Content note: this article contains references to fertility issues that readers may find upsetting.

A month ago I experienced my fifth and final round of IVF. It failed, just as every other round had. I felt numb, devastated and empty at the thought that this was the end of my journey to have a child of my own. I have what is called ‘unexplained infertility’. Possibly one of the most frustrating medical conditions as so little is known about what underlies it. I’m 39 and I’ve been on this journey for almost three years; it began just after I ran a marathon in 2020. 

I’ve been a runner and triathlete since my early 20s. I love to run. Running was there for me when I was under pressure at work and needed to let off steam; it was my time to solve problems, switch off or listen to my favourite podcast or playlist. It was my time to socialise (it’s amazing the bonds you form while struggling through a 30km run in the driving wind and rain). It allowed me to do something I could train harder for, get better at and achieve my goals. Back in 2020, I was known as a runner; it was a huge part of my identity. And I was fine with that. I was also ready to start trying for a baby with my partner. 

After six months of trying to get pregnant naturally – and nothing happening – my partner and I booked an appointment at one of the best fertility specialists in Perth (I’m British but live in Western Australia). As the appointment approached, I spoke to several women who had successfully used the same specialist and they warned me in advance that it was likely he’d tell me to stop running – he was known for encouraging his patients to become ‘sloth-like’ because a high-intensity sport like running is not seen as conducive to conception due to the energy expenditure. I assumed he might tell me to cut back (I was running around 60-70km a week on average); I was prepared for that.

We attended the clinic on a June afternoon, excited at the prospect of beginning our journey to become parents. The outlook was positive: we were considered a young and healthy couple; we had never smoked or drunk excessively and we were both active with no family history of health conditions that may cause us problems with conception. The specialist referred us for the standard tests that precede any decision on the course of treatment and, following the results (all of which were normal except for my low progesterone levels), advised the best first step for us was a stimulated cycle – a step before moving to IVF – where I was to supplement my natural hormones with additional progesterone and oestrogen to stimulate the eggs to mature. The objective of a stimulated cycle, they explained to us, is to stimulate the production of one good quality or sometimes multiple eggs. The clinic would provide medicated hormones that were injected and/or taken orally (or using vaginal pessaries) at specific times of day for a few weeks. Regular blood tests and scans would be taken and monitored, and when my hormones reached the optimum level we would be told when to have sex on the most fertile days.

Oh, and, of course, he advised me to stop running completely. Walking, yoga and even a touch of leisurely swimming were all OK, but running was a big no.

To anyone reading this who isn’t fanatical about practising their sport of choice, you may not understand why this was a problem. For me, it removed such a major part of myself, and a big chunk of my social network. Little did I know what a shadow of myself I would become without what I came to realise was the therapy that kept me ticking.

I followed the specialist’s advice (mostly). Yes, I had a few blips and I wasn’t an easy patient. I couldn’t comprehend how something so healthy could be bad for conception. So it took me a while to give up running completely. But I did eventually, and after trying swimming and various yoga classes, I found pilates and replaced running with that, albeit less frequently. I also avidly consumed books, blogs and podcasts on fertility (I had a lot more time on my hands without running). As advised by the books, I gave up caffeine, removed toxins and plastics from the kitchen, bathroom and my skincare routine, cut out red meat and tuna (then introduced it again after reading something different) and spent an inordinate amount of money on acupuncture, supplements and a fertility nutritionist.

We did two stimulated cycles. Both were unsuccessful, and we were disappointed but unperturbed. We enjoyed walks with our beautiful dog where we’d talk for hours about baby names and the sport our yet-to-be-conceived child would play as we crossed the football oval. We chatted about where we’d send them to school (my partner’s old school, of course), where we’d travel with them and how we’d parent them. It was a time filled with so much hope.

I began IVF treatment in February 2022. We did our first egg retrieval cycle and got three good-quality embryos. We immediately did a fresh embryo transfer. There was a wait to see how the embryos developed, and once they reached the blastocyst stage (the early stage of an embryo; this is one step among many that lead to a pregnancy) one was transferred. Then we had the much-discussed nail-biting Two Week Wait which, for those not in the know, is the period of time between ovulation and when an embryo implants (if the pregnancy is successful). 

