
How IVF Shaped Who I Am As a Mother
The other night, I read a journal entry I had written in the spring of 2022. It was the eve of our third embryo transfer following a round of in vitro fertilization (IVF). One transfer had resulted in a chemical pregnancy, the embryo failed to implant in the second. The entry was a letter to my future baby. I wrote, âYou are so loved and longed for. Iâm so ready to hold you in my arms.â This transfer would fail, too.
“Infertility was becoming a crash course in failure.”
As someone who has tended to view success through an outcomes-driven lens, infertility was becoming a crash course in failure. Another month, another negative pregnancy test, another cycle of grief. Even trying ânaturallyâ for my husband and me included multiple period tracking apps, daily ovulation testing, and a âjust in caseâ infertility appointment after six months of single-line pregnancy tests. I was doing everything right, so why did my body keep getting it wrong?
From our fourth embryo transfer, I became pregnant with twins. The transfer that worked wasnât any different from those that failed. I didnât change my diet or exercise routine or add acupuncture sessions or go on a relaxing vacation. It just worked, after so many efforts, procedures, medications, appointments, and protocols had not.
Today, the miraculous blobs of cells from that fourth transfer are eight months old; their names are Henry and Harper. This mysterious victoryâand the 20-odd monthsâ of failed attempts behind itâbegan my understanding of all the ways IVF has shaped me as a mother.
Learning to surrender
IVF is an incredibly controlled way of getting pregnantâthe shot that triggers your eggs to mature before theyâre collected is literally timed to the minute. Getting through the process, however, necessitates surrender.
In IVF and in motherhood, success is so often nonlinear. I see it now in Henry and Harper. When they were learning to sit, it started as a tumble, then a slouch, and then one day, they held their cores and sat up as though theyâd been sitting forever. This idea of trusting that âthe thingâ will happen, the act of surrendering to a timeline beyond my control, is something I hold onto constantly as a mother.
“Surrender as a new mom can also look like asking for help.”
Surrender as a new mom can also look like asking for help. When the babies were first born, we had a night nurse as my husband travels a lot for work. On the first night of his first business trip, our night nurse unexpectedly canceled. I read her text and froze; I wasnât ready to be the only adult in the house with the babies. I took a deep breath and asked myself what might balance my nerves. My knee-jerk reaction was to ask a friend to sleep over. My brain immediately rejected the idea, framing it as: Can you interrupt your routine and sleep at my house because Iâm too scared to be alone with my own children? But as I had learned in so many instances through infertility, I had to ask for what I needed and be gentle with myself in the process. I reframed the ask as, Your presence is so comforting to me that just knowing youâre down the hall will give me the confidence I need for my first solo night parenting.
There had been times throughout IVF Iâd surprised myself with the directness of what I was willing to ask from others. Things like:
- Will you please buy a gift on my behalf from Suzieâs registry and Venmo me? Iâm not in a place to look through baby gifts right now.
- Iâm worried about my mental health during the wait between my embryo transfer and finding out whether it worked. Will you come over one night that week and play a game or watch a movie with me?
- Iâm taking a break from Instagram right now. Please donât mention any pregnancy announcements unless I bring them up first.
“While struggling with infertility, I couldnât hide my grief, I could only introduce it to my family and friends.”
So often as a woman, I feel pressure to do everything myself (and make it look easy and even glamorous!). While struggling with infertility, I couldnât hide my grief, I could only introduce it to my family and friends. Some people disappeared, but my relationships with those who didnât are so much stronger because they accepted me at my most vulnerable.
Trusting that I know whatâs best for me and now, my children
IVF and motherhood are also about knowing when not to ask for help. When I was first diagnosed with unexplained infertility, I followed a handful of infertility Instagram accounts. For me, the daily accounts of what others were doing only made me feel guilty. Was I not pregnant because I wasnât eating enough Brazil nuts or drinking pomegranate juice at the right point in my cycle? It was too much to keep up with and made me question how badly I really wanted to be a mother if I wasnât willing to give up cheese (and for the record, there is no conclusive data on dairyâs impact on fertility!). Similarly, following many accounts of motherhood and even chatting with certain friends proved to aggravate, more than assuage, my anxiety.
“Following many accounts of motherhood and even chatting with certain friends proved to aggravate, more than assuage, my anxiety.”
In no certain order, here is a non-exhaustive list of things I have felt insecure about as a new mom: Stopping breastfeeding, leaving the babies with my parents for a weekend away with my husband and friends, whether they were too old for their bassinets, if it was too soon to take them on a flight, whether they were dressed warmly enough, if it was OK to feed them store-bought baby food.
These were insecurities rather than questions because actually, I knew exactly where I stood on each of these points. I knew when I was ready to stop breastfeeding; I was just worried what other people would think. I trusted that my babies were happy and safe with my parents and that they would benefit most from a reenergized mama; I was again afraid of judgment.
This one is a work in progress, but just like I knew when it was time to undergo fertility treatment (nope, taking a vacation or an extra glass of wine or ârelax!âing was not going to get me pregnant), I know what is best for my family. That trust is difficult, especially in a society constantly badgering us with opinions and âcorrectâ methodologies without considering complexity or nuance.
Gaining perspective through grief
“The greatestâperhaps the onlyâgift grief gives us is perspective.”
The greatestâperhaps the onlyâgift grief gives us is perspective. The way I yearned for Henry and Harper consumed my entire life. I closed myself off to friends, I pumped my body full of fertility drugs, I sobbed over countless social media pregnancy announcements. I wanted them so, so badly, and now theyâre here. Theyâre here and I get to smile down at them in their stroller and puree their vegetables and also feed them vegetables from pouches and jars and take a deep breath when their wails wake me up at 3 a.m. Thereâs no way to say this without sounding like a greeting card, but the difficulties in getting them earthside made it so that not a day goes by I donât think about how incredibly lucky I am. Iâm grateful I have the perspective not to take motherhood for granted.
It feels important to acknowledge here the privilege of building a family through IVF. My husband and I did not have fertility coverage through our insurance plan, and we live in a state that does not require it. All in, the amount we paid out of pocket to get pregnant equals roughly the average annual household income in the U.S. It is grossly unfair that this is a price tag out of the question for many people yearning to be parents.
“Perhaps the greatest lesson of all is that, in IVF, in motherhood, and in life, there are usually multiple competing truths to balance.”
It isnât fair that I get to be a mother while so many are still in the waiting period. It isnât fair that it took so much heartache and sacrifice for me to become a mother. Perhaps the greatest lesson of all is that, in IVF, in motherhood, and in life, there are usually multiple competing truths to balance. IVF was my worst nightmare and greatest gift; motherhood is the most difficult and simplest thing Iâve ever done; my journey to the other side of infertility consisted of enormous sacrifice and tremendous privilege and luck.
Last night, after months of sleeping through the night, Henry woke up three times. I sat with him on the couch, frustrated and exhausted, the dark room illuminated only by the faint glow of a sound machine. Eventually, he fell asleep, audibly breathing milky breath through an open mouth, head lolled back in the crook of my elbow. Sometimes itâs in unexpected moments I remember to appreciate that my messy, imperfect reality was once the stuff of my wildest dreams.
Megan Lierley is a writer and editor based in Northern California. She currently leads content for Cora, the womenâs wellness company. On any given day, thereâs a good chance sheâs talking tampons, practicing yoga, writing her weekly culture and current events newsletter, reading a historical fiction novel, or eating a burrito in Dolores Park.