July 17, 2025

We started trying in January 2019, before our wedding. Yes—before the wedding. Surprise, family! I guess you could say we were eager, optimistic, and still under the delusion that getting pregnant was something that just… happened. Like catching a cold. Or crying at a dog food commercial.

I had one positive pregnancy test during that time. The second test was negative, so I chalked it up to a fluke. A chemical. A glitch. Whatever helped me move on. But later that week, I woke up in the middle of the night with severe cramps. I went to the bathroom, then crawled back into bed—and woke up covered in blood.

I never got it confirmed. No ER visit, no ultrasound, no clinical diagnosis. But in my gut, I knew: it was a miscarriage. That loss quietly folded itself into me. No funeral, no announcement. Just grief that unpacked itself slowly, over time.

We thought for sure we’d get pregnant on our honeymoon—a two-week whirlwind through Europe, full of wine and optimism. But nothing happened. Back home, I spoke to my gynecologist, who suggested we try Clomid. We did three rounds. Nothing. She referred us to a specialist in Florida.

In 2020, they ran a full diagnostic panel and discovered I had PCOS. They also performed an HSG and suspected one of my tubes was partially blocked. On our first anniversary—June 8, 2020, in the middle of the world shutting down from COVID—I had a hysteroscopy to remove the blockage. They told me it was likely scar tissue, possibly from a previous miscarriage. So yeah, that suspicion? Confirmed.

A few weeks later, on July 1st, we moved to Massachusetts. We hit pause. The whole process had taken a toll—not just on my body, but on our relationship. We needed a minute to breathe.

In 2021, we started trying again, this time with a new fertility clinic. They recommended IUI. We did three rounds. Still nothing. Our doctor gently suggested we consider IVF.

That one sentence changed everything.

Before we even got to the egg retrieval, I had another HSG. And another hysteroscopy. More poking, more prodding, more appointments that ended in vague medical language and silent car rides home. Just to make sure we had done everything—everything—before moving forward.

We did one egg retrieval. They collected 21 eggs. 17 fertilized. 10 made it to day 5, two to day 6. I felt rich in potential. I felt hopeful.

And then we transferred:

• A fresh transfer: didn’t work.
• A frozen transfer: didn’t work.
• Another frozen transfer with two embryos: still didn’t work.

After three failed transfers, we paused to regroup. We had our remaining embryos genetically tested. The results: 3 girls, 3 boys, and one aneuploid that we chose to discard.

We thought, This is it. It has to work now.

We transferred a girl. Didn’t work. We transferred another girl. Didn’t work. We transferred the last girl. Still didn’t work.

We were out of girls. Out of energy. Out of hope, mostly.

But we had two boys left. We transferred both. And one stuck.

On March 27, 2025, our son Noah was born. And suddenly, here we are.

Some days, I look at him and think, I can’t believe you’re real. Other days, I’m just trying to find a clean onesie while dodging spit-up like I’m in an obstacle course. He’s everything we prayed for—and still, parenting is hard. Really hard.

I don’t pretend to be grateful instead of overwhelmed. I’m grateful and overwhelmed. Grief and joy live in the same house now. They share a bathroom.

This blog? It’s my way of holding all of it. The hope, the heartbreak, the humor, the healing.

So if you’ve been through IVF, or you’re going through it now: I see you. If you’ve been pregnant with possibility and empty afterward: I see you. If you’ve felt like parenting was your miracle—and also your breaking point: I see you too.

This is the long way. But it’s still my way. And Noah? He was worth every mile.