grow up without a “home base” – without consistent support, love, guidance, and safety – it tends to become all you wish for.
Picture this: you finally find your person, the one that makes you actually want to build a life together; to start a family with; someone who feels like home. And BAM! Infertility. At first, you present a strong front. You’re hopeful. This can’t be as bad as it seems, right? You don’t let your mind go to that scary place – the one that begs the question, what if this never works? You definitely never say it out loud.
But what if it doesn’t work? What if we can’t ever start our family? Is our relationship strong enough to make it through? What if…what if…what if…?
When you first start out in a relationship and everything is so fresh and new and fun, you don’t consider the battles that you may face later in your life together. Was I already dealing with endo 12+ years ago when I met my husband? Absolutely. Did I ever think that my endo would bring us to where we are at right now: 4+ years of infertility, 1 failed IUI cycle, 2 failed IVF cycles, tens of thousands of dollars put into this journey, and both of us carrying the unbearably heavy (yet invisible) load of infertility? Absolutely not.
Infertility is so much more complex than you could ever know, unless you have been on the unfortunate side of experiencing it first hand. I had heard of many people’s struggles with it over the years and even watched as one of my closest friends went through it herself. While it always made me deeply sad, I never understood the full extent of it until I myself was in it. It is all encompassing; it’s in my every thought, it’s the topic of most conversations had with my husband, our friends, and our family. Our plans, our finances, our health, our happiness – it all revolves around it. It feels like our entire life is paused – and I am holding my breath – waiting for what will happen next. It is suffocating.
In May we were finally on track to start IVF. Our second round, after our first was cancelled in 2024 due to the large endometriomas (cysts) I had. Well here we are in May 2025 – surgery has been performed by an amazing endo specialist; endo excised to the very best of her ability. I am (physically) healed, I am feeling well, we are ready.
And so it began. Two to three injections daily for 11 days, travelling 6 hours every other day to our fertility clinic for follicle and hormone monitoring, countless days off of work, and thousands of dollars paid upfront. Things were going well; the early morning sunshine-filled drives didn’t even seem so bad, in fact I started to enjoy them. Our spirits were high. We listened to music, laughed and told stories, and cautiously – maybe without even realizing it – the hope crept in. This time felt different.
We made it to egg retrieval – this was one step further than we had made it in our first IVF cycle. The retrieval wasn’t the most enjoyable experience I’ve ever had (okay it actually hurt like a b*tch) but it was one step closer and it was all going to be worth it in the end.
11 mature follicles produced 7 eggs; this may not sound like much, but after the intense surgery I had just had and the stage of endo I have, it was more than expected by us and our doctors, we were all more than happy with the number.
Day 1: 6 eggs were fertilized. Great!
Day 3: 6 embryos were growing, though 2 were progressing quicker. Really good!
Day 5: in-person appointment; only 1 embryo has made it to “blastocyst” stage (ideal viability) and we were advised to do a fresh transfer. Let’s do this!! LFGGGG!!
So we transferred our one beautiful little embryo that day and threw all of our hopes and dreams right in there with it. We watched on the screen as they prepared it for transfer and tucked it in safely – we even got to take home a photo! The excitement and hope that we were both feeling as we left this appointment was palpable – it was everything.
And then the “two week wait” began. I was having every symptom, noticing every slight twinge, taking it all in. But the sick thing about hormones & female bodily processes is that they all mimic each other – pms, pregnancy, progesterone supplementation – they all. Mimic. Each. Other.
7 Days post transfer I started having some spotting. I had already been down the black hole that is Reddit and back by this time and had read more than one post about “implantation bleeding and spotting” – surely this was what I was experiencing? I called my clinic to let them know and was told that this was completely normal and to call if the bleeding worsens.
Well as you can guess, the bleeding worsened. And worsened. And worsened. I knew on day 8 post transfer that it had failed. I debated how to tell Keagan, even considered not telling him at all. Why shatter his dreams sooner than I had to? Why not let him be blissfully ignorant until the “official” blood test on day 12? In the end I did tell him and I still don’t really know if it was the right choice.
Today was Day 12. Today was the “official” blood test. The one to confirm pregnancy. The one that I knew going into that I would fail.
I am numb. In the midst of all of this heartache – this all encompassing, life-altering heartache – we still have to go to work. We still have commitments. We still have to get out of bed everyday. We still have to be good pet-parents. We still have to engage, put on a smile, and go through the motions. It’s so hard. It is so f*cking hard.
And that’s where we’re at. Waiting to see what comes next. Waiting to start another cycle. Waiting. Waiting. Waiting.
If you have experienced infertility or IVF and are comfortable sharing your journey, please feel free to reach out in my DMs.
Sending love to you all; thank you for reading.
🫶🏻
Britt
Bare.Beauty.Blog. 