At first, hope felt like my lifeline. I clung to it like a whispered promise in the dark, believing that if I followed every step of the IVF process correctly, like a good student, I would eventually succeed. It was the thread that kept me moving forward, keeping the dream of motherhood alive, even when the path felt uncertain. I held onto the belief that this hope, this unrelenting faith, would eventually lead me to my child.
However, the odds were stacked against us. With each failed cycle, my lifeline began to fray. Hope, once my greatest ally, started to feel like a cruel whisper, binding me in a cycle of expectations and heartbreak. Every new attempt began with renewed optimism, only to end with a deeper, more crushing sense of failure than the last. It was like holding onto something constantly slipping through my fingers—so close, yet just out of reach.
The more I tried and failed, the louder that quiet fear—the one I never wanted to admit—became. What if it’s true? What if I never get to be a mother? That fear had always been there, but I had buried it under the weight of hope. Yet, with each unsuccessful attempt, it grew stronger, until it was impossible to ignore.
I remember the exact moment it all came crashing down. I was down on my knees, tears streaming down my face, wailing as though a loved one had passed away. I had just received the second call advising me that the process had been unsuccessful. My hands trembled in my lap, my chest tight with grief. It wasn’t just the fact that we had failed again; it was something deeper. It was the crushing realization that my worst fear might be real—the fear that I may never hear someone call me ‘mom.’
Hope suddenly felt different. It was no longer the buoy that kept me afloat—it became the anchor that drowned me. With each new cycle, I realized that holding on to hope was only dragging me deeper into despair. After six more failed attempts, I let go of hope completely. I had to, for my own sanity. Instead of dreaming of what could be, I let the harsh realities of the process guide me.
Today, I no longer dream of motherhood. My journey through IVF is long behind me, but it has left its imprint on who I am. Over time, I’ve learned to practice acceptance—acceptance of what my life is and what it isn’t. It wasn’t an easy transition, but by adjusting my mindset and releasing my grasp on the future, I’ve found peace. I no longer live in the ‘what ifs’ or the ‘maybes.’ I live in the present, fully aware of who I am and what I have right now, without the constant ache of unmet expectations.
Acceptance doesn’t mean erasing the past, nor does it mean that the longing for motherhood wasn’t real. It means finding peace with the reality I’ve been given. My life is still full and meaningful, even if it looks different from what I once imagined. And while hope may have been my enemy for a time, letting go of it allowed me to make peace with my story. Today, I embrace the life I have—not the one I once dreamed of.
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Until we meet again, be well.
TULLY XO