Okay-ish: Blog Navigating Infertility

Sunday morning, I found myself staring at a stark white pregnancy test, and in that moment, I knew I was facing the heart-wrenching reality of my third failed transfer. My heart shattered into a million tiny pieces, and the weight of it all felt unbearable. In a desperate attempt to find solace, I sat in an unfamiliar church, searching for God, yearning for a sign, a whisper that would tell me my purpose in this seemingly endless journey.

With each failed transfer, the dream of motherhood feels like it’s being ripped away from me, and this third failure feels particularly cruel. It’s as if infertility has etched its mark on my body and soul, leaving me with an aching emptiness that runs deeper than I ever imagined. This was the time that was supposed to work. I’ve subjected my body to surgeries, swallowed steroids, and endured hormone treatments that could rival those of a racehorse, all while watching our savings dwindle as we poured our hopes into becoming parents. Yet here I am, left with nothing but bruises, unwanted weight gain, and a body that feels foreign to me.

I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror, and I barely recognize the woman staring back. Where did I go? The reflection shows the toll of this journey—the exhaustion etched in my eyes, the sadness that lingers like a shadow. I long for the joy of motherhood, but instead, I’m left grappling with loss, searching for the fragments of my identity in a world that feels increasingly out of reach.

I can no longer control the tears that drip down my cheeks as I sit, trying to steady my breath while listening to the pastor’s message. Her words wrap around me like a warm blanket, even in the depths of my sorrow. She speaks of how, even when outcomes don’t align with our hopes, God is always at work. In the darkest places, His timing is miraculous, His perspective far greater than our own. I cling to the belief that He hears our cries, every single one of them. I make room to find God’s heart, even though I cannot trace His hands.

As I place my hand on my womb, I whisper “Jesus,” knowing that His name carries healing, power, and life. In this moment, I feel empty, exhausted, and heartbroken, yet I lay my hope in the Lord. I believe that, in His perfect time, He will make a way. Nothing is too big for Him; my struggles, my pain, my dreams—they are all held in His capable hands.

I take a moment to remember the precious babies that were in my womb, even if only for a short time. I am grateful for those fleeting moments, for the closeness I felt to them. They are a part of my story, and I cherish that connection. Deep within me, I believe that one day, I will hear the joyful giggles of my children filling our home, their laughter echoing off the walls as they play and banter with one another. I envision the warmth of their tiny hands in mine, the sound of their curious questions, and the little moments of chaos that come with motherhood. I dream of cuddles on the couch, bedtime stories, and the pure delight of nurturing and loving them as they grow. In my heart, I know that this dream can become a reality, and I hold onto that hope with every fiber of my being.

In this journey of infertility, I find courage amidst the heartache. There is inspiration in the community of women who walk this path alongside me, each of us holding tightly to our dreams, even when the road is steep. Together, we lift our voices in hope, trusting that brighter days are ahead. With every tear shed, we are reminded that our stories are still being written, and with faith as our anchor, we will rise again.