Here I am, sipping a glass of wine on the deck while my 8-pound dog, a quirky little creature, lounges on my lap. The sun is setting, casting a warm glow over everything. We look so at ease. A few hours later, I’m at a bar with my partner and friends, laughter bubbling up as someone tells a hilarious story. We’re all smiles, trying to balance our muddled cocktails.
But what you don’t see are the tears I just wiped away. Earlier that day, I was at a fertility clinic undergoing extensive tests to uncover the reasons behind our struggles to conceive. Why was this so hard for us? I spent four long hours there. Before I left, a doctor sat me down in a stark office and delivered the “unfortunate news,” as she delicately phrased it. She explained that while pregnancy was possible, it would likely lead to multiple miscarriages; my uterus would struggle to carry a baby to term. In that moment, I felt utterly shattered.
Fast forward, I’m standing with my partner and two friends in front of an RV we rented for an epic road trip across the country. Eighteen days of adventure await us, filled with snapshots of quirky cafes, stretches in the Badlands, star jumps in front of the Grand Tetons, and horseback riding in the wilds of Wyoming. Every picture captures a unique moment of joy.
But behind the scenes, all my energy was focused on planning this escape, a way to distract myself from my diagnosis and ponder what life might look like without children. Could we even manage that? Four days into our adventure, while posing with a giant ear of corn, I received a call from a new specialist. A 3D ultrasound had revealed a misdiagnosis: my uterus had issues, but they were fixable. After so many setbacks, it felt like I could finally breathe again.
At a friend’s wedding, I find myself dancing to old college hits, joking as if we were back in our carefree days. I’m smiling in a photo with classmates, even posing with a friend’s growing belly. But what you don’t see is how out of breath I am. My partner and I had just rushed back from our car, which we’d parked between two large trees, to administer the injections for our first IVF round. Despite my surgery, we were still waiting for that elusive positive pregnancy test after our failed IUI. We just wanted the rollercoaster to stop.
In a Christmas dress, I pose with my partner, his eyes half-closed, but I still share the photo because it’s one of the few good ones of us in our holiday best. The luminaries lining our walkway give an illusion of joy, and I’m laughing with family and friends. A normal person might have canceled the festivities.
What you can’t see is that I’m recovering from my second egg retrieval earlier that day. They retrieved 30 eggs, which should have made me ecstatic, but I felt bloated and in pain. I worried about the consequences of not resting while I desperately wanted to enjoy the laughter around me. Inside, I felt hollow.
I’m at a happy hour with my partner and brother-in-law, the bar almost empty. Who goes to happy hour on a Tuesday? But what you can’t see is that these are cheer-up drinks. IVF didn’t work again, and I feel utterly defeated. My partner tells me he loves me and thinks we’ll be happy regardless of whether we have children, but I’ve always dreamed of being a mom and seeing him as a dad.
While reading “Gone Girl,” I show off my teal manicure and make a joke about sociopaths, posting a cute picture of my dog sprawled across my lap. What you can’t see is that after so many disappointments—a corrective surgery, an IUI, and two rounds of IVF—I completed my first frozen embryo transfer that day. I’m paralyzed, both physically and emotionally, too afraid to move from the couch.
Then there’s a picture of me at Colonial Williamsburg, proudly announcing my pregnancy with a 22-week bump. But even at this stage, I’m terrified. After a threatened miscarriage and bedrest, it feels like everything could slip away, but I post it anyway because sometimes it’s nice to pretend everything is normal.
In the hospital, I’m holding my baby, and the caption reads something like, “It’s been a long road, but we made it.” I look pale but proud. It’s our first family photo. People assume I’m just referring to being 11 days past my due date, but the journey to get here was filled with much more than that.
While posing with my daughter during the holidays, I’m secretly dealing with a miscarriage. I had finally become pregnant naturally, only to lose the baby nine weeks later. Again, I pose with my daughter on the beach, both of us beaming. I’m calm at 17 weeks pregnant, but what you can’t see is the relief mixed with fear. Maybe this chapter is finally closing. I’m fortunate, lucky, and exhausted. I’m ready.
That’s the reality you don’t see.
For those navigating similar challenges, there are excellent resources available, like the information found at March of Dimes. To learn more about home insemination, check out Intracervical Insemination or visit Make a Mom for expert insights.
Summary: This piece reflects the hidden struggles behind seemingly perfect moments shared on social media. It explores the emotional rollercoaster of infertility, from devastating diagnoses to the joy of pregnancy, while emphasizing the importance of seeking support and understanding during such challenging times.