“Your uterus is ready for embryo transfer,” Dr. Diaz said during an ultrasound, marking the hopeful moment of our fourth IVF attempt. After nine long years of trying to conceive, this news brought both joy and a heavy weight of fear—what if this time was like the others?
Our struggles began in 2016 when Sebastian and I were diagnosed with infertility at a private clinic in Japan. I was 33, he was 36, and the doctors explained that my hormonal imbalance and his sperm motility issues meant pregnancy wouldn’t come easily. The news was difficult to hear, especially as my age further complicated the situation, decreasing the quality of my eggs.
As statistics from the World Health Organization reveal, one in five people face infertility worldwide, yet it’s often not talked about. No one prepares you for the emotional and physical toll it takes. We were introduced to IVF, a world unknown to us, and soon realized the only way to have a child would be through this assisted method.
What followed was a long and painful journey. Three rounds of IVF and two miscarriages later, our hopes kept rising and falling, each time breaking us more. For a while, I felt isolated and ashamed, not speaking about infertility. The stigma around it made me feel like I was alone in this struggle. But as time passed, I understood that speaking up was part of the healing process, and sharing my story could offer comfort to others who were suffering in silence.
IVF involves stimulating the ovaries to produce eggs, which are then fertilized in the lab, and the resulting embryos are transferred into the uterus with the hope of successful implantation. After undergoing hormone treatments for ten days in London, 26 embryos were created—a huge success. However, after genetic testing, only six embryos were viable, and only one was healthy enough for transfer.
When Dr. Diaz told me this, tears welled up in my eyes. I had always tried to remain hopeful, and this time, I felt certain it would work. We prepared for the transfer, nervously arriving at the clinic, where we were instructed to avoid any scented products that could interfere with implantation. The procedure itself was painless, but my husband’s reassuring presence—his hand tightly holding mine—was everything. I knew that despite everything, we were in this together.
After the transfer, I began taking a strict regimen of medications—estradiol, progesterone, and Clexane, to support the pregnancy and reduce the risk of blood clots. Every day, alarms on my phone reminded me of the doses. I tried to imagine how life would change if this time it worked—how my family would react, how I would share the news with everyone. But I couldn’t ignore the fear. The fear that the result would be another disappointment, another heartbreaking miscarriage.
“No,” I told myself, “this time things will be different.”
Throughout this journey, I’ve been supported by a close friend, Lara, who lives in Buenos Aires. We connected over our shared experiences, crying and laughing together through each failure and success. Despite the pain, I’ve come to see infertility as both a curse and a strange blessing—it introduced me to people like Lara, who became my battle partner.
Lara’s story of finally having a child after eight years of treatment resonated deeply with me. Her journey mirrored mine—filled with difficult emotions, especially when others around her conceived easily. She shared that it was hard to celebrate others’ joy when your own journey seemed impossible. Argentina offers government-funded IVF treatments, something not available to many in other parts of the world.
The global disparity in fertility treatment access is startling. The United Nations reports that fertility treatments are often under-researched and not publicly funded, making them inaccessible for many people. A study of IVF costs in several countries showed that the price for a single embryo transfer could range from $4,230 to $12,680, with the success rate hovering around 22%, according to the WHO.
I am fortunate to have had the chance to try multiple times, even though it has taken a toll on our finances. Our first treatment was covered by the NHS, but in my home country of Ecuador, no such support exists.
The 10-day wait after my embryo transfer felt like an eternity. I kept a journal to process my emotions, but when the results finally came back, they were negative. The news felt like a plane crash—devastating, overwhelming. Each failure brought a new wave of grief, and I was left to navigate the stages of denial, anger, sadness, and, eventually, acceptance.
But through it all, my loved ones were there to pick me up. I’ve learned so many new terms on this journey—follicles, embryo culture, vitrification—and experienced countless emotional ups and downs. Though I’m uncertain how much longer we will continue trying, I’ve also started considering other paths to motherhood, such as adoption, which too has its own challenges.
Infertility has left its mark on me, but it doesn’t define me. This story may not end as I once imagined, but it has taught me resilience. Whether I become a mother or not, I’ve learned that this journey is a part of my life, and it has shaped who I am today.
