After my first embryo transfer, my period arrived suddenly while I was at work. It was an uncomfortable and vivid indicator that I was decidedly not pregnant.
I rushed to the office toilets to do damage control and have a silent cry in the cubicle. But I was soon interrupted by a ping on my phone. My calendar was politely notifying me that I was late for my 2pm meeting: a performance review with one of the editors on my team. I sent her a quick Slack to say I was caught in my previous meeting and would be there shortly. Then I dried my eyes, plastered a smile on my face and headed to the conference room. I hadn’t told anyone at work about my IVF treatments, and I wasn’t going to start now.
Nearly 53,000 patients had IVF treatment in the UK in 2019 - and there have been more than 1.3 million cycles done since 1991. But somehow it still feels like a taboo topic - one to be discussed covertly with close friends rather than openly with colleagues and social media followers. When we do hear about celebrities doing IVF, it’s often after they’ve had a successful outcome - which, to those still in the throes of it, can be both inspiring and frustrating.
That’s why I’ve found it so comforting to see Chrissy Teigen, 36, sharing her journey in real time. This week the model and mum of two updated her 37 million followers, writing: “I wanted to let you guys know I’m balls deep in another IVF cycle to save as many eggos as I possibly can and hopefully make some strong, healthy embryos. I honestly don’t mind the shots… they make me feel like a doctor/chemist… but the bloating is a bitch, so I humbly beg you to stop asking if I’m pregnant because while I know it’s said with excited, good intentions, it just kind of sucks to hear because I am the opposite of pregnant!”
Chrissy has always been open about her motherhood journey. Back in September 2020 she lost her son Jack midway through her pregnancy and shared her grief on Instagram. Some people questioned why she would post about such a private, heartbreaking moment on social media. But as someone who’s done four unsuccessful cycles of IVF and had two miscarriages in the past three years, Chrissy’s openness is a very welcome reminder that I’m not alone in my suffering.
When I started the IVF process in 2019, I was naively optimistic. Of course I had read the statistics and knew that for women 35 to 37, there was a 25% live birth rate for each embryo transferred. But for some reason I was confident that our journey would be smooth sailing. My husband and I both just blithely assumed we’d be pregnant within the year and started planning ahead for life with a baby. I even mentally calculated how I could best time the imminent birth to fall during the most convenient quarter at work.
As the months turned into years with no successful pregnancy to announce, I started to feel increasingly isolated
I thought the process would be relatively quick, so I made the decision to keep it a secret. People would find out soon enough, when I was ready to announce my pregnancy. As excited as I was to start a family, I was incredibly fearful about how it might impact my career. I had a senior management position at a big media company, and I was in no rush for the higher-ups to find out that motherhood was on my roadmap. I worried they’d see it as a weakness.
As the months turned into years with no successful pregnancy to announce, I started to feel increasingly isolated by my situation. The IVF process was weighing on me - both physically and mentally.
Each procedure required weeks of drugs - including twice-daily injections, oestrogen patches and pessaries - and came with a complimentary side of headaches, lethargy and general grumpiness from being poked and prodded every day. The actual egg collections and embryo transfers (both outpatient treatments) ranged from mildly uncomfortable to excruciatingly painful, with no real explanation for the variance. I gained weight (like Chrissy says, the bloating is a bitch), and I barely recognised my rounder belly, which was often covered with bruises from the injections and itchy rashes from the patches.
I also struggled to recognise my personality. The drugs impacted my self-confidence and brought on bouts of anxiety and depression. I had days when I couldn’t remember what it was like to feel happy and needed my husband to gently remind me that, without the hormones, I was typically a pretty optimistic person. And the constant roller coaster of hesitant hope followed by crushing disappointment was often too much to bear.
The constant roller coaster of hesitant hope followed by crushing disappointment was often too much to bear
By this point, it wasn’t just insecurity about my career keeping me quiet. I had developed an irrational feeling of shame that my body couldn’t do what it was meant to do. As a child, I always did well in school and was taught there was no challenge that hard work couldn’t overcome. Having a problem I just couldn’t solve felt somehow embarrassing. It was a secret I’d rather keep to myself.
After my first miscarriage, something clicked in my brain. I decided that no matter how scary it seemed, I’d feel better if I shared my struggles with my network. I typed out a rambling post about my journey and posted it to my Instagram with a photo of myself in the hospital. It was a clear departure from my usual smiling selfies and aesthetic cocktails, but I felt an instant wave of relief when I hit the share button. Within minutes, the responses started rolling in. Words of support and love from my friends and family - but also messages from colleagues and acquaintances going through a similar journey who also felt compelled to keep it quiet. They thanked me for sharing and said that my transparency helped them feel less alone.
I lost my job two months later. I’ll never know if that post factored into their decision - but I don’t regret sharing my story. I know it was the right thing to do.
Even though I’m no longer hiding, I still occasionally feel uncomfortable talking about my journey. Heading into the fourth year, I’m acutely aware of the fact that my updates in my group chats are quite often negative. (IVF chat can be a real downer!) It’s easy to feel pressure to sugarcoat it after a while - especially when you’re talking to people who can’t really relate.
My close friends are very supportive and sympathetic, and my husband couldn’t be more understanding. But it’s hearing from other women going through it, famous or not, that reminds me that it’s okay not to be okay.
