My Fertility Journey: Motherhood After Infertility & Loss
The views and opinions expressed are those of the authors and should not be considered medical advice. Always consult your doctor, or a mental health professional, for the most appropriate treatment.
I entered motherhood with a lot of expectations: I expected it to be life changing, I expected an identity shift, and I expected it to be hard. What I never anticipated were the “hows.” When I’m in it, I cling to the sweet parts—their tiny hands, their sweet smell, the way they look into my eyes, how their small bodies find safety in mine. It’s healing and magical. But the dark parts cling to me.
Never did I expect to be sitting in a fertility clinic, drying our tears, taking big breaths and spending all of our money so we could begin in vitro fertilization (IVF). That’s when I discovered the first “how.”
I thought to myself, “How will I find the strength to go through this?” It consumed me physically, emotionally, and mentally. It was nothing like I had imagined. It wasn’t romantic or tender, it was painful and sterile and isolating. Pregnancy felt the same. Every step changed me. And then that sad chapter in our story ended and our sweet boy was in our arms.
Expectations were challenged. The changes continued. Some of the broken parts began to heal. All that pain and heartbreak brought us to him. And I loved being his mom. The sleep deprivation was hard. Navigating work was hard. Tending to my battered body was hard. Managing my mental health was hard. But loving him was easy.
Four years later we found ourselves back at the fertility clinic, ready for battle—wiser, calmer and more prepared.
This time things didn’t end with a baby in our arms. After twelve long weeks, we heard the words you never expect to hear. “I’m sorry, we can’t find a heartbeat.” Just like that I was changed again and there were more “hows.” How do we parent while grieving? How do we keep going?
It took a year before we were ready to try our last embryo. We were numb, scared and the hope we once had was starting to wane. But in a world that we never expected to find ourselves in, we had become veterans. So we soldiered on. This time they found the heartbeat, this time we got to bring another sweet boy home and leave that chapter behind us for good. No more clinics, shots, medications or appointments—we could finally enjoy the life we had fought for.
But it isn’t that easy is it? Motherhood rarely is. Trauma follows you, it changes you and lives in you. You survived, but it’s still there.
Matrescence is a wild ride. You are ripped open and have to find a way to sew the pieces back together again. Infertility can cause tunnel vision. All you see is the baby. You can get lost in the darkness and when the baby finally arrives, it is you that is screaming to be found. You have to relearn everything.
How do you take care of a tiny baby and all the parts of you? That is the hardest part. That is the “how” I never saw coming. I knew it would be hard but I didn’t realize that the “how” would be about me.
Postpartum the second time around, you are more seasoned, but there is also less of you to go around. You are acutely aware of the temporality of this stage of motherhood. You know how quickly those tiny baby wrinkles fade. You know the sleepless nights fade too. You find comfort and heartbreak in that knowing. But there are new “hows.” How can I be a good mom to both? How can I manage all the things I did before but with another kid? Loving your kids is still the easiest part. Thankfully that doesn’t change.
Sometimes I wish I could wear a sign that says it all, the infertility, the loss, the birth trauma—all of it. It’s a heavy journey to silently carry. My hands are finally full but I never expected how full they would feel. How much I would have to carry in addition to my children.
Sometimes I wish I could wear a sign that says it all, the infertility, the loss, the birth trauma—all of it. It’s a heavy journey to silently carry
Six years in and I am still battling the hows of it all. How do I heal with the trauma of creating them? How do I make space for the joy and the grief? How can I feel enough at the end of the day? The hows will shift and evolve. The only constants in motherhood are the eternal love you feel for your kids, and the nonstop change that waits for you each day.
And overtime, I have learned to find gratitude for both.