It wasn’t successful; it failed. I was told the embryo hadn’t implanted into the uterus lining and I was distraught. I had pinned all my hopes on it working. Because IVF works, right?

While I was going through one of the most monumentally difficult times of my life, the world carried on, pregnancy announcements and all. Working in a young, predominantly female team, I stood on the sidelines while women at work and close friends excitedly announced their news, grew bigger baby bumps and went off on (and returned from) maternity leave. 

I would stand silently in team meetings while everyone around me celebrated another baby announcement, and I’d avoid the new-mum work colleague bringing her baby in for everyone to coo over. I muted social media accounts where the scan picture would inevitably be followed by a gender reveal, and I ignored messages from friends who knew what I was going through and let me know their news over text. (They were thoughtful, adding words of sympathy and sometimes hope that ‘it’ll be you next’. But I found this incredibly hard. It wasn’t fair.)

I was angry or upset. Often both. I was becoming increasingly difficult to live with, and cracks started to show in my relationship for the first time. We were both stressed, but I was resentful. I was resentful of being the one taking the tablets, having the injections and giving up so much of what I loved. I’d lost what acted as my stress relief (running) while putting myself under more stress than ever. I resented runners, people having babies and people with families. I resented people too young to have babies who were having more fun than me. I was miserable and lost.

After a few months’ break – during which I took a last-minute trip home to the UK to overcome my grief and get a hug from my mum – it was time to try again. After reading a handful of studies about success rates of transferring a fresh embryo versus a frozen one, we were even more hopeful with this second round as we changed our approach. But then came failure number two. 

Because I’d been through it all once before, it felt a bit easier in some ways, and we still had one embryo left. So off we went again. Before going into the third round of treatment my partner and I had discussed what we’d do next if the worst happened. We had a mini-break in Melbourne, enjoying long walks and even longer chats together, and we came to the conclusion that life could be good – great, even – with just the three of us: my partner, our dog and me. Maybe we could move to Melbourne? Or to France? Or Japan? Travel! All the fun things. We could work less. Pay off the mortgage quicker. All the practical things. We could do anything we wanted without a child.

But that was before. Once the news came that this cycle had been unsuccessful, I had reached a point where I was content with this being the conclusion, but my partner was devastated. After many more chats, arguments and hours of soul-searching, we decided we would try one more round. This time, I was even more dedicated to getting good-quality eggs. We also decided to test my uterus lining to understand if there was anything preventing implantation. The test was – as everything is with fertility treatment – invasive. The sample was sent to Tokyo and, after a long wait, the results came back showing that my uterus lining was fine but that the ideal window of implantation was later than our clinic had seen from the scans and blood tests. This was good news; it meant timings and medications could be adjusted to improve the chances of implantation. More hope.

Off we went again. I had been running – just a couple of easy 5kms a week – between cycles, but ahead of my next egg retrieval I stopped. I knuckled down with all of the healthy habits and old wives’ tales; I read about how to improve egg quality; I stopped going to pilates before the treatment, just in case it was too strenuous. My hobby had become fertility treatment, and I felt useless at it. But there was some good news in that three more good-quality embryos were collected and frozen.

I flew to the UK and Europe to relax and enjoy the company of old friends and family. I was more relaxed this time in general. That would help, I told myself. Work was much more under control than the previous year, as were my emotions. I knew what was coming. I knew the pain. I was resilient. I had a wonderful therapist (a real one, not running) who I loved talking to. She gave me the knowledge and confidence to feel more in control of the things I could control. 

During my trip home, I announced to friends during an incredible weekend in Ibiza that I was soon to be either pregnant or fit. Because one way or another, this journey was nearing its conclusion. And if the former wasn’t the outcome, I would be able to run, train for events and feel confident in my skin again. Like myself again. 

Back in Perth, we did the first frozen embryo transfer. Sadly the embryo reduced in quality during thawing so my expectations were low from the day of transfer. Still, it was hard to hear the news that it didn’t work. I’d put even more effort in this time; I thought I might defy the odds with a poor embryo.

