As I sip a glass of wine on the deck, my 8-pound dog curls up on my lap, looking oddly alien-like in the twilight. The sky is a stunning blend of colors, and we appear calm and carefree. A few hours later, I’m at a bar surrounded by my husband and friends, laughing heartily as we share stories and muddled fruit cocktails.
What you can’t see is the hidden tears I’ve just wiped away. Earlier that day, I sat in a fertility clinic for four long hours, undergoing a battery of tests to uncover why we weren’t able to conceive. The doctor delivered the “unfortunate news,” as she called it, in a stark, bare-walled office: my chances of carrying a pregnancy to term were slim, and multiple miscarriages were likely in my future. In that moment, my heart shattered and I felt utterly defeated.
Fast forward to a road trip with my husband and two friends in a rented RV, embarking on an 18-day journey across the country filled with endless adventures. We captured moments at quirky cafes, striking poses in front of the Grand Tetons, and riding horses in Wyoming’s wilderness. Each snapshot tells the story of a remarkable escape.
What you don’t know is that all my energy went into planning this trip as a distraction from my diagnosis. I was desperate to envision a life without children—could we even manage that? Four days into our adventure, I was beaming next to a giant ear of corn when I received a call from a new specialist. A 3D ultrasound had revealed I was misdiagnosed: my uterus, while having issues, was operable. After months of despair, I felt my feet touch solid ground again.
At a friend’s wedding, I posed with familiar faces from my past, dancing to nostalgic college tunes. I smiled in an alumni photo, cheekily placing my arms around a visibly pregnant friend.
What you can’t see is the struggle behind the scenes. My husband and I had just rushed back to our car to administer injections for our first round of IVF. After surgery on my uterus and the failure of our IUI, we were exhausted and yearning for a break from this emotional rollercoaster.
In another photo, I’m dressed in a festive holiday outfit with my husband, eyes partially closed—a candid shot I almost didn’t share. The luminaries lining our walkway create a cheerful atmosphere as we prepare for our annual holiday gathering.
What you don’t see is the pain I’m hiding. Earlier that day, I underwent my second egg retrieval from IVF, and although the clinic retrieved 30 eggs, I was in discomfort as guests began to arrive. I was anxious about the potential side effects of pushing myself too hard, all while trying to keep the holiday spirit alive. I craved joy but felt increasingly hollow inside.
In a quiet bar during happy hour, my husband and I share drinks on a Tuesday night.
What you can’t see is that these drinks are a consolation after yet another failed IVF attempt. I felt crushed; my husband reassured me he loved me regardless of whether we had children, but the dream of motherhood felt elusive.
I’m engrossed in “Gone Girl,” flaunting a teal manicure and cracking jokes about the book’s themes, while my dog sprawls across my lap.
What you can’t see is the weight of my experiences—after a corrective surgery, an IUI, and two IVF cycles, I had completed my first frozen embryo transfer that very day. I was paralyzed with fear, afraid to move even to shower.
Fast forward to a Colonial Williamsburg gift shop, where I proudly display my 22-week baby bump to the world.
What you can’t see is that even at this stage, I’m filled with anxiety about the pregnancy. After a threatened miscarriage and bedrest, I’m terrified it could all be taken away, but I post the photo anyway—sometimes, it’s comforting to appear normal.
In the hospital, I cradle my newborn, my baby. The caption reads something like, “It’s been a long road, but we made it.” I look pale yet proud, and while others think I’m referring to going past my due date, I know it encompasses everything that led us here.
What you can’t see is that my delivery went awry. My placenta had attached to the wall of my uterus, leading to significant blood loss. You can’t see the two surgeries that followed or the vacant look in my eyes after refusing a blood transfusion, consumed by panic and confusion.
I’m posing with my daughter, surrounded by my in-laws who are visiting for the holidays.
What you can’t see is that I am experiencing a miscarriage. While they landed around midnight, I was battling nausea and praying, but the bleeding began and didn’t stop. After finally getting pregnant naturally, I lost the baby just nine weeks later.
In another snapshot, I’m on the beach with my daughter, showing off our respective bellies, calm and smiling at 17 weeks pregnant. She looks absolutely adorable.
What you can’t see is the relief washing over me. Perhaps this chapter is finally closing. I’m happy yet scared, fortunate and tired. I’m ready.
That’s what you can’t see.
For more information about navigating the emotional journey of conception, visit this resource. If you’re considering home insemination, check out our guide on the at-home insemination kit for valuable insights. Additionally, for expert advice on IVF and fertility preservation, explore this podcast.
Summary
This piece covers the hidden struggles behind seemingly joyful moments in the life of a woman navigating infertility, IVF, and the emotional rollercoaster that accompanies the journey to parenthood. It highlights how social media can portray a facade of normalcy while concealing deeper challenges and fears.