I’m sitting on my deck, a glass of wine in hand, my small dog curled up on my lap like a fuzzy little alien. The sun is dipping below the horizon, painting the sky in stunning colors, and we look blissfully at ease. A few hours later, I’m at a bar with my husband and friends, laughter echoing around us as we enjoy muddled cocktails.
Yet, concealed from view are the tears I’ve just wiped away. Earlier that day, I spent four long hours at a fertility clinic undergoing a battery of tests to uncover why pregnancy eluded us. Why was this journey so difficult for us? The doctor delivered what she called “unfortunate news” in a stark, bare office. My uterus, she explained, would likely never carry a baby to term, and if I did conceive, multiple miscarriages were probable. In that moment, I felt shattered—deflated.
Next, I’m standing beside my husband and two friends in front of an RV we rented for an ambitious cross-country adventure. Eighteen days, thousands of miles, and endless possibilities lay ahead. In photos, we’re exploring quirky cafes, striking poses in the Badlands, and marveling at the Grand Tetons and Mount Rushmore. Each snapshot captures a moment of joy.
But what you can’t see is how much of my energy went into planning this trip as an escape from my diagnosis. I needed to envision a life without children. Just four days in, while posing with a giant ear of corn, I received a call from a new specialist. A 3D ultrasound revealed I had been misdiagnosed. My uterus, while problematic, was operable. After months of uncertainty, I felt my feet touch the ground again.
I’m at a friend’s wedding now, mingling with faces I haven’t seen in years, dancing to nostalgic college tunes. I even pose with a friend who has a growing baby bump.
What you can’t see is my heart racing. My husband and I just made a mad dash to our car, parked strategically between two large trees, for the injections necessary for our first round of IVF. Our previous IUI had failed, and we just wanted this rollercoaster ride to end.
In a festive Christmas dress, I’m posing with my husband. The holiday lights twinkle in the background, and we look ready to host our annual celebration. In the next shot, I’m laughing with friends and family, but what you can’t see is the discomfort I’m feeling. Earlier that day, I underwent my second egg retrieval from IVF, a procedure that yielded 30 eggs. My stomach was bloated, and I was in pain before our guests arrived. I worried about the potential side effects of my enthusiasm, like sneaking sips of Gatorade in between hosting. Inside, I felt hollow despite the laughter.
During happy hour at a nearly empty bar, I’m posing with my husband and brother-in-law. What you can’t see is the sadness behind the smiles. IVF didn’t work again, and I feel defeated. My husband reassures me he loves me and that we can be happy without children, but I’ve always dreamed of motherhood and of seeing him as a dad.
I’m reading a thrilling novel and showcasing a chic teal manicure, making light of the plot twists. What you can’t see is that after undergoing a corrective surgery, an IUI, and two rounds of IVF, I completed my first frozen embryo transfer earlier that day. I felt paralyzed—afraid to move, even to shower.
Fast forward to a Colonial Williamsburg gift shop. I’m announcing my pregnancy with a 22-week baby bump.
But what you can’t see is that even at this stage, I’m still terrified. After a threatened miscarriage and a period of bedrest, the fear of loss looms large, even as I share this moment of joy.
Now, I’m in the hospital holding my baby. Underneath the caption, I write something like, “It’s been a long road, but we made it.” I look pale yet proud, and everyone thinks I’m referring to the eleven days past my due date, but the truth is about so much more.
What you can’t see is that my delivery didn’t go as planned. My placenta had attached to the wall of my uterus, and the separation resulted in significant blood loss. You can’t see the two surgeries that followed or the vacant look in my eyes after I refused a blood transfusion, lost in panic and confusion.
I’m now posing with my daughter, surrounded by my in-laws who are visiting for the holidays. We’re all set to open gifts.
What you can’t see is that I’m experiencing a miscarriage. While their plane was landing, I was praying and vomiting, and soon after, the bleeding began. I had finally conceived naturally only to face this loss nine weeks later.
Again, I’m posing with my daughter, this time at the beach, both of us proudly showing off our bellies. I appear calm and happy at 17 weeks pregnant.
What you can’t see is the relief. Perhaps this chapter is finally coming to a close. I’m a mix of emotions—happy, scared, and exhausted yet grateful. I’m finally ready.
That’s what you can’t see.
For anyone experiencing a similar journey, there are resources available, like IVF Babble for insightful information, or Intracervical Insemination for guidance on home insemination. You can also check out Make A Mom for expert advice on starting your family at home.
In summary, social media often portrays a flawless life, hiding the struggles and complexities behind the scenes. The journey of infertility and pregnancy can be fraught with emotional highs and lows, and it’s crucial to remember that behind every smiling photo lies a deeper story.