In discussion with my specialist following the news, he suggested we consider a double transfer. He is a self-proclaimed cautious doctor but as we had four failed cycles behind us, preceded by two failed stimulated cycles, we were candidates for this riskier (due to the chance of twin pregnancies which may lead to complications) approach.

After taking a month away from treatment to consider all our options, we decided we would put it all on the first and third, in roulette terms. In non-betting terms, we agreed to the double transfer. In our minds, we were doubling our chance of success versus a single embryo transfer.

For the first time, my partner came with me for the transfer. As we walked in, the specialist, embryologist and nursing team excitedly announced that just the other day someone in a similar position to us found they were having twins, and that may be us soon. By this point I was fairly numb to this positivity; I’d been here too many times before – fertility specialists relentlessly telling me I’d “become pregnant any day now” – to buy into it. But it was the first time my partner had experienced it and, to be honest, this was another level of hope they were displaying. 

The transfer was made and I spent the two-week wait trying not to think too much about the symptoms I was feeling – cramps two days post-transfer (could be implantation, could be period pain). I was given an extra injection of progesterone this time – more than previously – and it was the most painful injection of them all. I dreaded injecting each evening and sat in agony immediately afterwards. Even 24 hours after the injection, I’d still feel pain, and then I’d have to find a new spot for another one. But I was throwing everything at this. My skin broke out, I felt bloated and crampy and I was pumped full of hormones, but this was my best chance of becoming pregnant. So while I was more realistic now, I was still incredibly hopeful.

On the day of the blood test, I went to my ‘regular’ phlebotomist, a lovely Russian lady who had started to ask me if I had good news when I went as we had known each other for years by this point. I left work at lunchtime so I could be at home when the call came in case it was bad news. I received it on my drive home; it was my specialist. Usually someone from the nursing team calls, so I knew this time was certain to be bad news when I heard his solemn tone. He told me it was negative and said he was sorry, and that it wasn’t fair. 

I didn’t say a lot. I hung up and sobbed all the way home. After telling my partner, I spent the afternoon in silence. I was distraught and felt empty. How could it be? Six embryos, no success and nothing to suggest any particular problem other than my age and the quality of my eggs? 

The worst thing, reflecting on everything, is that it felt (and still feels) entirely out of my control. I put complete faith in my specialist. I read lots, followed advice and did everything I could within my control but none of it worked. The second worst thing? It feels like no one really understands. I found that, when talking about fertility treatment with friends, there is a mixed reaction. Some people can’t acknowledge it. Some get inconceivably excited (especially when I shared that I was on my first round of IVF. It was exciting before round one, it is most definitely not exciting at any point after that.) But for the most part, people insist on telling you stories about their best friend’s sister-in-law who tried for years, went through rounds of IVF and either eventually got there or gave up and just like that became pregnant.

The final worst thing about this journey? Constant failure. That was the biggest problem for me. I had built my life around hobbies where I lived by the simple laws of cause and effect: if I tried harder and trained more, I could improve, and get stronger and faster. That’s not how fertility treatment worked for me. I was trying harder, but I wasn’t getting any better at it – and the pain of each failure was getting harder to bear each time.

Two days after hearing the news that meant I will likely never have a child of my own – after a three-year journey of trying to achieve just that – I was back in the office putting on a brave face. I remain incredibly sad. 

I am still not sure what’s next. Of course, there are other ways to parent a child. In Australia, adoption is uncommon but foster carers are highly sought after. Donor eggs are another option, albeit a very expensive one. And, to be honest, I’m not sure I can go through a journey of hope with the possibility of no positive outcome again. If none of that is the route for us, all of the earlier considerations about working less and travelling more still apply. 

One thing’s for sure: I am running again, and appreciating every single step. I am noticing myself becoming fitter, my mood has improved and I have goals I know I can work hard to achieve at last. 

For now, as a couple, my partner and I will be taking our time to figure out our next move.

For support after loss or to learn more about pregnancy please visit Tommy’s here. 

Images: Getty