Picture this: I’m perched on my deck, a glass of wine in hand, with my 8-pound pup, who looks like a tiny, curious extraterrestrial, nestled in my lap. The sun dips below the horizon, painting the sky in vibrant hues, and we seem utterly relaxed. A few hours later, I’m at a bar with my husband and a couple of friends, sharing hearty laughs and muddled cocktails over a hilarious story.
What you can’t see are the tears I’ve just wiped away. Earlier that day, I was at a fertility clinic undergoing a battery of tests to uncover why we hadn’t conceived. After four grueling hours, a doctor delivered the “unfortunate news” in a sterile office, explaining that my chances of carrying a pregnancy to term were slim, and that multiple miscarriages were likely. In that moment, my world shattered; I felt completely deflated.
Fast forward, I’m now standing with my husband and two friends in front of a rented RV, ready to embark on an epic journey across the country. Eighteen days, countless miles, and endless adventures await us. We capture memories at quirky diners, stretch like dancers in the Badlands, leap in front of the Grand Tetons and Mount Rushmore, marvel at bison in Yellowstone, ride horses through the Wyoming wilderness, and enjoy lunch in the majestic redwood forest, all while sipping drinks in shady dive bars and stunning vineyards.
Every snapshot we take tells a story of an unforgettable adventure. But what you don’t realize is that I poured every ounce of my determination into planning this trip as an escape—to envision a life without children. Four days in, I strike a pose with a giant ear of corn, having just received a life-altering call from a new specialist. A 3D ultrasound revealed I had been misdiagnosed; my uterus was operable. After months of despair, I finally felt like I was on solid ground.
At a friend’s wedding, I’m surrounded by familiar faces, dancing to nostalgic college tunes, and joking as we once did. In an alumni photo, I’m sandwiched between old classmates, smiling beside a visibly pregnant friend.
What you can’t see is my breathlessness; my husband and I just rushed back from our car, parked strategically between two towering trees, to hastily administer injections for our first round of IVF. After a surgery on my uterus, we still faced a negative pregnancy test, and our IUI had just failed. We desperately wanted the emotional rollercoaster to end.
In another picture, I’m dressed for Christmas, my husband beside me, though his eyes are half-closed. I share it anyway because it’s the only decent shot of us in our holiday best. The luminaries along our walkway suggest a festive gathering. In the next image, I’m laughing with family and friends, my sister singing and friends dancing to holiday tunes. A normal person would have canceled.
What you don’t see is that I’m recovering. My stomach strains against my dress after undergoing my second egg retrieval earlier that day during my second IVF round. They retrieved 30 eggs, which thrilled me, but I was in pain before the guests arrived. I worried all night about the side effects of not taking it easy, sneaking Gatorade like a teenager sneaks alcohol. I longed for laughter, but inside, I felt hollow from infertility’s burdens.
At happy hour with my husband and brother-in-law, the bar is eerily empty—who goes out for drinks on a Tuesday?
What you can’t see is that these drinks are meant to lift my spirits. IVF had failed again, leaving me feeling defeated. My husband reassured me that he loved me and believed we would be happy, regardless of whether we had kids. Yet, deep down, I yearned to be a mother and to see him embrace fatherhood.
As I read “Gone Girl” and show off my teal manicure with a mustache design on my ring finger, I make a joke about sociopaths and share an adorable photo of my dog sprawled across my lap.
What you don’t see is the weight of failure I carry. After a corrective surgery, an IUI, and two IVF rounds, I completed my first frozen embryo transfer that day. I felt paralyzed, both physically and emotionally, afraid to move from the couch, even to shower.
In a Colonial Williamsburg gift shop, I announce my pregnancy with a 22-week baby bump.
What you can’t see is the fear that clings to me even at this stage. Having faced a threatened miscarriage and been put on bedrest, I still feel like everything could slip away. Yet, I share the photo—sometimes, it’s nice to appear normal.
In the hospital, cradling my baby, I post our first family photo with a caption about the long journey we took to get here. However, what you can’t see is that my delivery went far from planned; my placenta had attached incorrectly to my uterus, leading to a significant blood loss. You don’t know about the two surgeries following, nor can you see the vacant expression on my face after I refused a blood transfusion amidst the panic.
With my daughter, I pose again, this time alongside my in-laws who have flown in to celebrate the holidays.
What you can’t see is I’m in the midst of a miscarriage. While their plane landed at midnight, I was ill and praying. The bleeding began, and it wouldn’t stop. I had finally conceived naturally, only to lose the pregnancy nine weeks later.
Another picture shows my daughter and I at the beach, where she proudly showcases her belly while I reveal mine; I’m calm, cool, and smiling at 17 weeks pregnant. She’s utterly adorable.
What you can’t see is the relief washing over me. It’s almost over—perhaps this chapter can finally close. I feel happy, scared, and oddly relieved. Yes, I’m fortunate, lucky, and exhausted, but I’m ready.
That’s what you can’t see.
For more on this topic, check out our blog post about the emotional journey of pregnancy and infertility. If you’re seeking options, consider reputable resources like the Genetics and IVF Institute, which provides excellent information on pregnancy and home insemination. You can also visit Make a Mom for reliable at-home insemination kits, making the journey a little easier.
Summary
This reflective piece explores the often-hidden struggles behind seemingly perfect social media moments during a challenging journey through infertility and pregnancy. It emphasizes the contrasts between public appearances and private battles, highlighting the emotional complexities that many face on their paths to parenthood.
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