For most of my life, things seemed to align in my favor. My husband often attributed this to luck, saying, “You’re such a lucky person.” To me, luck suggested a degree of passivity, a quality I had never possessed. I pursued my desires with determination—whether it was landing a job, finding an apartment, or securing a promotion. While these achievements didn’t always come easily, they eventually materialized.
Then, everything changed. I can trace the shift back to my apartment on Prospect Park West, just a couple of months before my husband, Alex, and I planned our first big trip to Peru after our wedding. That evening, we decided that I would stop taking birth control.
Having been on the pill since I was 18, I expected to conceive within a few months. “If you get me pregnant before Peru, I’ll be furious,” I joked. Little did I know, I had no reason to be upset—I didn’t become pregnant at all. Our trip to Peru was filled with breathtaking sights and delicious Pisco drinks, but the months passed, and still, no baby.
I didn’t conceive that year, nor the next, or the one after that. In 2015, I finally became pregnant through IVF, only to experience a heartbreaking miscarriage. By that point, we had already attempted one more IVF cycle and two rounds of IUI, all with no success. I had also diligently tracked my ovulation, temperature, and cycles, yet nothing worked.
About a year post-Peru, we sought help from fertility specialists, undertaking numerous examinations to identify any underlying issues. At 35 years old, those months became a blur of tests and procedures.
One test confirmed a healthy ovarian reserve despite my age. Another revealed tissue invading my uterine muscle, which required a follow-up procedure to remove it. I also battled a bacterial infection in my uterus, which cleared after two rounds of antibiotics. Meanwhile, Alex faced low sperm motility, necessitating outpatient surgery.
A particularly uncomfortable HSG test revealed scarring in one of my tubes, leading to the consideration of surgery. But since IVF bypassed the tubes, we opted for that route instead. Ultimately, our diagnosis remained “unexplained infertility,” which frustrated me as someone who liked to fix problems. It felt disheartening to be told there was no specific issue to address.
As one of our doctors stated, “Medicine is the science of uncertainty,” and we were deemed suitable candidates for IVF. According to the CDC, our chances of achieving a live birth were around 30 percent. The first IVF attempt didn’t yield results, but it acclimated me to the rigorous process—daily injections, bruises, a cabinet full of supplements, early morning appointments, and the labyrinth of insurance issues.
After a few months, we decided to give it another try. This time, we succeeded, but soon faced the harsh reality of miscarriage at eight weeks. I felt devastated as I heard the heartbeat fade during follow-up appointments. I went to work that Thursday, despite my husband and boss urging me to stay home. Work provided a distraction, a place to channel my energy.
I scheduled a D&C for the next day. Each time someone casually inquired about my visit, it felt like a fresh wound. One woman’s intake question triggered a wave of emotions, and when Alex saw me in tears, he asked what had happened. “It’s not what they said. It’s how I feel. Broken.”
A month later, we attended Alex’s father’s 50th reunion. While touring the lively dining hall, I received a call from one of our favorite fertility specialists. “Marissa, I have good news. Your miscarriage was due to a chromosomal abnormality,” he said cheerfully. I was taken aback—how could this be good news? We were in a phase of taking a break from all things baby-related, and this wasn’t part of our plan.
With time, I began to see the silver lining. At least there was a reason for the miscarriage, and it meant that I could still conceive. Had it been a healthy embryo, we would have faced the uncertainty of another unexplained loss.
Eventually, we turned our focus to adoption. My body and mind were exhausted from IVF and its disappointments. Adoption appeared to offer a more certain path, while also allowing us to support a mother in need. We began researching agencies and found one that specialized in domestic adoption, welcoming all hopeful parents and promoting an open adoption model. This meant birth parents and adoptive parents would meet before the birth, allowing the child to know their story.
While I appreciated the transparency, I was terrified. Would I be secure enough to have a healthy relationship with a birth parent? What would they expect from us? I framed it as a personal growth opportunity, anticipating challenges unlike any I had faced before.
We dove into the adoption process: background checks, fingerprinting, and preparing a birth parent letter, along with countless other documents and payments. Six months later, our home study was approved, and we became “live”—a term that signaled we were now waiting to be matched with a birth mother.
I remember a conversation with Alex’s brother where we addressed many inquiries. The final question was, “After all this, will you have a child?” We confidently answered yes, believing that it was just a matter of time.
However, on January 31 of the following year, we received a shocking email from our agency announcing they were shutting down due to bankruptcy. Our hopes for adoption felt shattered along with the trust we had placed in that agency.
The next morning, we visited their empty offices—a haunting metaphor for our dashed dreams. As support groups formed online for affected families, we took a step back from the turmoil.
In April 2017, I shared with Alex that I was ready to attempt IVF once more. I discovered an email exchange with a friend during that time where I expressed, “Believe it or not, I feel more trustful of IVF.” Admittedly, that trust was limited to a mere 12% chance of success, according to the CDC.
We returned to our Brooklyn doctors, feeling a sense of familiarity. They recommended preimplantation genetic screening (PGS) to ensure the embryos were healthy, as our infertility remained unexplained. We decided that applying more science to the process could increase our chances.
PGS revealed two healthy embryos—a boy and a girl. Choosing between them felt wrong; after everything, health took precedence over gender. On April 5, 2018, at 6:38 p.m., our daughter, Sophia, was born, weighing six pounds, 11 ounces and in perfect health. She has grown into a curious, lively girl who loves to dance and is eagerly awaiting the arrival of a sibling.
On November 15, 2018, I confirmed I was 11.5 weeks pregnant—my first spontaneous pregnancy after over five years of trying. I spent most of my first trimester in disbelief and denial, hesitant to reach out to my doctor for fear of their first question: “Have you taken a pregnancy test?” But eventually, I embraced the feeling of being fortunate.
For more insights on fertility and the journey of parenthood, check out Progyny Blog, and for those considering artificial insemination, visit Make a Mom. You can also learn more about IVF clinical trials at Intracervical Insemination; they are an authority on this topic.
In summary, after five arduous years filled with emotional highs and lows, I have come to recognize the beauty in my journey. The road to parenthood was fraught with challenges, but it ultimately led to joy and the realization that I am indeed, lucky.