The calendar says you can schedule hope. Then the nurse calls your name, and your life splits into before and after — measured in syringes, blood draws, and what ifs you whisper into your coat sleeve on the bus home.
The waiting room smelt like antiseptic and winter coats, and my phone kept lighting up with messages I couldn’t quite answer. We’ve all had that moment when the script you thought life would follow suddenly flips, and you’re left ad-libbing while everyone else seems to know their lines. A woman opposite me stared at her knees; we exchanged a flicker of a smile that said more than the leaflets ever could. The clock ticked too loudly. I watched couples come and go, clutching brown envelopes, heads down against the wind. The nurse finally called, and the hallway felt longer than it should. I remember the ceiling tiles. I counted them. Twice.
The hidden costs I never budgeted for
Nobody told me IVF would invade the quiet corners — the 6 a.m. alarm for injections, the lunchtime scan that hijacks a meeting, the late-night Google scroll that always ends in a knot in your throat. I thought I was signing up for a medical process; I was actually signing up for a new identity that sometimes didn’t fit. The price wasn’t only money. It was the friends I ghosted, the birthdays I left early, and the Saturday mornings that suddenly smelt like antiseptic rather than coffee.
On paper, the numbers look straightforward: a cycle, a protocol, a result. In real life, my first round fizzled at fertilisation, and I walked home feeling like the pavement might swallow me if I stopped. In the UK, success rates per embryo transfer hover around the low thirties for those under 35, falling sharply with age — statistics that feel clean until your name is the one on the vial. I learned to smile politely when people said “at least you can try again”, because trying again also asks your body to volunteer as tribute, one more time.
What stings most is the illusion of control, the way you’re given syringes and schedules and told this is a plan, when really it’s a gamble with slightly better odds than wishing on a star. Hormones make you cry over the wrong tea bag, then snap at your partner because the bin lid won’t close; the calendar becomes a tyrant that cancels spontaneity without apology. **IVF is a marathon you run at sprint pace, and every mile marker is written in pencil.** I wish I’d known it was normal to feel both determined and done, often in the same hour, and that the whiplash wasn’t a flaw in me — it was part of the ride.
What actually helped — not the Instagram version
The smallest ritual saved me: a “no fertility talk” rule on Friday nights, with cheap pasta, good butter, and a film so average it left no emotional debris. I also picked a tiny corner of control I could trust — a calendar that only held the next appointment, not the whole month. After every scan, I bought a clementine and ate it on a bench, a tart little reward that kept me anchored in my body. One real friend on standby, not five group chats, made the difference between noise and care.
The mistake I made early on was turning my cycle into a project plan and myself into its underperforming manager. I tracked everything, then felt betrayed when the data couldn’t predict a heartbeat. Let’s be honest: nobody sticks to a perfect fertility routine every single day. Sometimes you cry in the pharmacy queue; sometimes you laugh mid-injection and spill saline down your sleeve. The trick isn’t perfection; it’s gentleness. Stop doom-scrolling clinic forums at midnight. Ask your clinic to translate acronyms into full sentences. Stop treating your body like a machine; treat it like a friend who’s doing her best.
I learned to build tiny boundaries: a script for nosy questions, a hard stop on “add-ons” until I’d asked for evidence, and a pact with my partner that no one was the cheerleader every day. I wanted a baby, not a project. **You are not failing; the system is messy, and the timeline isn’t a moral test.**
“I thought IVF would be a straight line; it turned out to be a loop I walked again and again, carrying the same hope in different clothes.”
- Pocket script for work: “Medical appointment. I’ll be offline 9–11, back at noon.”
- Pocket script for family: “Not much to report right now. I’ll share when there’s news.”
- Before paying for ‘add-ons’: “What’s the proven benefit for my case, and what’s the absolute risk difference?”
The thing I tell friends starting tomorrow
I wish I’d known that the ugliest days don’t cancel the brave ones, and that you can be both hopeful and exhausted without betraying either feeling. The people who love you don’t need a neat narrative; they need a chance to carry a bag, make a soup, or sit beside you while the timer on the injection beeps. Ask for a seat on the bus, guilt-free. Put your name on the pharmacy bag like it’s a badge you earned. **Ask about success rates per cycle and per patient, and ask twice about anything that sounds shiny.** The longest truth I learned is also the softest: you are not a cautionary tale, you are a person in progress. Share this with the one friend who thinks she’s not strong enough. She already is.
| Point clé | Détail | Intérêt pour le lecteur |
|---|---|---|
| IVF isn’t linear | Progress zigzags between scans, labs, and emotions | Reduces self-blame when outcomes stall or reverse |
| Protect your energy | Use scripts, calendar boundaries, one anchor ritual | Practical ways to feel less overwhelmed day to day |
| Question add-ons | Ask for evidence and absolute risk differences | Saves money and avoids low-value interventions |
FAQ :
- How many rounds does it usually take?It varies widely. Some conceive on the first transfer; others need multiple cycles. Clinics can share age-specific cumulative rates.
- Are ‘add-ons’ worth it?Some have limited evidence for most patients. Ask your clinician for data relevant to your case before paying.
- Are success rates per cycle or per transfer?Both metrics exist. Per patient rates over several cycles often tell a fuller story than one-per-cycle figures.
- How do I support my partner?Do the unglamorous tasks: pharmacy runs, meal prep, admin calls. Listen more than you fix. Offer breaks from fertility talk.
- What if it fails?Grief is normal and not a verdict on you. Take time, explore options with your team, and lean on support rather than going silent.
